“You done good, son. But go back. Please. We’ve got to get this school year started,” I said. “Wormy, take your gang of dimwits to the front of the school.” It surprised me to see Chad Rutledge and Molly Huger watching this drama take place while sitting on the hood of Chad’s car in the parking lot.
Itching to salvage what he could from a morning that had turned sour, Wormy threw a right-handed punch that would have knocked me unconscious if it had landed. But that summer had done something to me. I had grown three inches and had spent months lifting weights at The Citadel, running Ike up stadium stairs, and working my bicycle hard on my morning paper route. My father had toasted my brand-spanking-new manhood on the Battery at the exact point where the Ashley and the Cooper meet in all the violent nature and communion of rivers. Because of my father’s gesture, I had known a transfiguration as though I had received an invitation to join a sacred order of knights. I was not the same boy that Wormy had beaten up the previous year. I knew it, but Wormy Ledbetter did not. He threw me his best punch, the same one that had put me on the ground the three previous years. Repetition was not always the brightest stratagem. I stepped back, blocked it with my left hand, then delivered a punch to his face that seemed driven by the Lord himself. Wormy’s nose exploded with blood, making him collapse in on himself, which he did to the cheers of the black students.
By then, teachers had appeared on the periphery, so I held up my hand in an attempt to silence the noise. “Ladies and gentlemen,” I said to the students, “welcome to Peninsula High.”
With those words, the bell rang, a merciful sound. And where some things ended that day, many more began. Many more.
Being the principal’s son did not always work in my favor at Peninsula High School. My craving for anonymity was thwarted anytime a kid learned that I was the son of the regal and sometimes censorious principal. And today, the whole school was already on edge during my first-period French class when my mother began calling on the loudspeaker for students to report to her office. Unsurprisingly, she first called out the name of Wilson Ledbetter. Before long, the loudspeaker crackled back to life, and she called for Trevor and Sheba Poe. Five minutes later she requested an audience with Betty Roberts, Starla Whitehead, and Niles Whitehead. Then she called for Ike Jefferson. Finally, in her frostiest tone, she called for me.
In the funereal setting of the principal’s office, I reported to my mother’s secretary, Julia Trammell, as I saw the main players on the breezeway lined up awaiting their interrogations.
“Hey, Mrs. Trammell. How was your summer?”
“Way too short, honey bun,” Julia said. “But I’ve got to admit, this joint has been hopping since I got here this morning.”
“Please inform her royal majesty that her prince has signed in,” I said.
“Boy, talk about the village weirdo,” Wormy said, holding a bloody handkerchief to his nose. “No one talks like the Toad.”
I asked, “What’s that you’re holding on to, Wormy, what’s left of your nose?”
“Your old lady just kicked me out of school,” he said. “For the whole year.”
Coach Jefferson burst into the room, his dark eyes smoldering. He walked over to his son and towered above him. Keeping his head low, Ike did not meet his father’s glower of pure disgust.
“You get called to the principal’s office in the first hour on the first day of school, son,” Coach Jefferson growled. “Remember our talks this summer about discipline and keeping control?”
“He didn’t do anything, Coach,” Sheba said.
Trevor added, “There would’ve been a race riot if it hadn’t been for your son.”
“Leo?” Coach Jefferson asked, turning to me.
“Ike saved the day, Coach. He was heroic out there.”
“Ike kept the black kids from charging the greasers, Coach,” said Niles.
My mother stepped out of her office and said, “I hear Ike was the ringleader of the black students.”
“No. He was their leader, Mother,” I said. “There would be blood all over the breezeway if it wasn’t for Ike.”
“Call me Dr. King at school,” my mother said, infuriating me. “Get in the office and I’ll hand out your punishment.”
“Dr. King,” I said, “I’d like you to ask me questions about the fight in front of these students here.”
“I’ve already punished them,” my mother said. “Now it’s your turn.”
“The twins should not be punished. And the kids from the orphanage should not be punished. They were great out there, Mother. They were nothing less than great—Ike too.”
“Call me Dr. King,” my mother reminded me.
“The only ones who deserve to be punished are me and Wormy,” I said. “You ought to give medals to those other kids. They stopped a race riot.”
“I hear Sheba and Trevor physically attacked Wilson Ledbetter,” she said.
“They did, and for a good reason,” I said.
“They used unprintable, vile language,” she said.
“They did, and it was very effective.”
“The two girls from the orphanage tried to put out Wilson’s eyes. Look at how scratched up his face is.”
“It hasn’t been Wormy’s day, Mother—I mean, Dr. King,” I said. “But I think even Wormy will admit he asked for this.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Wormy admitted, surprising me. “That’s fair of the Toad.”
“And you shouldn’t kick Wormy out of school for a whole year,” I said.
“When did the school board appoint you principal?” my mother snapped at me.
“I saw what happened, Mother. But Wormy doesn’t deserve to be expelled for just being Wormy.”
“Your thinking is unclear to me.”
“What you taught me my whole life: that a man or a woman is simply the product of their childhood. All their standards and every shred of their characters are formed in their homes by their parents. You’ve told me over and over that the man I become will be a reflection of who my parents were. If it’s true for me, it’s true for Wormy, and it’s true for Ike. But what do you do about kids like Sheba and Trevor, who don’t have a daddy around to guide them? Or what about Betty and Starla and Niles, where do they fit in?”
“What’s your point?”
“Wormy was raised to do exactly what he did today. His parents taught him to hate black people. He wasn’t raised by Martin Luther King or the Archbishop of Canterbury. He thinks like ninety percent of the white South thinks, and you and I know it. You can hate the way Wormy thinks, but you can’t blame him for it. I know the trailer park where Wormy lives. It’s not much.”
“So you think nothing should happen to Wormy, or to anyone else in this room? I have eyewitness accounts of you being in the center of the brawl and having a fistfight with Wilson on the breezeway.”
“I was trying to keep some order,” I said.
“And you failed?”
“No, Dr. King, I didn’t fail. I succeeded. It was you and the teaching staff who failed. None of you were there to help defuse an explosive situation.”
“I had called a meeting to discuss the school year,” my mother said.
“We needed a large presence of teachers,” I said. “If that thing had broken, I think some people might have been seriously hurt.”
“I’ll be out there tomorrow morning,” Coach Jefferson said.
“I’ll send all my male teachers out there,” my mother said. “Make a note of that.”
“It’s done,” Julia Trammell said.
“About Wormy?” I asked.
“There’s nothing to be done about Wilson,” she said. “I’ve already made a decision.”
“Then change it,” I said. “Here’s what I would do, Mother—”
“Dr. King,” she corrected.
“Dr. King. I think everyone in this room has learned a lot this morning, including Wormy. Am I right, Wormy?”
“If you say so, Toad,” he muttered.
br /> “Let Wormy back in school under one condition,” I said.
“This better be good,” my mother said.
“He has to play for Coach Jefferson’s football team, and he has to bring all the white boys with him who don’t want to play because Coach Jefferson’s black.”
Catching Coach Jefferson’s curious eye, I watched him walk over and study the muscular physique of last year’s star fullback.
“You’re Ledbetter?” Coach Jefferson asked.
“Uh-huh,” Wormy said, not looking up.
“Put a ‘Yes, sir’ on that,” Coach Jefferson barked.
“Yes, sir,” Wormy said.
“I studied the films of last year’s games,” Coach Jefferson said. “I thought you were going to be the stud in my backfield.”
“I thought so too, sir,” Wormy said. “It’s just that my parents …”
“See what I mean, Dr. King?” I said.
“Would you play for me, son?” Coach Jefferson asked. “Tell me the truth now.”
“I guess,” Wormy said.
“That’s not good enough,” Coach Jefferson said. “Would you play for me?”
“Yes, sir,” Wormy said. “If Dr. King gives me a chance, I’ll play for you.”
“Son,” Coach Jefferson asked Ike, “will you play with Ledbetter and other white boys like him?”
Ike was clearly uncomfortable, but he finally said, “If I played all summer with the Toad, I guess I could play with any white boy.”
A howl of laughter broke the considerable tension in the room. Sheba said, “Dr. King, could I marry your son?”
My humorless mother was caught off guard by Sheba, and she answered, “Leo hasn’t even been on his first date yet.”
“Don’t listen to her, Sheba,” I said. “I accept your proposal.”
“There will be no punishment for what happened this morning, then,” my mother announced. “But I want no trouble out of any of this crew for the rest of the year, or I’ll hammer you. Understand?”
“One other thing,” I said. “These orange jumpsuits have got to go, Dr. King. Please. And could Pollywog be talked into not having the orphans marched over here by poor Mr. Lafayette?”
“You’ll have to clothe them, then,” my mother said. “I’ve already had this discussion and she was adamant that she had no funding for clothing.”
“Then, we’ll clothe them,” I said. “Sheba, can you dress Starla and Betty for tomorrow?”
“It’s as good as done,” Sheba said.
“Ike, Wormy: you got some spare clothes that Niles can wear? I got a couple of khakis and shirts,” I said.
“You girls will look like you stepped out of Vogue before we’re through with you,” Sheba said.
“I’ll do your hair tonight, girls,” Trevor said.
“Jesus!” Wormy said.
“Quiet, Wormy,” I said. “You got to forget that you’re Wormy Ledbetter. Pretend you’re someone wonderful and fabulous. Go wild and pretend you’re the finest, most splendid man you’ve ever met. Pretend that you’re Leo King.”
“Oh, puke,” Ike said.
In single file, we marched out of the principal’s office and straight into the history of our times. Later that afternoon, Wormy Ledbetter and seven integration-resistant white boys joined the football team.
In the world of high school football in South Carolina, nothing scared a young man any worse as he strapped on his shoulder pads than the knowledge that he was about to face the awesome and storied Green Wave of Summerville High. The legendary John McKissick coached the Green Wave, and his teams were famous for being ferocious between the lines. The year before they had crushed us, 56-0. I had never felt as humiliated as when walking off that playing field.
But Coach Jefferson had brought a slick defensive scheme and a complicated offensive one from his days at Brooks High. His playbook looked like a branch of advanced calculus, and I had to study hard every night before I began to feel any mastery. His practices were disciplined, hard-hitting, and utterly exhausting. The Charleston sun had been a brutal star in the exotic heat of August. It took an effort of will to survive the first week of two-a-days, and I would often go straight to bed after supper. A couple of guys quit each day, and our team was down to twenty-three players when Wormy and the seven other latecomers showed up at practice.
Though I thought Coach Jefferson would go easy on the eight white boys, I couldn’t have been more wrong. He singled them out, screamed obscenities at them, and generally ran them into the ground. Ten minutes after their first practice, Coach Jefferson had terrified them into a lamblike submission. His defensive coach, Wade Williford, was a young white man I had watched play in the defensive backfield at The Citadel. He surprised me by putting me at linebacker, pairing me with Ike Jefferson, who had looked like an All-American to me since summer practices had begun. I had never played defense, but found out I loved it far more than offense. With Wormy and the boys back, I thought we might have a pretty good football team. The only thing we lacked was a quarterback, and that was like a Catholic church lacking a tabernacle.
Late one afternoon, Coach Jefferson had an inspiration. He called out to Niles, “Hey, mountain boy! You ever play quarterback?”
Niles said, “No, sir, just played end. Just went out and caught the ball.”
“Throw it for me, son,” Coach Jefferson ordered.
“Where you want me to throw it, Coach?” Niles asked, standing with the team near the 50-yard line.
“I don’t give a damn,” Coach said. “I just want to see how far you can throw it. I saw you tossing it around with Toad yesterday, and you throw a nice pass. Can you go deep?”
“Don’t know, Coach,” Niles said. “Never had any reason to.”
“Throw the damn ball, boy.”
Until I saw them wrap around that football, I had never noticed the size of Niles’s hands. They were large, magnificent hands. He placed the ball behind his ear, and threw that football out of the end zone and between the goalposts.
“Jesus God Almighty, son, can you do that with any accuracy?” Coach Jefferson yelled, as the team murmured with admiration.
“Have no idea, Coach.”
“Looks like we’ve got us a quarterback,” Coach Williford said.
And so we did. Since Coach Jefferson had played quarterback at South Carolina State, he spent long hours with Niles, practicing snaps, the three-step drop and the seven-step drop, and hand-offs. With each day, Niles grew in his role and became more and more proficient at calling the game and running his team. He improved every time he touched the ball, infusing his teammates with great hope for the coming season.
From the locker room beneath the stadium, we heard the noise of the crowd gathering above us. We had already heard that the Summerville game was a sellout. The ignominy and completeness of our destruction by Summerville last year still ached in the psyche of last year’s players, especially Wormy Ledbetter, who had been held to a season low of twenty yards rushing by an awesome Green Wave defense. But most of that defense had graduated, and we knew very little about their replacements. Coach Jefferson came in to deliver the pregame pep talk, and I could not wait to see if he brought any natural gifts to that art form.
The coach walked into the locker room with a pride that was contagious. For a moment, he was silent as the hum of the crowd grew thunderous outside in the stands. Then he began to speak. “I want to talk about integration. Just one time. After that, no one on this team is going to mention it again. I’ve never coached white players or coached against a white coach. But I’m doing both tonight. I’ve always wanted to coach against John McKissick to see how good I really am. With you young men—I believe with all my heart that we can kick the Green Wave’s ass all the way back to Summerville. I think this team is that good.”
My teammates roared their approval. Then Coach Jefferson continued. “When the white players didn’t come out for the team because I am a black man, it hurt my damn feelings. It
damaged me in ways I don’t even realize, and in places like my heart and my soul. That’s why I was so hard on Wormy and his friends when they came back. I tried to kill you boys in this Charleston sun. I tried to break your spirit. I couldn’t do it, and I gave it my best shot. Now what I have left is a team. I think it’s a team with character and mental toughness. Look around you. Look at your teammates. If you see black faces or white faces, you get the fuck off my team. No white. No black. No more. The time for that is over. We walk the world as a team, and we’re going to have fun kicking a little ass this year. I’ve studied McKissick’s game films, but he doesn’t know what the hell I’m going to do. He has no idea that we’re going to kick his team’s ass this year. People in this whole state are going to know about Peninsula High School when they drink their morning coffee tomorrow. We believe in this team with our bodies and souls. Repeat that in one voice.”
“We believe in this team with our bodies and souls!” my team roared out in unison.
“We will kick Summerville’s ass!” he said. “Repeat it.”
“We will kick Summerville’s ass!” we shouted.
“Then go do it.”
We stormed out of that locker room, with Ike and me leading our fired-up teammates into the blinding lights of that stadium and the thundering applause of that sold-out crowd. The ten cheerleaders sprinted out ahead of us, breaking out fast like a spooked covey of quail—five white girls and five black girls, as my mother had demanded. The great surprise of the crowd was the presence of the frail-boned boy who led the cheerleaders, Trevor Poe, the first male cheerleader in the history of my state. Not surprisingly, Sheba Poe took to the sidelines as head cheerleader, with Molly Huger and Betty Roberts trailing behind her.
As we ran toward the home-team bench, Ike surprised me by grabbing my left hand with his right one, then lifting his other hand into a fist and pumping it at the home crowd. I lifted my own free fist and pumped it at the fans. To my surprise, it drove our crowd into a frenzy. Ike’s hand felt good in mine. It began a tradition that still exists at Peninsula to this day: the cocaptains of the football team clasp hands and pump their other fists as they emerge from the locker room.