Chapter I
After blowing the loud whistle several times to get his players’ attention, Coach Woodward stopped everyone in their tracks to scold Chris after a lackluster suicide drill attempt.
“Christopher…!” He yelled. “…Don’t think for one minute that you don’t have to put forth an effort while running these drills! The last two trips down you were the second to last to finish; that’s unacceptable from my point guards. Keep that up and you’ll find yourself spending most of your time next to me this season!”
Chris sucked air between his teeth before lowly mumbling, “Get the fuck outta’ here.” No one except his teammate that stood directly next to him along the baseline was able to hear his verbal comeback.
“Don’t let ’em get to you, dawg. You kno’ coach jus’ be talkin’ shit.” Randy, his fellow teammate and best friend, whispered as they all caught their breath and waited for further instructions.
“All right! Everyone get in their groups so we can run a scrimmage. Now, I need to see hard nose defense being played and a lot of hustle. If by any means I don’t get that, my whistle will be blown and everyone will report back to the line for suicides. Do I make myself clear gentlemen?!” Coach Woodward asked in a serious manner.
“Yeessssss!!!” A team of fifteen, tired teenagers dreadfully roared back.
Coach Woodward was known for chastising his players. Years back, he was involved in a scandal for physically abusing some of his players that would talk back or miss practice. All of that ended after he put his hands on the wrong student. One day after practice, one particular student must’ve had enough of his physical and verbal abuse and gathered up his street friends to pay Coach Woodward a visit. A gang of young thugs met him and they beat him relentlessly. He suffered a concussion, two broken arms, and a fractured rib cage. That was a good enough message for him to keep his hands off other people’s children.
With all that said, Coach Woodward was a great coach. He had a system that couldn’t be denied and had led the Bulldogs to four city championships and one state title. Because of Coach Woodward, the Westinghouse Warriors were known as a powerhouse basketball academy that produced many college players; some even made it as far as the NBA or overseas.
While exiting the gymnasium doors, Chris and his teammates made it outside to see the sun setting on a breezy October evening. It was the beginning of the school year and autumn was definitely in effect. Around this time of the year, the sun began to set early and the streets were usually dull by nightfall.
Chris was now a junior in high school and had obtained a license to drive. As soon as he got his license he begged Marcus and his dad to buy him a car to commute from the south suburbs, where their house was located, to the city to attend school.
Of course they agreed under certain conditions. They made Chris agree to bring home passing grades, gave him a curfew, and made him promise to stay focused on his craft, which was none other than basketball. Staying focused on basketball wasn’t Chris’s problem, but the schoolwork was. Chris soon fixed that problem by hiring a group of intelligent female classmates to not only complete his assignments but also help him study when it came down to exams. They had no problem working with the star player.
Every day after leaving school or practices, Chris would always drop his two friends, Dante and Randy, off at home. The car that Chris was flaunting around the city was fancy for someone of his age. Marcus bought him a turquoise ’95 four door Buick Regal. The car was sparkling clean with 19 inch chrome rims, windows lightly tinted, and a bangin’ sound system; A typical street hustler type of car. Chris didn’t mind being looked upon as a hustler. They were the most respected in the ‘hood.
Everyone began to scatter and go their separate ways. It was obvious the other players admired Chris’s car as they watched the three of them approach the Regal. None of the other players were fortunate enough to have an older brother or even a father figure to buy them a vehicle. Most of them didn’t have fathers in their household and if they had older brothers, they were usually small time street punks or dope fiends.
“Watch out man! You kno’ it’s my turn to ride shotgun. I let’chu’ ride in the front all last week!” Randy and Dante shoved back and forth over who was going to ride in the passenger seat.
“Y’all niggas need to chill. Actin’ all thirsty over who gon’ ride in’a front; fuck around –n- make both y’all walk.” Chris snapped as he popped the locks with a press of a button. They both settled down and Randy ended up getting the front seat action. After starting the car, Chris flipped through his book of CD’s and pulled out Juveniles’ latest album, 400 Degreez. Chris was inserting the disc in his JVC detachable face face off CD player when Randy pulled out something that grabbed his attention.
“Look what I got.” Randy grinned as he pulled out a dime sack of mid-grade weed from his pocket and scanned it by his nose.
“Nigga, what’chu’ waitin’ on! Roll that shit up!” Dante exclaimed from the backseat, showing definite signs of anxiousness to smoke.
“I would if I had some’nt to roll it up in, dumb ass…!” Randy smartly replied. The two of them stayed at each other necks but still were the closest of friends. “…Aey Chris, stop up there at that Citgo so I can get’ a White Owl to roll this,” Randy insisted.
“Man look, y’all know I gotta be at the crib by nine o’clock,” Chris looked down at his Movado wristwatch. “It’s already 6:30.”
“Okay, you got two and a half hours before you have to be in the house, what’chu’ trippin’ on?” Dante sarcastically stated.
“I’m sayin, it takes me an hour to get to the crib and I need to get there on time,” Chris quickly shot back.
“Well guess what, you ain’t gotta smoke. Stop and get me a blunt so I can get high by my damn self,” Randy said.
“Yeah you’a luv that.” Chris retorted jokingly as he quickly scanned through the CD player, going directly to track nine, one of his favorite songs on the 400 Degreez album. “…See me I eat, sleep, shit, and talk rap. You see ‘dat ’98 Mercedes on TV I bought ‘dat…” Were the lyrics heard banging from his trunk that held two twelve inch woofers with the proper amps to push out the sounds.
Accelerating out of the school’s parking lot, Chris reached toward the backseat to grab his all black White Sox fitted cap and carefully placed it on his head, giving it a slight tilt to the left. From that point, they were on their way to having a good smoking session while joyriding through different blocks on the West Side.
Chris had a lot of freedom at the tender age of sixteen, but at the same time, he knew his boundaries and what lines not to cross. Marcus knew about Chris’s growing weed habit, he would even smoke with his younger brother on occasion. Marcus felt the weed wasn’t having a negative effect on Chris behavior. He still handled his business on and off the court and was able to cover it up to where Sylvia wouldn’t suspect anything.
Clearly, Chris was the best player on Westinghouse team and arguably the most popular student in the school. As a freshman, he was number one in scoring and assists amongst all high school players in the city. By his sophomore year, he led the Warriors to a city championship and a trip down state only to lose in the sectionals. All of the newspapers predicted Westinghouse to be the state champions for the upcoming season and Chris was ranked as the top point guard in the city. So it was safe to say thatChris was living the life that most teenage athletes in the ‘hood would die for!