Rufus Carter’s boy, aren’t you?” he said.
My pop was a pillar in the community; people from miles around knew him and respected him. For years, he and my grandfather had sponsored sports teams, donating money for equipment and uniforms. The name of his company, Carter’s Affordable Homes, was plastered on the back of T-shirts and on plaques all over town.
“I remember when you played for the community center over there in Stone Mountain. You were pretty doggone good,” he said. “I used to coach at the community center here in College Park. I remember you.”
“I played quarterback.”
“And you were good, too,” he said. “You took that team to victory every single year. Why don’t you play anymore?”
“Lost interest.”
“You sure you don’t wanna give this team a try?” he asked. “Quincy Rawlins is my starting linebacker, but I’d like to try you as a wide receiver or cornerback.”
“I don’t know. It’s been a while since I played.”
“Well if you change your mind, you always got a spot on the team.”
“Thanks, Coach.” I folded the worksheet which was my homework assignment and placed it inside my book. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Curiosity had brought me there, as I sat on the bleachers on the football field and watched them practice. My mind went back to the days when football was my first love; my everything and then some. Nothing was more important to me back then. But it had soon become a long forgotten dream, and I remember the person who had shattered it: Mr. Forbes.
I worked my behind off that year to make the team, had pumped weights all summer just trying to build up my muscle mass, had gone to football camp and everything, but the coach at my middle school didn’t think I had what it took to play quarterback anymore.
“It’s a new day, Carter,” Mr. Forbes, the new blond-haired, pale-faced coach, had gripped his clipboard, said and frowned. “The days of you getting what you want because your daddy owns half of this town is over.”
“But Coach, I played quarterback for the community center for five years straight.”
“Well this is not the community center, and I’ve got a quarterback.” He smiled. “His name is Todd Richmond.”
“Todd ain’t half as good as me.”
“Ain’t?” He repeated my bad English. “Ain’t is not the proper word to use in that sentence. I swear to God I don’t know why I took this teaching job over here. Should’ve stayed in the suburbs where the students are both smart and talented. Over here, you people think that just because you can run a football down the field, that you don’t have to know anything else. You go through school with blinders on, thinking that sports will save you from your ignorance.”
I stood there eyeballing him, my blood boiling as he pretty much called me and my entire race stupid to my face. I knew I had to prove him wrong. Knew that I had to prove that not every black kid who was good in sports was dumb in the classroom.
“My grades are good,” I said in my defense.
“You’re in the low Cs, kid. I’m struggling just to keep you on the team.”
“But I’m bringing them up,” I said. “They dropped when my parents got divorced, because I was stressing over that.”
“It’s always an excuse with you youngsters,” he said.
“It’s true,” I told him. “I’m going to bring them back up. And when I graduate, I’m graduating with honors.”
“You see Todd over there?” He pointed toward the redhead who’d stolen my position on the team. “When he leaves high school, he’ll not only have had four good years of football, but with his grade point average, he’s sure to get a scholarship to Yale or Princeton. And that’s a fact.”
“I could get a scholarship to Yale or Princeton if I wanted to.”
“Not likely,” he said, as if it was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. “But there’s no doubt you could get into either Morehouse or Clark-Atlanta University, one of the historically black colleges here in Atlanta. That is, if you bring that grade point average up, and keep it steady during your high school years. But you have to really be a special kid to get into an Ivy League school like Yale or Princeton, Marcus.”
His words stuck with me, tore me up inside, and even stopped me from sleeping a few nights. I knew what I had to do. I had to come up with a Master Plan. I wanted to go to Yale or Princeton, simply to set a standard; to prove a point. Not that Morehouse or Clark-Atlanta weren’t good schools, because they were. In fact, Morehouse was known for its strong math and science programs. And I was a math scholar, could work problems out with my eyes closed. But I wanted to not only get accepted to a school where statistically blacks weren’t accepted, but I wanted to get a scholarship to one, too.
Football was over for me that day, and I was determined to make straight As, graduate with honors, get a scholarship to Yale or Princeton and look for that Mr. Forbes one day and show him that he was wrong about Marcus Carter. I dreamed of that day.
Coach Robinson had the team running a play over and over again, and when he was sure it was burned into their memory, he ran it again. I pulled my worksheet out of my American History book, looked over the questions. They were simple, so I completed it, the sun beaming down on my fresh haircut as I sat in the bleachers. I scribbled my name across the top, then folded the worksheet back up, stuck it into my book and placed my book into my backpack. Threw my backpack across my shoulder and decided to head over to the gym where the girls were trying out for the dance team. Nothing like watching a bunch of girls shaking it up.
I pulled the heavy door open, peeked inside, Usher’s “Confession,” ringing in my ears as I stepped inside. Took a seat on the bleachers next to some other guys who’d stayed after school just to watch the girls move their hips to hip-hop music. They were picking out which ones they would ask out, and saying how cute Indigo Summer was as she bounced to the music that echoed throughout the gymnasium. Just by looking at her, I couldn’t tell that she could move like that. But she could. She was good, and I was glad that I had caught the end of her performance.
After the last group of three girls started dancing to some song by Ludacris, I decided to make my way outside the gym, and stand near the glass doors. I didn’t want to miss Indigo when she came out. I wanted to speak to her; maybe offer her a ride home. Tell her how good her performance was. My backpack thrown across my shoulder, as girls passed by whispering, smiling and waving, I waited patiently.
“Hey,” one of them said. “You Marcus Carter?”
“Yep,” I said.
“You’re in my fourth period.” The light brown girl smiled a cute little smile, and my eyes found her cleavage that she was showing too much of.
“Oh,” is all I could say as I thought back to all the girls in my fourth period. I didn’t remember her face.
“I sit two seats behind you in class,” she said. “I’m Alicia.”
“Nice
