Choker

CHAPTER 3

According to the calendar, the first day of spring is just nine days away. It’s almost fifty degrees. But instead of being reborn with the season, I’m withering in bed. If only last night’s game was just a bad dream. It had to be!

A reality check comes at precisely 6:30 a.m.

“Get out of bed, Mark,” my father says. “You’ve got school.”

“I can’t. Please, let me just take one day off.”

I’m buried under layers of blankets and sheets. An old poster of Steve Nash, my basketball god, hangs over the bed, and LeBron James covers the door.

“No, you need to go to school.”

“But I can miss a day.”

My dad yanks the covers off. “Don’t make me force you.”

It’s useless. No amount of begging or fighting can save me. When it comes to school, Bill Chamberlain always wins. My legs feel like hundred-pound weights as I crawl out of bed, kick aside a copy of ESPN The Magazine and a crumpled Skittles wrapper, and throw on my clothes from the day before.

I bump into my dresser, knocking down a framed picture of my dad and me holding up two huge bluefish we caught off Narragansett, Rhode Island, a few years back. I wince as it hits the floor with a crack. I stare at it, take a step forward … then walk out of the room.

Why can’t Dad show a little stinking compassion?

“Where’s Mom?” I ask as I yank down a box of Cheerios from the kitchen cupboard.

“She’s driving Danny to school today. He was afraid his science project would get wrecked on the bus.” My dad glances up from his seat at the table, where he’s reading the morning newspaper. “You want the sports section?”

“Not today,” I mumble with a frown. I can’t believe he’s even offering it. Talk about rubbing salt into a wound.

“The write-up isn’t that bad. You did your best, Mark. I know you’re disappointed, but you’ll get over it.”

Get over it? If only I could. Last night’s game is burned into my memory with a branding iron.

“Hey son, part of growing up is learning how to handle adversity. Whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. You don’t think this made me stronger?”

Without looking down, Dad points to his left leg, hidden under the table. His left foot was amputated when he was fifteen—close to my age—after he developed Type 2 diabetes. But he survived. Now he lives his life managing diabetes with insulin injections and being constantly aware of blood-sugar levels.

“You can’t afford to miss algebra class, the way your grades are. Concentrate on your studies. Remember, last night was only a basketball game.”

I slam the cupboard door shut. “What do you know? You weren’t even there to see it. You never go to any of my games! If you did you’d know basketball is what I live for!”

“All right, calm down Mark. It may feel like the most important thing to you right now, but you’ll see. There’re other things in life.”

Before he says another word, I leave my Cheerios in the bowl and storm off to the bathroom, where I take my sweet time brushing my teeth.

“You better get down to the bus stop!” Dad calls out after a while.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m going.”

As I head down my street, I replay my missed shots over and over. If I had just—Caw, caw, caw. I glare at the crows. It feels like those birds, perched so smugly on telephone wires above, are heckling me. Can it be that, in bird talk, the crows are saying, “There goes a loser?” Scooping up a rock without breaking stride, I fire it at one of the birds, only to miss badly. The crows flap their wings and fly away.

Almost miss the bus too, which would give me an excuse for blowing off school, even though my dad wouldn’t buy it. But I make it to the end of Cedar Brook Road just as the final kids board. Can’t run away now—people have seen me.

Maybe my timing is perfect, being the last one on the bus. I pull the hood of my black sweatshirt over my head and plop down in the first seat, which is always empty. I want to be the invisible man. No such luck.

“Hey, I got company. That’s unusual,” Sam, the bus driver, says. “To what do I owe this great honor?”

“No reason.” I feel like saying, “Just drive.”

There’s whispering behind me.

I brace myself as we get off the bus and enter Clifton High. It takes about a minute before the first insult lands. It’s silent but painful. Steven Massey, a smart-ass whose locker is three down from mine on the right, yells, “Hey, Chamberlain.”

When I look up, he motions with his hand up to his throat—the universal sign for a choker, someone who doesn’t come through under pressure.

Get lost, fat boy.

Other insults follow. On the way to my first-period biology class, a guy I don’t even know weighs in.

“Yo Chamberlain, you better learn the Heimlich maneuver.” The kid’s wearing a T-shirt that says, “It’s only funny until someone gets hurt … then it’s freakin’ hilarious!”

But the shot that’s really painful—the hollow-point bullet—comes from someone I consider a friend, Kareem Robinson. Kareem and I have always had a strange relationship. I’m drawn to him, in some ways, because we both have black fathers. But he kids me about being Halfrican since my mother is white. He’s much darker, wears his hair in cornrows, and acts street. I just try to fit in at Clifton High, caught between two races.

“Hey Wilt,” calls out Robinson as we pass in the hallway between second and third periods. “That name fits you, man. When the pressure’s on, you wilt.” He never breaks stride. Kids laugh at me.

I was born with the same last name as a legendary basketball center, and I’ve occasionally been called Wilt before, but only by a few people who really know hoops history. I never minded. It’s kind of cool, in fact. Who wouldn’t want to be linked to a superstar? But now the name Wilt Chamberlain takes on a whole new meaning.

Kareem Robinson is calling me a choker, too. That, coming from a teammate—one of the few African-Americans on the team—feels like a knife through the heart.

I keep to myself all day, but just like on the court, I can’t seem to hide. I’m constantly reminded about last night’s game. When I return to my locker at the end of the day, a copy of Tiger Times, the student newspaper, is lying on the floor nearby. It’s hot off the press, so I scoop it up and stuff it in my backpack.

That night before going to sleep, I pull out the issue while getting into bed. There’s a feature polling students on their favorite band and a story about Helmut Mueller, an exchange student from Germany who I recognize from class but don’t know much about.

Then, turning the pages to the back, I’m face to face with the devil—an article on the game. “PARADISE LOST” is the huge headline.

There’s no way I want to read the story, but some sadistic force grabs hold of my eyes and drags them to the print. In some sick way, maybe I feel compelled to punish myself.

Clifton snatched defeat from the jaws of victory when substitute Mark Chamberlain, in for the fouled-out Kevin Barnes, blew a pair of free throws with the Tigers clinging to a 51-50 lead and five seconds left. If Chamberlain had made both ends of the two-shot foul, Clifton would have surely been crowned state champion. Even if he had made just one, the Tigers were in good shape to win.

Who wrote this crap?! My eyes shoot up in search of the byline. It’s John Nicholson, a kid I’ve known since grade school. We used to be tight. I fling the paper across the room, scattering the pages, and get up to turn out the light.

Just then, my dad opens the door. “Everything all right at school today?”

“Yeah, I guess so,” I say, climbing back into bed.

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, sleep well.” He scans the room and sees the scattered newspaper. “You better clean up this room tomorrow.”

Typical of my dad. He’s always bugging me to keep my room clean or do my homework. But he also offers good advice, like the time he steered me away from getting a tattoo. He convinced me that what’s cool now won’t be in the future.

I call out before he closes the door all the way. “Dad!”

My father stops in his tracks, reopens the door and peers back at me.

“Everybody in school thinks I’m a choker.”

He stands silent for a few seconds, lips pursed. “That’s pretty rough, Mark. You did your best; the ball just didn’t drop. Things happen.”

“Why did it have to happen to me?”

My dad sits down on the edge of the bed, and the mattress squeaks under his weight. The glow of moonlight, shining through a front window, illuminates the foot of the bed and part of his face.

“You know, I remember the Orlando Magic once had a guy named Nick Anderson, a heckuva shooter in the pros. He missed four consecutive free throws in the closing seconds of the NBA finals. All he had to do was make one and the Rockets were dead, but they got new life and ended up winning the game in overtime.”

He shrugs. “Sometimes things can’t be explained.”

He glances over at my dresser, which is topped by several small participation trophies from youth leagues past. All but one—a runner-up trophy for third-grade pee-wee ball.

“You know something? Many of the greatest players in history overcame setbacks. Look at Peyton Manning. Everyone said he couldn’t win the big one and he wound up winning two Super Bowls. The same thing with LeBron. They said he’d never win an NBA title. Now the same people who called those guys chokers call them champions. Your best days are ahead of you too, Mark. I guarantee it.”

“It’s not fair to judge someone on two lousy free throws,” I say.

“No, it’s not. Sometimes life ain’t fair.” Dad speaks with a tinge of remorse in his voice, as if he personally relates to his last statement.

“I wish Barnes never fouled out. Then I wouldn’t have even been in the game.”

“But you were. That’s fate. Good night, son.” Dad stands up and takes uneven steps to the door. He hesitates in the doorway and looks back at me. “The sun will come up tomorrow.”

Thanks a lot, Little Orphan Annie. I pull the covers over my head.

I don’t know if he made me feel any better. When it comes to basketball, Dad has a way of coming off cold even when he tries to be understanding. It’s almost like he shuns the game, for some reason I’ve never understood. Last night was the biggest game of my life. Mom and Danny were in the stands, but he never made it. He always has some excuse for not coming to see me play. All the other fathers are at the games. Why isn’t mine supportive? It bugs the hell out of me.

Still, Dad read about how I butchered those two free throws. Not even close. I wonder if he secretly thinks I’m a choker too. If he does, he would never say it. What did he say? The ball just didn’t drop.

I hear a soft knock and the door opens quietly. Mom sticks her head in.

“Are you okay, honey?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“I thought you played well when the coach put you in.”

Played well? What game was she watching?

“At least you were there. Dad never shows up. What’s with him? Why doesn’t he come to my games?”

“I’m not sure I really understand that myself,” Mom says, her soft eyes drifting into space. “But I think someday you’ll understand.”

There’s a moment of silence while I contemplate that last statement. Then Mom kisses me goodnight.

“Get some sleep. You’ll feel better in the morning.”

Closing my eyes, I see the free-throw line again, the basket. How could anyone know the pressure I was under? The basketball felt like a bowling ball in my hands. The fans behind the basket were screaming like lunatics. The action stopped, and every eye in the gym was on me.

I roll over and recall Kareem’s face taunting me. Three or four kids called me Wilt today. The friendly nickname has morphed into another word for choker. It’s spreading throughout school like acne.

Will I have to deal with this crap for the rest of my junior year?