[2013] Consequential Damages Read online

  City College was on the far south side of the city. Measured in miles, it was not a great distance from Jake’s old neighborhood, but in other respects, it was a universe away. Like most Caucasians who knew their way around the city, Jake avoided the area, for the simple reason that it was just plain dangerous. Although the immediate vicinity was a reasonably well kept, working-class black neighborhood, it was surrounded by some of the toughest areas of the city, and there was no way to get to the college without driving through gang infested, crime-ridden slums. For hard-core basketball fans, however, there was no better place to be on a warm June evening than watching the City College summer league in action. As Jake entered the dingy gym, he was comforted to see that there were at least a few other white faces in the crowd. Some were certainly college or professional scouts. A few were guys like Rick, whose love of the game outweighed their fear for their own safety.

  Jake and Rick were quickly caught up in the fast-paced battle going on before them. Rick was right, Jake thought. These guys were amazing. Rick recognized many of the players, and explained to Jake who was who. Some were enrolled in college programs around the country and had come to sharpen their game for next season. Others were former collegiate players, not ready to give up on their dreams, still hoping that the NBA would come calling. A few had briefly lived the NBA dream, and were clinging to some hope for a second chance.

  Rick had been trading observations about the players with an elderly black gentleman in a White Sox baseball cap seated next to him in the bleachers. “Pretty tough brand of basketball out there, ain’t it.” The old man spoke in a low, gravelly voice, without taking his eyes off the game.

  “No shit,” Rick agreed. “I was hoping to get in on it.”

  The old man continued looking straight ahead, and laughed quietly, a raspy wheezing laugh. “I don’t know where you’ve played, son, but I don’t think you’re ready for this shit.”

  “I’ve played here before, trying to keep my game sharp while I was in college.”

  “You don’t say?” The old man turned and looked at Rick skeptically. “Where’d you play in college?”

  “Indiana. Made it to the Final Four last year. Lost to UCLA in the championship game.”

  A look of recognition crossed the old man’s face. “You was the point guard. I remember you now. That was a hell of a team. I don’t remember seeing you out here before.”

  “Oh, I’ve played here a few times. Best basketball anywhere, outside of the NBA.”

  “No, it ain’t. It’s good – awfully damn good. But it ain’t the best. I’ve seen better and it ain’t far from here.”

  “Come on, better than this? No way! Where?”

  “Just a couple miles from here. There’s an outdoor court at an old abandoned school called St. Simon’s. They got some real ballplayers there. Better than the pros, some of them.”

  “If they’re so good, then why aren’t they in the NBA?”

  “I’ll tell you why. These dudes got all the talent in the world, but they’re fuck-ups. Most of them dropped out of school, or got thrown out. A lot of them done time. Some are gangbangers. These are guys that can’t handle authority – schools, coaches, whatever. They can’t play by the rules. No discipline and no character. But amazing talent, man, just amazing.”

  “That’s where we need to go,” said Rick, slapping Jake on the knee.

  “Oh, no. You don’t need to be going there, son,” said the old man. “It ain’t safe. It ain’t safe for nobody, but it really ain’t safe for guys that look like you.”

  “He’s right,” Jake chimed in. “You’re not from the South Side, Rick, but I know that area. It’s as rough as it gets.”

  “Aw, don’t be a wimp, Jake. We’re not seeing any action here. We’ll try there next week, Wednesday night,” Rick said, as if the matter had been settled.

  “Sure we will,” Jake replied, to bring the conversation to an end. Even a crazy thrill-seeker like Rick couldn’t be serious about that proposition.

  Another week went by, and Jake’s mood had not improved. If anything, it had gotten worse. Every day, he thought about calling Amanda, and every day he decided he couldn’t. He had left her two messages and she had not returned his calls. If he continued calling, she might consider it harassment. Obviously, for some reason he could not fathom, she had chosen to ignore him.

  His job situation was not helping either. He had been under the impression that most law firms did their best to make the summer clerkship experience an enjoyable one. It was essentially a tryout for both parties. The law clerks had an opportunity to demonstrate their skills, in the hope of receiving an offer of employment following graduation. The firms did their best to sell themselves as a great place to work, so that they would have their pick of the best and brightest. With that goal in mind, most of the major firms spent a great deal of time and money entertaining the impressionable young clerks. Dinners at the city’s finest restaurants, lavish parties at the elegant homes of senior partners and other less extravagant forms of entertainment such as ballgames and happy hours were all part of the routine. The firms were also careful not to overwork their summer clerks, for fear of creating the wrong impression and potentially losing bright young prospects.

  Unfortunately for Jake, his experience was not off to an auspicious start. Although the firm’s attorneys had been asked to be sensitive to workload issues, Jake was subject to the beck and call of any lawyer in the firm, and within a matter of a few days, he was overloaded with work. One of the young associate attorneys advised him that he needed to find tactful ways of making it clear that he was too busy to take on more assignments. When he was approached with a massive research project by Mr. Pritchard, a humorless senior partner in his late fifties, Jake politely stated that he had so many other projects pending at the moment that he would not be able to do justice to Mr. Pritchard’s assignment. His words fell on deaf ears, and he found himself spending all day on both Saturday and Sunday working frantically to meet Mr. Pritchard’s ambitious deadline. The following Tuesday, he missed the firm’s baseball outing at Wrigley Field, as he struggled to meet another one of Pritchard’s unrealistic deadlines. Feeling irritable and sorry for himself, he answered the phone brusquely when it rang late Wednesday afternoon. It was Rick.

  “It’s Wednesday. Remember our plan?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Basketball. At St. Simon’s.”

  “Are you crazy? You heard that old man—we’d never make it out of there alive.”

  “Oh, come on, Jake. You can’t go through life being a chickenshit. I do stuff like this all the time. Once they realize we’re just there to play ball and they see that we can hold our own, we’ll be fine.”

  “You haven’t played anywhere like this place, Rick. I’m serious. I know the area. Believe me, it would be suicide. Why don’t we just go back to City College tomorrow? I’ve got a lot of work to do tonight.”

  “This’ll be a great tune-up for tomorrow night. Come on, Jake, you’re not selling your soul to that firm already, are you? I hear summer clerkships there are pretty cushy.”

  That touched a nerve. “They’re supposed to be,” Jake replied with obvious bitterness. “I’m not having much fun yet.” Talking about it made Jake angrier about his situation. “What the hell,” he said, feeling reckless. “Alright, I’m in. Just give me some time to draft my will.”

  Rick picked up Jake in front of his office at 6:00 and they drove toward the South Side. Traffic was bad until they exited the expressway at 63rd Street to travel the few remaining miles by side street. Jake looked around at the urban wasteland surrounding them. The buildings were old, constructed of dark brick for the most part, and made even darker by nearly a century’s worth of dirt and grime, with windows that were either boarded up or just gaping, glassless holes. Very few appeared to be occupied. Graffiti was everywhere. The streets seemed to have been as neglected as the neighborhood’s inhabitants. They were strewn wi
th litter, curbs were crumbling or simply gone, and potholes were everywhere. Small groups of boys and men of all ages loitered idly in doorways, and an assortment of lost souls wandered aimlessly down the streets, oblivious to traffic.

  Jake thought that once Rick had surveyed the neighborhood, he would come to his senses and suggest finding a game elsewhere. To the contrary, Rick seemed to be enjoying the adventure. “Are you sure you want to do this?” Jake asked, as the bleakness of the setting took hold of him.

  “Hell, yes! How many guys like us do you think have played at this place? What a kick! Don't you want to see how you measure up?” Rick slowed down before a crowd of tough looking youths to ask for directions.

  “Keep driving!” Jake ordered between clenched teeth.

  Rick ignored him. “Hey, where's St. Simon’s?” he yelled toward them.

  Several of them started moving toward the shiny BMW. “Get your sorry ass out of here,” one of them yelled, hurling a beer bottle toward the car. Rick sped off, as the bottle sailed overhead.

  “I think it's a block or two this way,” he said, making a left turn onto a street that looked even bleaker, if that were possible.

  Sure enough, two blocks ahead, they found an old church, adjacent to what looked like an abandoned school building. At one end of the asphalt parking lot were two basketball goals facing each other, chain nets hanging from the rims. A raucous game of four-on-four was in progress in front of a dozen or so highly vocal spectators. They watched from the car for several minutes. Jake could hear the trash-talking, shouting and swearing. He felt a flurry of emotions, none of which were positive. He felt like a trespasser. He felt out of place. He felt pure, unadulterated fear. He realized he was shaking. He also realized that Rick seemed to be experiencing no such feelings. To the contrary, he seemed excited and ready for action.

  “Don't worry,” Rick said, sensing Jake's apprehension. “These guys are basketball junkies, right? If that's the case, they surely follow the NCAA tournament. They'll know who I am and they’ll want a chance to prove they're better than me. Trust me. Let's go.”

  They exited the car, and walked toward the court, Rick bouncing his basketball and seeming perfectly at ease. “What the fuck is this?” A loud voice rang out from the crowd.

  The game stopped. Everyone stared in astonishment. Two clean-cut white boys, BMW in the background, calmly walking up to the court at St. Simon's. It didn't compute. The group stared in silence for a few moments, assessing the situation, trying to decide if these guys were undercover cops, basketball scouts or just plain crazy. They didn't appear to be cops or scouts.

  The player with the basketball, shirtless and wearing a white bandanna, took a few steps toward them and yelled, “You boys lost?” Jake sized him up. He looked menacing. He also looked like he intended to have a little fun at their expense.

  “Don't think so,” Rick shot back, as they approached the court. “Is this St. Simon’s?”

  “Maybe. What the fuck do you want?”

  “Just hoping to play a little ball. We’ve been told this is the best game around.”

  “You're damn right, sucker. But you ain't ready for our game,” said a tall, muscular man covered with tattoos. “Go back to your own neighborhood.”

  A smaller, slightly built boy of about fifteen wearing a gold Lakers jersey walked to the front of the crowd and stared harshly at the visitors. “Let’s fuck these dudes up. We need to teach ‘em to respect our turf.”

  A giant of a man with a shaved head and a goatee stepped forward. Jake thought he must have been the largest human being he had ever laid eyes on. He had to be at least seven feet tall, on a rock solid frame. He flashed a menacing smile, revealing a gold front tooth. “I say, if they want to play, let 'em play. But you gotta pay to play here.” He lowered his face to within inches of Rick's. “Gimme your wallet, motherfucker.”

  “I don't have a wallet. Look—I'm in my basketball clothes,” Rick replied, pulling the pockets of his gym shorts inside-out.

  “Bullshit! White boys like you always carry wallets. It's in your car, ain't it? Tell you what, I'll just take your car keys instead. I'd look gooood in that BMW.” He laughed, giving high fives to several of his cohorts, who were obviously enjoying this.

  Rick joined the laughter, then said, “Hey, I know you, don't I?” The big guy stared at him, a puzzled look on his face. Rick continued, “You played at Michigan State. I remember playing against you.” That brought a chorus of hoots and jeers from the crowd.

  “You a college boy, T?” one of his pals asked with mock surprise.

  “Shit,” said another. “The closest T ever got to Michigan State was doing time with the Michigan Department of Co-rections!”

  Clever approach, Jake thought. Change the subject. Flatter the big guy and make it known that you played in the Big Ten. That may appeal to their egos. They would relish the opportunity to thrash a Big Ten player on their court. The big guy took the bait. “So you played against Michigan State, huh? Sounds like bullshit to me. Where’d you play, boy?”

  “Indiana. Went to the Final Four last year.”

  The kid in the Lakers jersey was obviously unimpressed. “This guy’s full of shit, man. Come on, let's fuck these dudes up. What do you say, Shooter?” he asked, glancing at the guy with the basketball.

  They all looked toward Shooter. “I remember you,” Shooter said, recognition setting in. “Couldn't shoot worth shit, as I recall.” He paused for a moment. “Alright, let's see if these boys can handle our game.” He paused again for effect. “Then we'll mess ‘em up!” The crowd roared its approval.

  Jake and Rick walked toward the far end of the court. “Brilliant idea, man.” Jake muttered in a low voice. “I can't believe I let you talk me into this.”

  “Hey, just stay cool. Just play your game. We'll earn their respect and everything will be fine.”

  They would play full-court, they were told; four-on-four. Jake and Rick were assigned two teammates from the crowd, who seemed none too happy with their mission. The opposition consisted of Shooter, T, a tall skinny guy named Curtis, and the young kid in the Lakers jersey, whose name was Jerome.

  The game began, and within seconds, the talent level was obvious. Shooter displayed some ball handling wizardry, and then worked the ball inside to T, who finished the play with a rim rattling, two-handed dunk, yelling ferociously at the top of his lungs as he did so.

  “Nice play,” said Rick as he retrieved the ball.

  “Fuck you.”

  Rick confidently dribbled up court, despite having Curtis hanging all over him and passed to Jake on the wing as he crossed half court. Jake felt a vicious bump just as the pass hit his fingers. He wound up on the asphalt watching as Shooter led a fast break up the court. Jake felt like he was watching a professional team drill, as Shooter and his pals exchanged three lightning quick passes, leaving Rick helpless as the young kid completed a layup.

  Jake quickly felt out of his league. Whenever he or Rick took the ball inside, they wound up flat on their backs. During a battle for a rebound, amidst a flurry of flying elbows and darting hands, Jake felt a jarring blow to his jaw and tasted blood from his split lip. He and Rick were powerless to stop the two big guys, and their teammates were not interested in providing much assistance. Rick was covered tightly by the lanky Curtis, and it seemed doubtful he would be able to launch a clean shot. Jake, on the other hand, was being guarded by the kid, who was quick and agile, but gave up a good deal to Jake in height and bulk. That was probably intended as an insult, Jake surmised. Getting beat by a skinny teenager would make it abundantly clear that he had no business trying to play with this crowd.

  Fifteen minutes into the game, Rick called a timeout and gathered his teammates into a huddle. “Look, this is getting out of hand,” he said. “This guy isn’t giving me an inch.” He looked at Jake. “You're going to have to do the scoring. Light up that kid from the outside. We’ll set screens for you.”

  It worked. Withi
n the next few minutes, Jake scored on three long jump shots, after his teammates set the screens. After the third shot, the crowd on the sidelines began riding Jerome.

  “You’re gettin' burned, little man,” teased one.

  “You gonna take that shit?” another taunted him.

  “Jerome, shut his ass down!” Shooter snapped, all business.

  Jake could feel himself getting into that familiar groove. He knew that if he got the ball in his hands, he could beat this kid and put it into the net. He launched another shot over the kid's outstretched hands. The kid crashed into him roughly after Jake released the ball. Swish! The next time down the court, the kid draped himself all over Jake, determined to deny him the ball, but Rick still found a way to get it to him. The kid had both hands on Jake's back as Jake started to move toward the basket. The kid stepped in front of him, grabbing Jake's arms as he extended to shoot. Jake gripped the ball tightly, overpowered the young defender, and banked a shot in off the backboard as the kid sprawled to the pavement.

  “That's a foul, sucker!” Jerome shouted, springing to his feet and pushing Jake in the chest.

  “On you, pal,” Jake shot back, turning away.

  Jerome rushed at Jake, fists flying, pummeling the back of his head. In an instant, Shooter roughly pulled Jerome away from Jake. “Cut the shit, little brother,” he demanded glaring at the younger player. “I'll cover this dude.”

  “Keep shooting, man,” Rick encouraged Jake as they walked back to their end of the court.

  Shooter played a much more physical game, and Jake found it was all he could do just to get his hands on the ball. Rick managed to make that happen, and Jake’s hot streak continued. He shot from behind screens when they were available, and when they weren’t, he launched an array of long-distance shots, most of which found their mark. The game, which had been a blowout earlier, was getting closer, and their two reluctant teammates were now becoming engaged as both Jake and Rick started finding them with crisp passes.