The Freak Pt. 01 of 05

"Why? What about?"

"I'll let her tell you. It's nothing bad. Okay, that's the school just ahead." I pulled into the parking lot and found a place to park, grabbing my bag and locking the car before walking Barbara to the entry. I had timed our arrival well. The first half of the JV game had just ended. The teams were just walking off the floor when everyone stood and began screaming, "FREAK! FREAK! FREAK!" I waved my acknowledgment and turned to Barbara. "Sorry, I forgot to warn you about that. They get a little carried away. That's what all the kids call me... kind of like a nickname."

We walked along the end of the court as I pointed to the four state championship banners hanging from the wall at the other end. Behind us was another with my name and number. "What's that," Barbara asked.

"The school board retired my number last year which is really strange. They usually wait until a person has graduated before doing that." I introduced her to my parents and to my sisters—Marie and Carole. The four men greeted me then rose and stood while I laid my coat and sports jacket on the bleacher. A minute later I was in a deep trance, one that wiped my brain clean of any extraneous thoughts. When I roused myself there was only the game on my mind. I stood and, after thanking the men again, I hugged and kissed my dad and mom then my sisters and finally Barbara who surprised me by turning her head so my lips fell on hers. She broke it with a smile as I walked down the court to our locker room.

* * * * *

Jack had just entered the locker room when I turned to speak with Barbara. "Did Jack tell you that he wanted me to speak with you?"

"Yes, Mrs. French, but I don't know why."

"He told me about Mass and afterwards Sunday morning so I suspect you already know what kind of person he is. He is probably the kindest, politest, and most considerate son I could hope for and that's exactly what he is right up until he walks onto the court. Then he becomes super aggressive and the ultimate competitor. He has what coaches call 'killer instinct,' not that he'd deliberately hurt an opponent. Jack is also extremely smart so he knows that his behavior on the court might scare you. Don't worry. He'll be the same sweet young man once he steps over the line when the game is over. He knows that you've never seen a high school game so he's concerned. I know from our talk that he likes you and that he'll want to see you again.

"Now, there's one other thing you need to know. Jack becomes physically ill before every game."

"You mean... ?"

"Yes, he'll look like hell when he first steps onto the court. He's always the last one out of the locker room because he has to clean up and rinse his mouth several times before coming down. The locker room is up there, a floor above us. The worse he looks the better he plays."

"But... why does he do it? Why does he go through that over and over?"

"Because he loves the competition. He loves being a part of a team and representing his school. He loves winning and making his father and me proud of him. It's all of those reasons and more. Jack has very high expectations for himself and this is one way he strives to meet those expectations."

Barbara sat quietly for almost a minute before speaking. "Thank you, Mrs. French. I think I understand a bit better now."

* * * * *

I stripped out of my clothes and walked into the uniform room in only my jock. The uniforms were washed after every game and I found mine hanging on its hook. I took the shirt, shorts, warm-up jersey, and socks, grabbing a fresh roll of adhesive tape on my way out the door.

Sitting on the bench in front of my locker I slowly began the process of taping my ankles. I taped them before every practice and every game and I had to be careful. If not placed properly, the tape would cut into my skin, both at the lower end of my Achilles and at the crease where the front of my leg meets my foot. I'd learned the hard way back in my freshman year to cover those areas with a strip of tape before beginning the actual supports. This was the price I had to pay for having a 44-inch vertical leap. Coming down on an opponent's foot without the extra support could break my ankle. Yes, I could heal it quickly, but I'd be out of competition for several weeks at least.

I had just finished lacing up my sneakers when I felt my stomach heave. I ran off to the bathroom where manager-scorer Jimmy Piersall met me. Jimmy reminded me of me before my "accident." He was bookish in the extreme and he was the only student in my class with an academic average close to mine. My teammates were gone by the time I went to wash my face and rinse my mouth. Jimmy patted me on the back as we began the walk down to the court.

I looked over toward my parents and I could see the shocked expression on Barbara's face. Even my mother's remarks hadn't adequately prepared her. I shrugged it off as I stepped across the out-of-bounds line where I took on an entirely different persona. We were in a layup drill and I joined the line left of the basket to feed the shooters on the other side.

I knew what would happen when it was my turn to take the layup or shot—the same thing that had happened every single game since our pep rally while in eighth grade. I'd played well in practice and the first three games, but hadn't needed to show my real jumping ability until then. Each of the players was handed a ball at the locker room door to dribble the length of the court for a layup once his name was called. I was the last of the starters—the last player called—when I began my dribble. I sped up at about half-court and took off for the basket once I was about fifteen feet out, cupping the ball between my arm and hand as I soared up and up. The gym was deathly silent as I neared the basket, my head even with the rim when I reared back and threw the ball through the net with enough force to rattle the backboard on its braces. The crowd reacted to the thunderous dunk with a massive roar that lasted long after I had joined my laughing teammates.

"Where the hell has that been," Charlie Green, our captain, asked me. I just shrugged my shoulders and grinned. Ever since then the crowd has always wanted me to dunk. I rarely did during warm-ups, saving my energy for the game. I thought they'd see plenty tonight.

I had known Coach Kendall from New Rochelle for several years through my participation in summer basketball camps, and AAU teams, so I jogged over to shake his hand after the team introductions. Then I returned to our huddle. Coach Darling didn't say much. He didn't have to. We all knew the drill—play tough defense, rebound, share the ball, and play together. Those were the keys to any successful game.

Very few teams contested the jump ball at the beginning each quarter. My jumping abilities were too well known. Not only did I jump high, but I was a quick jumper, too. I hadn't lost a jump ball even once since I began playing. Most teams lined up for the handshakes then pulled back into defensive position under our basket while I tapped the ball to one of our players. Tonight, I tapped it to Tony who began to slowly dribble up the court.

We loved to run. That was how we could score ninety points or more in a 32-minute game, but this was part of a set play we had worked on in practice over the past two weeks. Two of our players retreated deep into the corners while forward Eli, physically our biggest player at 245 pounds moved up to the corner of the foul line, what's known in the game as the "elbow." I cut in front of him and brushed my defender off and reversed, leaving me open for a lob and a powerful dunk, exactly the start few teams wanted as the crowd went wild.

We were the top-ranked team in the state, but New Rochelle was number five so this game should have been close and it was, closer than anything we'd played over the past four years. The score went back and forth until we opened a small lead at the end of the first quarter. As usual, I had no idea how many points or rebounds or blocks I had, but I knew that I'd led the team as usual. We led 23-19 at the end of the first quarter.

I led our defense in the second quarter with several blocks and key rebounds that started our fast breaks, always trailing the play for a possible offensive rebound in the event of a miss. We scored a lot of points in the second quarter as we built a lead of seven points at the half—54-47.

We relaxed at half-time, splitting a bag of oranges that Jimmy Piersall had brought for the game, as we listened to Coach Darling critique our first half performance. "You played well, but we need more help on the boards and I think we need to press. I don't think their guards can stay up with us." Tony and Eli looked at me for a reaction. I gave them one by nodding. Pressing can really mess up a team's offense. Most people think that the objective is to steal the ball, but all that does is cause unnecessary fouls. Mostly, what a press does is to cause the team on offense to speed up their play. A fast pace was exactly what we wanted. We thrived in a helter-skelter game.

* * * * *

I was just about to enter the center circle for the third quarter jump ball when Tony pulled us together. "Listen, Freak. I've been talking to the guys and we agree you need to take over the offense. I checked the book and you're 16 for 19. You already have almost three quarters of our points and you're not missing. If we shoot, we're going to miss a hell of a lot more often. We want to run the whole offense through you."

I had listened and looked into my teammates' faces, noting that they all agreed. "Okay, but we still need to run and get easy baskets and if they double-team me you need to go to the basket so I can feed you." That was the plan, but sometimes plans don't exactly work out.

I may have superior skills, but I'm still human. I have good games and bad. Fortunately, my skill level is such that I can usually score even on a bad night. When I walked onto the court for the second half the basket looked like the Grand Canyon. I made my first shot, a long jumper, and my second, a dunk on an offensive rebound. I blocked their next attempt and caught the ball, dribbling down court for another layup and a foul. They missed and I grabbed another rebound. They were back on defense so I ran my opponent around the court, brushing him into two picks that freed me up for another dunk.

After their timeout I scored again on a rebound and pass from Tony to me in the corner. I was fouled and their center had to be removed with four fouls. He was replaced by a big bruiser of a player and I had one of those flashes where I could see the future. I didn't like what I saw so I walked up to the refs. "See this guy—number 35? He's going to try starting a fight with me so I'll be kicked out of the game. I overheard him in warm-ups. Keep an eye on him, will you?"

Sure enough, he started by pushing me into the wall on a fast break. I made the shot and he was called for the foul and warned. Next time up the court I went into the high post on the foul line and he slugged me in the head with his forearm. This time he was called for an intentional foul. I made the shots and we got the ball again. I drove by him as he threw a vicious elbow at my face. This time he was thrown out of the game as I made two foul shots and another for the technical. There was no stopping me.

That's the way the quarter went as we built a fifteen-point lead—88-73. I still had no idea how many points I had and I didn't care, either. I only cared that we were winning.

Tony fed me for a really long jumper that I drained easily. As the final quarter proceeded, I took over the game, leading us on a 17-3 run that really opened up the score. I couldn't miss. I'd had games like this before, but never one as important. Everything I threw up went in until Coach Kendall removed most of his starters with four minutes left. They were behind by twenty-nine at that point and he was conceding the game. Our starters left the game only a few seconds later and our subs maintained our lead until the game ended with the score 97-70.

We had a huddle as we did after every game and I was just about to walk over to my family and my date when I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was Coach Kendall. "You had to pick tonight to have the game of the year. You really were phenomenal, J.J. We had no way to stop you. I apologize for that idiot Carmichael. He's done so far as I'm concerned. I'd never condone deliberately hurting another player."

I shook his hand as I told him, "I know that Coach. I've played for you enough to know that. I never had a doubt." He shook my hand again then I was approached by three New Rochelle players I knew from camp or playground ball. We shook hands and hugged. They were excellent players and better people.

I was just about to walk over to my parents when Tony commented, "Who's the babe with your folks?"

"Don't get any ideas. She's my date. I met her in church last Sunday. We're going to Albanese's after we get out of here. Want to join us?" He said he'd ask his girlfriend and let me know.

My youngest sister, Carole, ran out to me, jumping up into my arms. "You played great, J.J. I loved those dunks." I pulled her up so I could kiss her cheek, but she threw her arms around my neck even though I was a sweaty mess. I noticed my other sister, Marie, scribbling madly in her notebook. She always kept a record of my points, rebounds, and blocks, taking great pride in announcing my stats to our parents.

She looked up a moment later. "Holy cow, J.J.—you almost scored as many points as their whole team. You had 68 and 29 rebounds and—wait a second—8 blocks. Great game; you didn't miss a single shot the entire second half!" I gripped her by the head and leaned down to kiss her forehead. I knew my folks wanted to leave so I said my good-byes then took Barbara by the hand and led her over to where my teammates' girlfriends were sitting.

"Guys, this is Barbara. Barbara... Marlene, Carolyn, and Teri. Would you sit with her for a while so she's not alone? She doesn't know anyone here." They agreed so I squeezed her hand before running upstairs to hear Coach Darling's critique of the game. I wasn't really listening as I stripped off my uniform and took the special scissors from my locker to cut the tape from my legs and feet. The tape was soaked with sweat--something verified when I stepped on the scale. I had lost seven and a half pounds in water weight during the game, fairly typical for me.

The mood in the shower—just twelve shower heads in a large rectangular room covered with white tiles—was jocular and carefree. I doubted that we'd face another opponent as good as New Rochelle until deep into the state tournament and we'd shown that we could handle them easily. I rejoined Barbara in the gym only fifteen minutes later. I had my jacket, slacks, and shirt on a hanger as I approached. I saw Tony and Carolyn and Richie and Marlene leaving through the back door. "I guess they didn't want to join us at Albanese's."

"No... they said something about watching the submarine races." (Okay, a brief historical note is needed here for those of you who didn't grow up in the New York Metro area in the fifties and sixties. Probably the most popular and influential deejay of the time was Murray Kaufman, known throughout the area as "Murray the K" on AM station 1010 WINS. He coined many expressions, but by far the most popular was his "submarine race watching," a euphemism for a make-out session even though many times there was a lot more going on than making out.)

"Okay, I'm sure they'll have a good time. However, I promised you pizza and I'm sure you'll understand that I'm hungry. I never have much to eat before a game for obvious reasons." I took her hand and we walked out into the cold clear night.

I laid my clothes in the trunk right after opening the door for Barbara, joining her in the cold car a few seconds later. I had the heater on "HIGH" as soon as the car had warmed up a little. By then I was en-route to White Plains Road where I turned right toward Eastchester. I turned off about a mile later and from there it was only a half mile to Albanese's. We walked in through the bar and I wasn't at all surprised to see my coach, my baseball coach, and the school's assistant principal enjoying a cold one at the bar. I introduced Barbara then excused us to the restaurant.

We took a booth as I hung our coats onto a rack that was attached to her bench. "I enjoyed the game, Jack. I thought you played great. Those people sure do yell a lot."

"Yeah, they're great fans. What would you like to drink?" I ordered a pitcher once she had told me "Coke."

"You probably noticed that I sweat a lot during the game. It's not unusual for me to go through three or four towels. I actually lost more than seven pounds, but that's nothing compared to practice. I need to drink a lot to make up for the water loss otherwise I'll wake up around three with cramps in my legs."

"Is every game like this one?"

I had to laugh. "No, most of our games are routs and that's not just because of me. Basketball is the ultimate team game because there are only five players on a team. In baseball a player could go the entire game without a chance in the field and in football it's possible to take some plays off because the action is going the other way. Well... you can do that on offense, but in basketball every player has to be in on every play, both on offense and defense. One good player just doesn't do it. We have seven good players in my grade. The two subs are good enough to start on a lot of the teams we play against.

"What kind of pie do you want?" We talked about the options before deciding on a plain cheese pie. Being Catholic meant no meat on Fridays back then. Well, it did if you were religious. My mother served us meat-free meals on Fridays, but if I went out on my own, I never thought twice about having some sausage on my pizza or even a burger.

We chatted idly for a while before I asked if she would allow me to take her on a real date tomorrow night. Smiling slyly, she said, "I don't know. What did you have in mind?"

"Well... I suppose we could go bowling. That's usually fun or we could go to the movies in New Rochelle or Mount Vernon. I don't think the drive-ins are open now. Or I could take you out to dinner in Manhattan and then to a Broadway show."

Barbara's mouth dropped and stayed there a few seconds before she recovered. "Really? You mean that? What would we see?"

"Of course, I mean it. I know I can get tickets for 'West Side Story' and for 'Irma La Douce.'"

"I've heard about West Side Story, but what's the other one?"

"Are you taking French?" She shook her head "no," so I continued. "It means 'Irma the Sweet.' It's a comedy that takes place in Paris sometime in the past—the thirties maybe. Irma is a prostitute and the other main character is a naïve police officer. It's a comedy and there's no actual sex in the play, but there is a lot of suggestive dialog. Everything I've read about it is very positive--in fact Hollywood's making a movie of it. I read recently that Shirley MacLaine is going to play Irma with Jack Lemmon as the cop."

"It sounds like fun, but I'm afraid the nuns would skin me alive if I saw it. Can we see 'West Side Story' instead?"

"Of course; I'll phone for the tickets tomorrow morning. I'll have to pick you up around 4:30 because we'll have to take the train to Grand Central and then we'll take cabs to the restaurant and theater. You'd better ask Mr. and Mrs. Gleason if you can stay out after midnight. I'll try to get you home by then, but we could have trouble getting a cab and we're stuck with the train schedule, too." She was about to speak, but stopped as the waitress slid the pie onto the table.