August 26, 2006--Saturday Story: "The Boys of Harlem"--Concluded

In Part Two, the Rugby Rockets basketball team and their coach, Mr. Ludwig, found themselves in Harlem. They were working their way through the streets from the subway station to the Harlem Boys Club where they were to play for the city championship. Never having been north of Central Park, much less in an all-black neighborhood, the Brooklyn boys were naturally curious and, in truth, somewhat afraid. They did, however, find something familiar in Bernie’s Candy Store, including a bathroom where they were able to relieve some of their nervousness.

In Part Three, which follows, the whistle signaling the start of the second half is about to blow and . . .

Mr. Ludwig gathered us in a circle in front of our bench and had us place all of our hands in a stack, one atop the other. He glared at us one last time as we broke the huddle with a less-than-enthusiastic grunt that served as a cheer--as much to motivate us as to signal to the other team that we were to be regarded as a serious competitive threat.

But since we were unable to fool ourselves much less them, we shuffled halfheartedly toward the center of the floor with Little Stewie, trailing along with us, even though he wouldn’t be starting, so he could hide behind Arnie Schwartz, our widest body, before having to return to the bench where he would sit exposed and unprotected.

As the Rocket’s center it was my responsibility to attempt to tap the ball to a team member when the referee tossed the ball in the air to launch the half. This felt like a hopeless task since at the start of the game the Harlem Boys Club center, though four inches shorter than me, leaped so high that he was able to tip the ball, before it reached its apogee, to one of his cutting guards who streaked down the floor with it for an uncontested lay-up. They thus had two points lighting the scoreboard even before I had had a chance to leave my feet.

But this time, the referee’s errant toss floated toward my side of the center circle and I managed to synchronize my jump with its trajectory, slapping the ball to Donny, who for a moment forgot his fear and instinctively resumed being the Donny we knew--the Rocket’s thumb. He grabbed hold of the ball, and dribbled it in a serpentine path through all of their defenders, pulling up abruptly at the foul line where he, in a graceful gyration, lifted himself in the air while simultaneously launching a high-arcing shot that ripped through the net, swish, without even nicking the rim.

Visitors—8 . . . Harlem Boys Club (still)--22

I glanced over to Stewie, who was slouching on the bench, and knew what he was thinking—just six seconds had ticked off the clock and we already were up to eight points. Seven more and we would reach fifteen. I saw him peek toward the exit sign, probably mapping his escape route. But while watching Stewie, and in truth also thinking about how I would escape with my life, after Donny’s quick basket, they quickly put the ball back in play and streaked down court passed us, catching us flatfooted, breaking into the clear, heading toward what would certainly be another uncontested basket. But, seemingly out of nowhere, Arnie Schwartz, who after the center jump had not lumbered down the court with the rest of us, somehow managed to position his hulking body between the basket and the driving player where he absorbed a charging foul. He was slammed to the floor by the collision and the score remained 22-8.

My somehow managing to win the jump, Donny’s quick and graceful basket, and Arnie’s sacrificing his body for the sake of defense energized our team and for the moment shocked and silenced the crowd. Though we still trailed by a probably-insurmountable 14 points, there was for the first time some slight evidence that this could still turn out to be a game and not just a pathetic rout.

Much of this feeling came from Mr. Ludwig who sat impassively on the bench, right beside Stewie, signaling by his calm that we had things under control. Even perhaps that we had the Harlem team right where we wanted them, in a form of perverse strategy of ineptitude that would lull them into complacency. And then, just when they were feeling it was all over, we would pounce and run them off the floor.

While the game moved back and forth inconsequentially, no one scoring for the next few minutes, which was a form of progress for us, I ran through my mind some of Mr. Ludwig’s war stories, looking for analogies to our situation and his during what he often referred to as the “Big One.” Were there situations he had told us about when his battalion rose up suddenly to grab victory from the jaws of seeming defeat? I could think of none—all that he recounted was their relentless, inexorable moving forward. So what could he be thinking now as he sat there exuding such calm confidence in us, even though we were still stalled out, so far behind?

As I was having these distracting thoughts, the Harlem boys regained their collective stride and ripped off two quick baskets, one after intercepting Benny Berlin’s inbound pass and slamming it home before we had a chance to turn around. We thus found ourselves still further behind—26 to 8.

That seemed to rouse our coach who sprang from the bench and whistled to Donny who asked for a time out. The crowd was back in the game, chanting “HBC! HBC! HBC! Harlem Boys Club!" as we again gathered at our bench.

During the entire time out, Mr. Ludwig ignored us, not even joining our huddle. He had moved out toward the middle of the court and stood there staring up at the score board which fluttered as if there was about to be a power failure. We looked at each other, wondering what he was up to, what he was expecting us to do, what kind of reverse psychology he might be using since this was so uncharacteristic of him. In every other instance he would minimally have had something to say about the “fallen heroes of Normandy” or liberating “les mademoiselles de Paris.” But there he was, looking as if he had finally lost the rest of his mind.

Arnie turned to Heshy, by far our most insightful teammate, our best psychologist, and asked, “What’s he up to? What the fuck is goin’ on?”

The rest of us leaned in to hear what Heshy might say. The crowd was on its feet, continuing to scream, “HBC! HBC!" Incited now by what they too saw to be our coach’s erratic behavior.

“I think he feels,” Heshy whispered huskily, “that he lived his whole life for this moment. Including the war. Especially the war. To bring to us what he fought for. To give us this opportunity. And what he is seeing is not just that we are losing but how we’re deporting ourselves. If we are the future he almost died for, what kind of future will that be?”

Benny broke our silence, “To tell you the truth, Heshy, though this sounds like a lot of bullshit to me, I think we should try his two-one-two zone defense. At least go out in a blaze of glory. That is, Lloyd, as the man in the middle, if you feel you can handle it.”

I didn’t respond but rather turned in my civilian version of an about-face and led the team back onto the floor, taking my position on defense. Right in the middle, where Mr. Ludwig taught me to stand; one time, when we were alone in the PS 244 gym, saying, “Someone has to be there, so it might as well be you.”

* * *

And it worked. With just three minutes to go in the game, though we had scored just two more points, which brought us to double-figures, 10; they had managed to score only four, on two lucky baskets from way beyond the keyhole. Our zone defense been so effective, cutting down their driving guards and neutralizing their bulky forwards, that they needed to chuck their shots from that distance, missing at least ten of them before banging in two off the backboard.

The scoreboard by then, more dark than lit, winked 30-10. And with so little time remaining, we could feel some consolation for holding them to “only” a 20 point lead; and even Stewie could relax with just those 10 points of ours showing on the board.

They poked one of Arnie’s cross-court passes out of bounds so we needed to toss the ball back into play. But before the ref could hand it to Heshy to inbound it, from the scorer’s table, the horn blared signaling a substitution.

We were all bent over, sucking air, when we heard a familiar voice, Little Stewie’s, lisping to Arnie, “Mr. Ludwig wants me to take over for you.”

Arnie straightened up in surprise. True, we were trailing by 20, but never in the PS 244 or Boys Club history of the Rugby Rockets had Stewie ever been inserted into a game. In truth, he served as sort of our mascot. He knew that we felt he brought us luck and that in our adolescent ways we loved him, and he both accepted and liked playing that role and receiving that affection. He understood that with his tiny and hopelessly uncoordinated body, he could barely catch a ball tossed to him much less move with or shoot it.

But here he was on the floor with us. It was a clearly a generous gesture for Mr. Ludwig to allow him in this way to be a part of what would for certain be the Rocket’s last game ever. And his as our coach.

For some time, the spectators had been celebrating their team’s impending victory, but with Stewie’s appearance they paused to see what might happen. They too sensed that something unusual was going on.

The whistle blew and Heshy passed the ball in to Donny who dribbled it slowly up court. He was not closely guarded—the game was effectively over. There was no shot clock in that era and everyone expected Donny to stand at the top of the foul circle and dribble out the remaining minutes in a desultorily and unchallenged way. Which he did.

The clock ticked down to the remaining two minutes. Donny dribbled and dribbled. Standing in place. Uncharacteristically, not moving. The rest of us stood there, yards apart. Alone with our thoughts. I would not have been surprised if others besides me were reliving some of the things we had been through together. I was by then attending a different high school from my teammates and expected that without the Rockets we would drift more and more apart. This was to be the end of more than just our team.

But as I was having these melancholy thoughts, with 90 seconds remaining, Donny snapped the ball over to Stewie who had been hovering close to him, seeking protection. Then, for a final few moments, we became a team again; and as we had done hundreds of times in the past, as if on automatic, we shifted into our well-practiced weave at the top of the circle.

Stewie had managed to take hold of the ball though Donny’s pass had smacked into his chest. And as we moved in a braid of motion behind him, as if to weave him into the fabric of our team, embraced in that way, he heaved the ball into the air, miraculously toward the basket, where it seemed to hover in the air in defiance of the laws of gravity, before slicing through the net soundlessly.

The scoreboard with that regained full power and flashed enthusiastically—

Visitors—12 . . . Harlem Boys Club—30

The Harlem Boys Club then took what would certainly turn out to be the final possession of the game, but their center’s casual pass was intercepted by Donny who darted in front of their guard to grab it. So we had the ball again, now with only 72 seconds remaining.

We set up once more in a large circle, with each of us in our accustomed position. Stewie, though, hovered even closer to Donny who resumed his rhythmic dribble. He was this time defended a little more closely. The clock showed a minute to go. Donny stood motionless, holding the ball high above his head with both hands. He looked to his left toward Benny but then passed the ball quickly to Stewie. This time he caught it cleanly. He was unguarded. He held the ball. Not dribbling. Clutching the ball to his chest. The clock moved to 40 seconds.

Heshy then called over to Stewie, and in a gentle voice said, “Shoot it Stewie.” Which he promptly did, again in a ceiling-scraping arc. Everyone watched it on its way up and then more intently as it began to descend. This time it bounced high off the rim before dropping through the net for another two points. No one moved. The gym had become silent.

Up in the rafters we saw--

Visitors—14 . . . Harlem Boys Club—30

All members of both teams remained frozen in place, staring up at the scoreboard as if looking for some meaning there that might be revealed beyond the score. And then before the Harlem team could toss the ball inbounds, Mr. Ludwig had us call one last time out.

This time he was waiting for us as we strode to the bench. What could possible be on his mind with only 29 seconds remaining and us trailing by an impossible 16 points?

We formed a circle around him as we had so many times over the years: Donny Friedlander, our inspired floor general and leading scorer: holding hands with Benny Berlin, prior to that day deadly from beyond the keyhole; who held hands with me, the Rocket’s captain and, because of my unnatural height, top rebounder; and I in turn clutched the hand of Heshy Perlmutter, always moving without the ball, always thinking on his feet. And during that final moment, Little Stewie was a part of that circle as well, grasping hands with Donny on his left and Heshy on his right.

“Men,” Mr. Ludwig began, he looked first at Donny, “we’re going to lose.” He saw how his acknowledging that shocked us, even with less than half a minute remaining in the game. “I know, I have never said that to you before while there was still time left, but today is different.” He swung around to Benny. “I know you think that winning was all I cared about.” He next held me in his gaze, and I thought I heard a slight break in his voice as he said to me, to us, “Like during the war. My war. Where there was to be no losing. That was not acceptable. You noticed how often I talked about that war and about how I tried to make connections between what happened there and what we were trying to achieve here. Together.” We all nodded. He then looked directly at Heshy who locked eyes with him. “You, Perlmutter, you always understood. You knew what I was trying to teach these men. How I was not much older than you when I was drafted. I was just a boy. Like you were.” We noticed his use of the past tense. And finally, he addressed Little Stewie who for the first time looked back at him. “And how that war made me a man, brutally forced me to become one. Robbing me of my youth. For you, for all of you,” he took all of us in now as the whistle sounded, calling us back onto the floor, “I wanted it to be different. Sure I wanted us to win. I love winning, but all I ever really wanted was to see you begin to become men. Learning that from playing together as a team. And as much from losing, actually learning maybe more from losing than from winning.”

He turned away from us as we broke our last huddle as the Rockets. But even with his back to us, we heard him say, as much to himself as to us, “I am very proud of you men.”

The Harlem team had the ball out of bounds and we expected them to freeze the ball for the few remaining seconds. But they quickly snapped the ball into play and broke toward their basket, clearly intent on doing more scoring. There was so much cheering again that perhaps, to satisfy their fans who had placed bets on the game, they wanted to repad the point spread.

But for one final time we sprang into motion. Quickly enough so that our zone took sufficient shape to impede their best shooter, who already had 12 points, as he cut to the basket. His shot, a floating layup that rolled from his finger tips as he soared above the rim, hung on that rim and then fell off to where I had moved so that I was able to elevate myself enough to grab my sixth rebound of the day from out of the hands of their leaping center.

There were still fourteen seconds on the clock. Thirteen, twelve . . . .

I immediately passed the ball down court to Donny who in a seamless motion got it on the other side of the court to Benny who released it to Heshy deep in the right-hand corner. I trundled down court to join them.

Through the microphone, the official scorer intoned, “Ten seconds remain in the game. Ten seconds.”

Little Stewie was moving right behind me, I could hear his sneakers slapping the floor as he cut to his left when he reached the top of the key. He ran toward the corner opposite to where Heshy stood protecting the ball from his defender, who was frantically flailing his arms, attempting to steal it.

As he approached his spot in the corner, Stewie raised his hand, calling for the ball. And Heshy obliged, passing it dangerously back across court to him, something Mr. Ludwig drilled us never to do, where it settled into Stewie’s hands.

Five seconds.

Without hesitation this time, Little Stewie let it fly.

Two seconds.

While his other two shots were time-consuming, lofty parabolas, this final one was more efficiently flat and slammed off the backboard right above the basket, where it rolled around the rim before beginning to drop away, with only the final second showing.

The clock inexorably ticked down to 0.0 as Heshy, forgotten by the other team which stood, as we did, transfixed, while Heshy for the first time in his life lifted his lanky body enough off the floor so that he, right at the rim’s edge, could tip the ball in.

Two points!

The buzzer sounded and scoreboard exploded with the final score—

Visitors—16 . . . Harlem Boys Club 30

They had won, but we had passed the 15 points Stewie had been warned about. Realizing that we collapsed around him, to cuddle and protect him.

But he broke loose from us and ran to the middle of the floor where he danced with joy, alone in the center circle.

We joined him there in celebration.

Mr. Ludwig remained on the bench. And the crowd resumed its chanting. This time, however, it was—

“BBC! BBC! Brooklyn Boys Club! Brooklyn Boys Club! BCC! BCC!”