The City of No Luv

Inspired by and written for Wesley Maurice “Milk” Drummond

Every time I see Rod Smith catch a touchdown pass for the Denver Broncos I get teary eyed. Not because I'm a fan, (although I am a huge Rod Smith fan) or because he has overcame serious knee injuries to become a premier pass receptor in the NFL. I get moist eyes because of what Rod Smith represents to me; toughness, desire, athletic ability and heart.

You see, I have never met Rod Smith in person although I had an opportunity to see him play twice in college. Well, actually I got a chance to see him play one full game and one quarter of another one.

Let me explain. The first time I saw Rod Smith play, I was a red-shirt freshman football player at Central Missouri State University in Warrensburg in the fall of 1992. We were playing host to the Missouri Southern Lions. We came into the contest sporting a 3-1 record and Mo. Southern was undefeated at 4-0, so it was a pretty big early season conference game.

To tell you the truth, most MIAA (Mid-America Intercollegiate Athletic Association) Conference games were big games considering you had to play against the likes of perennial Division II powers Pittsburg State, Missouri Western, Emporia State, Northeast Missouri State (now Truman State) Washburn (yes, Washburn was a torn in Central Mo's side in the early 90’s) and of course, Mo Southern. Northwest Missouri State had not yet become the class of the MIAA. Any of those teams could claim potential pro ball players and various D-II All-Americans amongst their roster.

Anyway, MO Southern came into the game explosive on offense and athletic on defense. We were the exact opposite; dominating on defense and athletic on offense. (In this tense, athletic refers to good athletes on their respective sides of the ball, but as a unit, not very proficient).

The Lions boasted an array of talented performers on offense, including lefty quarterback Matt Cook, a tall and rangy Rod Smith, a bruising tailback in Karl Evans and a stout offensive line.
On the other hand, Central Mo. countered with a Dirty Red defense that was nationally rank #1, 2, or 3 in total defense, total points, and turnover margin. Not bragging, but I was a pretty heralded D-II recruit but I never stepped on the field that year because we had 14 pretty good defensive backs and ten of them got ample playing time. Hell, I couldn't even crack the special teams unit that season.

Out of four defensive back positions, we had four dope starters, four solid backups and two more ball-hawks who played both the safety and cornerback positions. One of those ball-hawks was a sophomore from Parkway Central High named Wesley Maurice Drummond. We called him Milk because he never drank alcohol, didn't use drugs and hardly lifted weights. He didn't even drink milk, but he was so naturally cut and strong the name just fit.

When I first met Milk the summer prior to that season, we didn't quite hit it off too well. He was from the Walnut Park (North Side) area of The City and I was off The Block in South Saint Louis. His particular set was a blood set and my preference was to the guys in blue (and I'm not talking about the STLPD).

After that intensely hot summer camp of two-a-day practices, we bonded in a teammate sort of way. It was no longer a personal beef between us being from opposite ends of the gangbang spectrum, but love and respect that come from going through football's version of a military boot camp.

Like I was saying, Mo. Southern had a deadly one-two punch at quarterback and receiver. Fortunately, Cook, the quarterback, had been injured the week before and was ruled out for the game against us. So what does Mo Southern do? Yep. They moved Rod Smith to quarterback for the game. Thanks to Milk, we would never see him take a snap from underneath center.

After winning the coin toss we received possession of the football first. Promptly, the offense stalled and we were force to punt.

All week, we had prepared for Rod Smith to return punts. He was very good at it and we prepared accordingly. Milk, who was a back-up at both cornerback and safety that game, was geeked. He knew he wasn't going to be on the field to start the game on defense, but he felt he could set the tone for the defense with a big hit on Rod Smith during punt coverage.

Things started moving slowly for me on the sidelines during that first punt. Although I couldn't play in the game, I was dressed out in our black pants, scarlet red jersey uniform-- complete with crisp, white wrist bands and a fresh, pretty boy towel. I was taking mental reps as the coaches like to say.

I was watching Milk because he was the 'gunner' on the punt coverage team, and I hoped I could do that job later on in the season if the coaches decided I was ready to contribute. His job was to 'gun' down the man with the football. In this case it was the All-American Rod Smith

As the ball floated off our punter's foot, Milky shook the man responsible for blocking him and was on a streamline bee right at Rod Smith, who stood some forty yards from the line of scrimmage waiting anxiously to return the punt for what he hoped would be another one of his spectacular plays.

Gauging the punt, first I saw Milk glance at Rod Smith. Almost on cue, Rod Smith looked at Milk and in a cruel twist of fate, sized him up for the juke move he had in store, then refocused back on the hanging punt. While this was going on, I looked at them both, then refocused on the ball, as well. Out the corner of my eye, I could see Milky zero in on his prey as the ball descended towards Rod Smith's oversized mitts.

In a blur, I, along with the 8,000 or so people in the stands, heard a thud, a pop and a scream. Within seconds, Milky was hot-stepping and celebrating, as Rod Smith lay in a sprawling heap--yellow flags from the referees abounded the sculptured green grass of Vernon Kennedy Field.

"Trainer! Trainer," one of the Mo. Southern Lions yelled out as their teammate summed up his plight in a painstaking "aaagggghhhh shit."

While the Mo. Southern trainers attended to their fallen stud, Milky was being chastised by our defensive back coach, Mark Hulet, who was being chewed out by our head coach Terry Noland.

"Mark, we can't afford 15-yard penalties," Coach Noland said to Coach Hulet, "get that straightened out would 'ya!"

"O.K. Coach," Coach Hulet politicked, "Wes...."

By that time Milky was amped. Not only had he blown out Rod Smith's knee, he was also penalized fifteen yards for unnecessary roughness; hitting the punt return man before he was allowed to catch the ball. What’s crazy is Milk thought he had time the hit perfectly.

"Man, what?" Milk sniped to Coach Hulet, still in an oversized zone, "what?"

"Time that hit the next time," Coach Hulet said emphatically. "Ease up and time that hit."

During the brief silence that followed Milky's hit, we could hear the moaning and grumbling on the Lions’ sidelines. They seemed to think we had a bounty out on Rod Smith but actually all we had was an overly-hyped 'gunner' with bad timing. In fact on the very next punt, Milky did the exact same thing to Rod Smith's replacement, smashing him before he caught the punt, again drawing a 15-yard penalty.

"Coach Hulet," Coach Noland screamed as he ran a forty-yard sprint from the offensive side of the sideline to the defensive side, "get Wes' ass out of there."

Coach Hulet was not defiant about it at all. "It's done Coach, it's done."

For a brief second I was hoping they would put me in the game, but I knew that would never happen without me practicing with the punt coverage team first. I snapped back to reality, walked up to Milk and said "damn, dirty what the f*** is wrong with you."

"Get the hell outta my face Crab ass rookie," Milky exclaimed, "get on the field first before you start popping off at the mouth you goddamn scrub."

I knew Milk was heated so I pardoned the eruption. Still I couldn't help but feel his frustration. He just wanted to hit somebody. Anybody.

"Calm down, dawg, calm down," I said, “it's the first damn quarter and you got 30 yards worth of penalties."

We went on to win that game, (we finished 6-4 that year) Rod Smith missed the rest of that season with a torn ACL and me and Milk went on to solidify our friendship. "You aw'ight with me Crab ass nigga," Milky would say later on, “you aw'ight with me."

In November, following the ’92 season, my teammate and friend Leon Moody and I needed a ride home from Warrensburg to Saint Louis for Thanksgiving break. Since we only socialized with other football players at that time and the Amtrak train was already booked full, our choices for a ride quickly dwindled. In a pinch, Milk came through. Only one catch, though. We had to mob with his Blood homies from Walnut Park who came up to The ‘Burg to kick it at a party CMSU hosted before the break.

"Hey, Blood," Milk said to one of his comrades the day he introduced us, "these niggas 'pose to be some Crabs."

"Yeah?" his partner countered.

"Yeah," Milk said.

"From where, blood,"

"Shit, I'on know," Milk chided, "where you niggas from again."

Moody chunked up his North County Hathaway South hood, while I chunked up The Block.

"These niggas claiming hoods mugs ain't never even heard of," Milk jokingly said to his friend. He got serious then. "They aw'ight with me, though, dirty," he said, "these young niggas got some heart."

Milk had become an integral part of me and Moody's lives even though we were on the opposite sides of the gangbang fence. Although Saint Louis was in the middle of a record number murder rate in July of 1993
Moody and I had grown even closer to Milk. That's why I froze up when Moody called me with the news Milk might not play ball for Central in the fall of '93.

"Cuzz," Moody said after I retrieved the phone from my Grandma. "Milk got popped last night."

"What?" I screamed in disbelief. "By who, cuzz?"

"From what I'm hearing," Moody surmised "it was supposed to be a couple of them cats he hangs out with, but I'on know, cuzz."

"Was it them cats we rode home with?" I asked dumbfounded.

"I’on know,” Moody said, “but I think it happened over on the North by where them niggas be, but I'on know…they saying he might not be able to play ball this year. Once I find out more I'ma come and swoop you up, cuzz.”

Milk used to always were this fire engine red St. Louis Cardinals baseball jacket with 52euce Mob stitched on the sleeve and No Luv embroidered on the front. I never really fully understood what that meant until Moody called me with the unconfirmed word of Milk’s plight. His own homies, I thought? No wonder he calls this mutha the City of No Luv.

Moody did come down that pre-4th of July night to picked me up and give me the word on Milk’s situation. Seemed details were sketchy--no one knew who the perpetrators actually were and no one we knew could figure out why Milk had gotten shot. All was known was the homie was laid up in the hospital, expected to live, but unable to play football for the Mules that upcoming ’93 season. We didn’t get a chance to see him until we returned to school that fall, but we never asked him about what happened. We were just happy he was still alive and enjoying life.

A lot had change for me when I enrolled for the fall ’93 semester. I had blown the scholarship awarded to me by Coach Noland following my senior year at Eureka High. That red-shirt year affected my grades, as well as my off field behavior and it caught up with me my second year at Central: I was ineligible to play. So while my red-shirt brethren and fellow scout team members advance from red-shirts to starters (WR’s Moody and Sean McIntyre and DB Marlon Johnson among them) in one year, I was stuck in the bleachers, cheering on the Fighting Mules with the rest of the student body. My only solace was Milk. The injuries from that past summer’s shooting had left his hands and wrists a tangled mess so he couldn’t play either. We both just stood in the stands and critiqued every missed tackle, dropped ball, bad call (coaches’ and referees’) and the like.

Well, that was our routine for the first two homes games prior to Missouri Southern and Rod Smith’s return to Vernon Kennedy Stadium that season. (The Mules had only played one away game at that point of the season. Milk and I spent that particular afternoon listening to the game on the CMSU radio network, smoking blunts, drinking 40 Ounce brews and bitching about the DB’s not making enough plays—even though one of Milk’s roommates and best friends, Wayne Carter, and my good friend Marlon Johnson were the starting corners and my mentor Tom Jackson and pro prospect Creston Austin were starting at safety.

The 1993 Mo. Southern game was different than the one the season before. The ’93 game was an afternoon tilt and it was cold, wet and windy. Rod Smith was mad. He was motivated and he was on a mission. Milky couldn’t take it. Hell, I couldn’t even take sitting in the bleachers and I was ineligible. We both wanted to be out there. We couldn’t, so we did the next best thing. We asked the DB coach, Coach Hulet, if we could stand on the sidelines for the game against Mo. Southern.

“Stand over there and stay outta the way and don’t be talking trash to those guys,” was all Coach Hulet said. “Remember last year don’t you, Wes?”

I stand before this: to this day I say Rod Smith made it to the NFL based on his game against the Mules that late September afternoon. I don’t know how many catches he had, but I know he had three touchdown receptions on us and it crush me and Milk. The first one was a pretty left-handed loft from Matt Cook, the QB who sat out the game against the Mules the year before. It covered at least 65 yards—all I can remember is Rod Smith escaping Wayne’s Cover 2 jam at the line and Smith subsequently blowing by T.J. (Tom Jackson) at safety.

“Man, what the fuck?” Milk screamed, adjusting the straps on the black hand-wrap like cast he wore on his left mitt. “How they just gon’ let that nigga run by them like that, T.P.? Huh! What’s that shit?”

The second Rod Smith touchdown came in similar fashion as the first. Somehow Smith escaped our cornerback’s jam at the line of scrimmage and streaked toward Vernon Kennedy’s south end-zone. This time, the safety, Creston Austin, slipped and fell on the wet surface. Keep in mind, a Cleveland Browns’ scout had told Coach Noland and his staff Creston had the best footwork of any college defensive back in the country. Nevertheless, Creston slipped and Rod Smith ended up with another 60-yard plus TD reception from Cook.

“T.P., man that’s bullshit,” Milk screamed at Creston’s plight. “We suppose to be out there, Blood, we suppose to be out there.”

The third touchdown was classic Rod Smith. I mean, the two bombs were impressive as hell, but it was his leaping, sprawling catch over Marlon in the north end-zone that solidified Rod Smith’s standing in my eyes as the best wide receiver I ever saw play in person. It was a simple fade to the corner of the end-zone-- my boy Marlon, who would become a four-time All-MIAA performer--was draped all over Rod Smith and Smith still caught the ball. Classic.

“Ain’t much MJ could have done about that,” I said to Milk after Milk’s initial response of Smith’s third TD. “He was all on that nigga and that motherfu**a still caught the damn ball. That nigga going to the league, cuzz.”

We lost the game that year. Mo. Southern had just too many weapons for our Dirty Red Defense, which was still one of the top units in all of Division-II football. Too much Rod Smith to be exact.

After the game, we accompanied the team into the locker room. After hearing Coach Noland’s teary-eyed, post-game speech, Milk and I quietly pointed out all the mistakes the defense made. We both were extremely critical of our defensive back brethren, but what could we do about it besides getting back on the field the next year. Ping, as Wayne was affectionately known, didn’t want to hear it. M.J. sure as hell didn’t want to hear it. T.J. and Creston? We just let them stew in their post-game misery. They both were excellent safeties who just happened to run into a buzz-saw type wide receiver with a grudge.

Milk wanted to talk to Rod Smith after the game. He wanted to apologize. He wanted to talk shit to Smith—sort of congratulate Smith on his game. He wanted to let Smith know there was no bounty the year before. He even wanted to tell Smith about his shooting injuries. Eventually, Milk simply said “fuck it, that nigga know I ain’t have no bounty out on him. I ain’t gotta apologize. Let’s go get high while these bum ass niggas get dressed…them niggas let that boy scored three touchdowns on them T.P. Three! That’s bullshit!”

Milk and Ping lived with another Mules’ football player, Big Mo (Maurice Zanders) at The Estes Apartments. The ran down, semi-condemned mini high rise was our little private oasis. Moody and Sean Mac were roommates who lived down the hall from Big Mo, Ping and Milk. Our former running back, Henry Caldwell, who had a tryout with the San Diego Chargers after his eligibility was up, lived in The Estes, too. He had a couple of fellow Floridians living with him—cousins Cecil and Troy. I had moved out of the dorms at the beginning of the semester into the living room of a pair of female friends from Hannibal, Missouri—Marcia and Markita. I had met them freshmen year in the dorms and they were mad cool. I didn’t want to live in the dorm my second year but Moody and Sean Mac, who were suppose to be my roommates, had moved a defensive end from South Carolina named Willis Moye in right after two-a-days. I didn’t return to Warrensburg until school started that fall so they thought I wasn’t coming back. But I did and it was too late. Willis had moved in.
Anyway, The Estes was a hop, skip and jump from the locker room. Milk and I was talking about the game on the walk towards The Estes, when I told him about my situation.

“So, you saying your lil’ broad finna come drop your son off and ya’ll ‘bout to get on the train and go back to St. Louis?” Milk pondered when I informed him of my plans for to stop at Marcia and Markita’s apartment.

“What time she coming?”

“As soon as I call her.”

“What time does the train leave?”

“4:45.”

“What time is it now?”

“Right at 4:00.”

“Damn, nigga, we ain’t got that much time to smoke. When you coming back?”

Milk’s attitude had changed after his injuries. For instance, the drinking and smoking that was never apart of his life before, was a constant. He also chased more skirts than he had before his injuries. It was like he was determined to enjoy the college experience of drank, drugs and sex.

The apartment I lived in was a five minute walk from The Estes, which was right across the street from The Amtrak station, so I had a few minutes. I just had to make sure my female friend Crystal was coming. I had told here when I gave her my five-month old son to watch, that she was suppose to be ready to bring him to me right after the game was over. I just had to make it to my apartment, which was also by the stadium, to get my bags and call her.

“She’s on her way,” I said to Milk as he rolled up the stashed away blunt cigar. “Hurry up, I want to hit that shit before I get on the train.”

My son had been in Warrensburg for about two weeks. I was missing him real bad, so I made an Amtrak trip to St. Louis to get him for a week and he ended up staying two weeks. It was cool, though because my friend Crystal and my roommates helped me care for him to entire time he was there. Milk didn’t even know the boy was there.

“T.P., when you coming back?” Milk asked after toting the blunt a few times.

“I’m coming back tomorrow night with Ray and A.B.,” I said, referring to Ray Lingard and Anthony Badlinger, two ex-Mule defensive backs who had finished their eligibility my red-shirt year. I had lined up a ride with them before the beginning of the Mo. Southern game. “They were at the game, but they left at halftime.”

“That’s cool,” Milk said, passing the hocus-pocus. “I’ll be right on that Amtrak Tuesday.”

“Whatta mean?” I asked inquisitively.
“I got a doctor’s appointment Tuesday afternoon, so I’ll be on the train Tuesday morning. I’m trying to see if they gonna release me, so I can play this year.”

Milk surprised me. I mean, I knew he still wanted to play ball, but with his hands being as limp as they were, I figured he would try to come back the following season. I was wrong and I’m sure Rod Smith’s exploits that day made Milky even more anxious to get back on the field.

“We should have been out there, today, T.P.,” Milk said before I got in the car with Crystal. “He wouldn’t have got that shit off, I’m telling you, nigga. We would have shut that shit down.”

Whatever the case, I ended up missing the ride back to Warrensburg with Ray and AB the Sunday after I touched down in St. Louis. I chalked it up to a communication breakdown, but either way, I was stranded in St. Louis because no one in my family had money to send me back on the train. I wasn’t on the team so I couldn’t call Coach Noland, Hulet or our defensive coordinator Jeff Floyd. I tried asking Moody and Sean Mac for money the Monday after the Mo. Southern game, but they were busted, too. Moody said his mother would buy me a ticket if I was still in St. Louis that Wednesday because that’s when she got paid. So with no other alternative, I was stranded in St. Louis until at least Wednesday evening.

That Monday evening, after getting off the phone with Moody’s mother to set up our meeting later that week, I started reading a book called Monster Cody to kill time. It was about a Cali gang-banger who had went to prison, redeemed himself and decided to write a memoir about his gangbang days and reformation. It was a powerful book. Considering the fact the STL was in a full-fledged gang war itself, the book shed insight on some of the gang factions that had infiltrated The Lou in the late 1980’s. I ended up reading half the book that night.

I woke up the following morning to finish the other half of the book. By Tuesday afternoon, I was restless, so I took a nap. I woke up about a quarter to 5 p.m. and immediately went into my Grandma’s kitchen to catch the KMOV evening news, which I hadn’t seen since I left for fall semester in Warrensburg.

As the 4:58 p.m. news teaser came on that September 30th day, the broadcaster boldly stated “a 20-year old college student from Central Missouri State has been shot in the 5900 block of Garesche…”

My heart floored. My mouth dropped. In the midst of my own self-wallowing, I had forgotten Milk told me he was coming home Tuesday morning to see the doctor for clearance to play. I knew Milk lived on Garesche. I remembered he was coming home, but I was still in denial. But, who else, besides me, would be home in the middle of the week from Central Missouri State.

I waited on the subsequent newscast. They gave me all the info I needed to know that my homeboy had been shot again. They didn’t say his name, but they did say he was in critical condition. I picked up the phone to call Moody and Sean Mac. No answer. I called the football offices for Coach Noland. No answer. Everybody was still at football practice or getting ready to go to the dining room. Either way, I had to get in contact with somebody on the team.

As I waited for numerous phone calls to be returned, my mother and I were standing on my Grandma’s front porch when she noticed the strain on my face.

“What’s wrong, baby,” my concerned mother asked. “What happened?”

“Mama, I think they just killed my friend,” I calmly reflected. “I think they got him.”

“Your friend?” Moms politely asked. “What friend?”

“My friend I play ball with up at Central.”

“They killed him?”

“Naw, he ain’t dead yet, but I was watching Channel 4 and they said a twenty-year college student from Central Missouri State is in critical condition….”

“He got shot in St. Louis….what was he doing here if he was suppose to be at school?”

“Naw, mama, he came home to go to the doctor because they had all ready shot him this summer….”

“Who is they?”

“Don’t nobody know, mama, we never asked him what happened the first time, but I know it’s the same people…I know it is. I think they got him this time, mama…they killed my homie.”

A million and one things happened between the 5 and 6 o’clock newscast that evening. Moody had called back and said Coach Noland had made the team aware of the situation. Moody told me to just sit back and wait on the word. His mother still was going to get me a ticket back to The ‘Burg, but he wanted me to be cool in the meantime.

“They done took another one of our soldiers, T.P.,” Moody said before excusing himself to be with Ping, Big Mo, Sean Mac, our freshmen homeboy from Tulsa, Marcus, and the others. “My mother gonna have that ticket for you tomorrow, so just lay low until she get down to the City.”

The 6 o’clock news was a crusher. The news anchor started the broadcast with an update on Milk: “That twenty-year-old college student we told you about at five has died from his injuries. Police has identified the victim as 20-year-old Wesley Maurice Drummond, a former all-metro football player at Parkway Central High…”

I couldn’t believe what I had heard. I had always thought that if you left the streets of St. Louis, you couldn’t possibly die on the streets of St. Louis. Not a college student. No way had I thought that could ever happen. It happened, though and it happened to my friend and teammate. It was definitely a wake-up call for me.

Nobody seemed to care about the positives things we were trying to accomplish, especially in St. Louis. That’s all that ran through my mind after Milk’s death. The City of No Luv. That was Milky’s motto, St. Louis is Cutthroat City—The City of No Luv.

Things had changed drastically by the time I returned to Warrensburg that Thursday evening. The team had had a memorial service at The Chapel on campus the day before. Ping and Mo were among the hardest hit—they were Milk’s roommates. In an effort to keep the team focused on their upcoming game against Missouri Western State, Coach Noland decided against the team traveling to St. Louis for Milk’s funeral, which was held the Friday after his death. Not only did I miss the memorial service on campus (I was still in St. Louis), I missed Milk’s funeral in St. Louis. I got caught in-between and never got to see my homie laid to rest.

The Mules and Missouri Western played to a 14-14 tie that weekend, the first time Mo. West had ever played CMSU and didn’t come away with a loss. The Mules would wind up 7-2-1 that season, missing the playoffs by one game. Some say, to a man, the Mo. West game is what caused the Mules to miss out on the school’s first ever NCAA playoff berth that season.

The CMSU athletic department honored Milk after his death. They established an award called The Wesley Drummond Memorial Award, which awards a scholarship, plaque and game ball to the Mules’ player who best represents Milk’s courage, heart and determination. The award would be presented after every fourth game of the season (in case of a Mules’ victory). The award is still presented to this day, nearly 13, 14 years after Milk passed away. We miss you homie. See you in that Big End-Zone behind them Gates. You are truly our angel.

The Good Die Young

The vacant lot at Park and Louisiana Avenues in South Saint Louis is an notorious hot spot in The City. A few of my close friends have lost their life on that lot or nearby in the 3400 block of Park Ave.

For as long as a I can remember The Lot has always been just that, The Lot, a place to go hang out, play some ball, drink some brew, pig out a little barbeque. It's sort of The Block's urban hangout suite, complete was balding, brownish grass, un-recycled glass, and a plethora of debris and trash.

The City is responsible for it's upkeep, but you know how that goes, one month they'll clean it, the next month they'll ignore it and in between those times, some bad shit'll go down on it.

For me, The Lot is very much apart of my upbringing, from playing baseball and football on it, to racing and having brick fights. All in all, it is what symbolizes The Block; fun-loving and caring to out and out cruel and unusual punishment.

The first person close to me to die on The Lot was my older brother's best friend, Delancy M. Davis.

Delancy was the first brother in the hood that played organized baseball and I sort of dug that. In actually, the brother was a role model to me because all I keep remembering about him is him walking through The Block wearing his brown and gold A.G. Edwards baseball uniform, circa 1982.

"Main (his nickname)," I said to him, "who you play for?"

Main, six years my senior, was callous in his response.

"Don't worry about 'lil soft ass runt, you can't play."

"Naw, serious man," I countered, "who do you play for."

"Why man?" he shot back.

"'Cause I wanna play."

"How old are you, you 'lil runt?"

"Eight."

"Oh well, runt, they don't start lettin' you play until ya' eleven.”

I was confused, yet stoked. In fact, that day I was determined I was going to play summer ball for A.G. Edwards some day and show Main I could handle mines on the baseball field.

Back then, we used to play ball daily during the summer on The Lot. Every time I wanted to be on Delancy's team because he was the oldest and always picked the best team. He never picked me, though.

As Delancy got older, his passion for the game quivered. Slowly, but surely his skills faded as his street savvy soared. By the time he was sixteen, he was doing time in the Juvey.

One day after he had gotten out of Juvey my brother and I were jiving with him about getting beat up while he was in Juvey. Come to find out later, Delancy actually put a whooping on the dude, but you know how it is when you are ten and twelve as me and my brother were at that time, you just want a good laugh. By the time Delancy got finish mopping up the concrete with me and my brother, he was the one with the last laugh

"The fag pop and the runt," Delancy barked at us, "soft side suckas."

Looking back on it, that, along with plenty of other bum rushes courtesy of The Block's #1 family, was me and my brother's initiation into the neighborhood clique. Three year's later my brother and Delancy were running mates, just two of the most feared and respected young hustlers in The City.

Early in the summer of 1990 things were scorching in The City and I'm not just talking about that 95 degree heat. The City was hot with gangs, dope dealers and all-out urban warfare as different factions of gangs, blocks, and hoods claimed stake to their territory. In the process lives were lost, families were displaced, and some, like me, lost heroes. Delancy was one of those heroes.

I had just gotten back to The Block from playing a baseball game in U. City when I got the low-down.

"Dirty, what happened down the street," I asked my cousin as I surveyed the scene. "Who got popped?"

I mean, I knew someone had gotten shot simply by peeping the spot, but I also knew The Lot had that type of history to it.

My cousin, who was just six months older than me, was running the streets with Main and my brother like most of the guys from The Block. I was still stunned when he gave me the scoop.

"Some fool blasted on Main about an hour ago," he said, casually displaying the chrome plated .32 automatic he had stashed in his hip. "They working on him right now up at Saint Louie U."

My thoughts immediately turned toward my brother. Where was he? Where is he? Did he get shot too? After all, they were ace boon coons by that time.

"Carly, cuzz, where's my brother?

"He's up at the hospital right now."

"Is he alright?"

"Yeah, dirty. He was at the mall when the shit went down, but mugs know who did it."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," Carly said, again brandishing the pistol. Word on the street was the trigger man was the same guy who Main had whipped on back in Juve some six years before that night. Again, that was just the word on the street, I don't know because I wasn't there.

The circumstances behind Delancy's death, no matter how harsh, aren't very important to me. The fact that he was killed so prematurely has never sat right with me and I guess this is my way of coming to grips with that. This is my shot out to the life in which he lived, per se.

I'm not going to lie; Delancy was my hero simply because he was the first person from The Block to show me there was more to the world than just The Block. I'll always treasure those memories of him in his baseball uniform, him calling me runt and definitely of him kicking me and my brother's asses at the same time. I'll never treasure the sight of seeing him laid to rest. Never. Much love to the Davis family and I miss you Main.

No Ordinary Day (Part 1) featuring Rory L. Watkins

August 1990:

Cochise and Cass had been friends for years so it was no surprise when Cochise called his buddy to let him in on the good news.

"Cass, dirty," Cochise screamed into the phone. "Guess what?"

Cass, still half-sleep, was shook up. "Who is this?" he stubbornly asked.

"This Chedda, fool," Cochise remarked.

"Chedda Chise," Cass acknowledged. "What's up, homie?"

"Man, today's my brother birthday," Cochise said excitedly, "and he's 'bout to comp a new swerve."

Cass was a bit confused at first, and then caught his wits. "Damn, today is the 23rd, ain't it? So what did he say?"

Cochise's older brother Big O.G. had told Cochise that he was buying a new car for himself on his birthday and Chise could used the 1988 Ninety-Eight Regency that Big O.G. had parked in the driveway of their mother's house. Big O.G. had never let anyone drive his Nine-Eight. Ever.

"He said I could get the keys as soon as he gets back from the car lot," Cochise exclaimed.

Cass was skeptical. "Dog, you think he jeffin'?"

Big O.G.'s Nine-Eight wasn't just a regular old Nine-Eight. It was a baller's Nine-Eight. You know the kind; custom fifty spoke Dayton wire rims, 15-inch vogue tires, laid out bumper kit and a custom sunroof to show of the plush snowflake white leather interior. Oh, I almost forgot about the JVC sound-system, with the four 6x9 speakers, crossover and amps and two fifteen inch subwoofers. The leather interior matched the candy coated paint job on the Nine-Eight’s pristine body.

"He chunked it up on the 'hood, he wasn't jeffin', Cochise replied, "so, dirty, be ready when I get there."

"When are you coming," Cass asked looking for a watch, clock or something.

"I'on know," Cochise answered, "probably around noon time."

"What time is it now," Cass wanted to know, not knowing he was setting himself up to be the punch-line of another one of Cochise's silly antics.

"Half past the monkey's ass and a quarter to his nuts," Cochise teased, right before he delivered a piece of useful advice towards Cass. "Call time fool or get a watch."

Before Cass could even muster a reply, Cochise hung up **************************************************************************

A few hours had elapsed since Cass and Cochise's conversation and Cass was getting restless. He picked up the phone to call Cochise, but was not so rudely interrupted.

"Boy, I'm on the damn phone," Cass' mother shouted from the living room of their government subsidized three-bedroom apartment, echoing through the phone wires and off the walls.

"Moms, my fault," Cass shot back, muttering damn under his breath for effect.

"Who are you talking to little boy," Moms chimed, disregarding whatever or whoever on the opposite phone line.

Cass and Moms had a understanding kind of relationship going on and he knew how to keep her off his back. For the most part that is.

"I was just saying, I'm sorry for picking up the phone," Cass explained. "But I was trying to call Chedda to see when he was coming to pick me up."

"Cochise?" Moms questioned. She was sort of dumbfounded. She knew that neither Cass nor Cochise had a car or a driver's license. "Pick you up with what, the Bi-State?"

"No." Cass corrected. "Big O.G. is giving him the Nine-Eight for the day."

"Is that right?" Moms hastily reacted. "Cochise had better not have stolen another one of his brother's cars again. And if he has, your ass is not going anywhere."

"Moms, Big O.G. is buying a new car for his birthday and he gave Chedda the keys to the Nine-Eight," Cass explained. "Everything's cool."

Just as Moms raised her hand to counter Cass' explanation, they both turned their attention to the outside front and the loud thunderous noise booming through the neighborhood. "I'ma call you back," Moms bellowed into the phone, oblivious to the caller's objection to the sudden lack of attention. "I said I'ma call you back."

The beats. Cass knew who it was.

"My homie," Cass said, opening the shades of the living room window while unlocking the front door at the same time. "Beatin' down the block, baby, beatin' down the block."

"Move," Moms shouted, shoving Cass to the side, preparing to lecture Cass' closest friend. "Bring your butt here Cochise, right now."

Moms was upset. She didn't mind Cochise coming to pick Cass up in Big O.G.'s car, but she was concerned about them flashing their newfound glory, albeit brief glory.

"O.K., Moms let me park," Cochise responded.

"Little boy," Moms admonished Cochise as strutted his way toward Cass' residence, "you don’t have to broadcast your arrival on this block. Your mere presence is sufficient enough. Do you know these guys will put a pistol to your head for hi-siding on them in their own backyard? You do know that don't you."

"Yes ma'am," Cochised admitted.

Moms usually gives it to you when she gives it to you, but Cochise had an innate ability to diffuse certain situations and he was an expert dealing with folk's parents. He was above average height, brown-skinned, mildly intelligent, street savvy and confident. Cass thought Cochise was a charming son of a gun. Cochise called it 'mad game.'

"O.K. I'ma leave it alone," Moms said, questioning Big O.G's rationale for giving Cochise the Nine-Eight.

"I have my permit already, Moms," Cochise said, giving Cass the winking eye. "But I'm 'bout to go to the license bureau right now to take my driver's test and you know I need Cass Money there with me for good luck."

"Hmmph," Moms sighed. "Boy that's a bold face lie, but oh well, if Big O.G. don't care, I surely don't. Ya'll just be careful. The police would love to take ya'll little black butts to the juve center. And guess what, Cassius? I'm not coming to get you. Good day. Get out of my house."

Once in the ride, Cass couldn't believe Big O.G. had given up the Nine-Eight, but he wasn't going to complain. "Where we headed, Chedda?" Cass asked.

"To the license bureau," Cochise stated. "Why you asked?"

"Seriously, where are we headed, homie?" Cass wanted to know.

Cochise eased up on his story. "I'on know, fool, we just gonna’ cruise the St. Louis streets, see what we see, do what we do and screw what we screw." Cass laughed. Cochise reached in the fold-down ashtray in the middle of the Nine-Eight's console and emerged with a bag full of funk. "And blow our brains back."

Cass had seen marijuana before but he had never smoked it. (Actually, when Cass was nine-years-old, his favorite uncle, Moms' brother Unc, let Cass hit a joint a couple of times, but that's another story). "What's that for?" Cass nervously responded.

"To smoke and get high," Cochise wryly replied.

"I mean, I know that, but what do we need it for?" Cass protested.

"So we can ride out, smoke out, have some fun, pick up some hoochies and do how these cats with paper do. We some ballers today, dirty, me and you. Let's do the damn thing. We got the swerve, we got the beats, we got the herb and we got this," Cochise said, cocking the chrome .380 automatic pistol he sneaked from Big O.G.'s gun collection.

"Man," Cass relented, "Moms was right. We're going to jail tonight."

"Dirty, we good," Cochise retorted. "As long as I got the wheel, we straight, so roll up."

"I don't know how to roll that stuff, dog, you tripping," Cass rebuffed.

"Ole' cry-baby, titty-licking, mama's boy, can't do nothin'," Cochise teased. "I'll roll it myself."

"Yeah, you do that," Cass said.

"I will," Cochise countered.

"Fine," Cass stood firm. "I still ain't smoking it."

"Yes you are," Cochise demanded.

"No, I'm not," Cass offered.

Cochise was getting aggravated by Cass' resistance so he turned the car's stereo system back to full blast, put the car in drive and peeled off.

"You smoking today," he said, ignoring Cass' pleas. Cochise emphasized his position by burning tire rubber on the neighborhood's black-tar asphalt while at the corner stop sign. "Yep, you getting blowed today, dirty, so don't even trip."

A Mighty Fine Introduction

I love my girlfriend. My ex-girlfriend I should say. She dumped me about four months ago when she found out I had a three-month fling with a college freshman named Tiarra Brown. Man, was Tiarra hot. I'm talking about she was just tall enough where her head could rest on my shoulders when we slowed danced. (We only slowed danced in private though because she was sort of my little secret, if you will.) She had those big brown eyes that you knew she had when she was about six months old; wide and cuddly. That's how she used to look at me when we danced too, like a cute little baby doll whose string was drawn. She had that cocoa brown skin and the softest, sweetest lips. Us men are always talking about lips on women, but I'm telling you, her lips were soft, damp and tasted like honey.

Anyhow, like I was saying, I really do love my ex-girlfriend. Now she has the beauty, the brains and the body that make guys label their girl's nines and tens. Plus she is super nice and respectful. DeDe--that's her name---is one of those slim and trim broads with the long legs that drive fools crazy. When she puts on heels, I swear we're at even keel. Her skin tone is tan brown like mine and she has the loveliest smile I've seen in all my years. I can just picture the day we met. It was at the university's welcoming bar-b-que her freshmen year and I remember mentioning to a close friend of mine how I thought she was cute and had mega potential. My friend kind of tooted his nose up and was like, "naw, Cass, leave that fresh-meat alone." I was smitten by her presence, though. Outdone to say the least and I knew I had to have her in my life.

Although I politely introduced myself to her and invited her to the football team's scrimmage later that evening, we didn't quite hit it off at first. Of course she used the 'I have a boyfriend' routine, but it was a shock to learn he was still a high-school student. Even though I respected her mind on that one, I knew their relationship would be a temporary arrangement. Can't no high-school kid touch me, I thought.

"That's fine, I'll just see you around campus then," I replied when she delivered the news of her commitment.

I don't know if my little gentleman speech worked or not but I do know DeDe became a little fond of me and made it a point to speak whenever we past by each other on campus. After a few months, that semester seemed to move along at a snail's pace and I was getting antsy for the Christmas break. Anyway, the football squad was doing a little holiday community service deal for the locals, so a couple of teammates and I were running around campus collecting can goods from the students in the dorms. Midway through our rounds, I bumped into DeDe and the first thought in my corrupted mind was "do you still have your little boyfriend?" Instead, I bellowed "hello, DeDe. Remember me?"

"How could I forget, I only speak to you every other time I see you," she playfully replied.

"Yeah, but do you remember my name?" I countered, placing the donated cans from DeDe's room into the hefty bag.

"How could I forget a name like Cassius Clay Winston," she asked. "Err, excuse me, Cass Money Winston, Mr. football star."

I was astonished. "So you know about me, huh?" I said inquisitively.

"I've heard stories," she responded

I was in full throttle by then, though.

"Well, why don't you give me your number, so I can tell you if those stories are true or not."

"Like that?" she retorted.

"Like that," I deadpanned.

After a few more pleasantries, we exchanged phone numbers and I knew it was on. Man, hard to believe that was four years ago.

Speaking of four years, DeDe is on track to graduate in May, four years after she enrolled. Now, to me, that is an unbelievable accomplishment considering the things she had to go through during our often tumultuous relationship. See, that's why I say I love her because of all the soap-opera drama she's had to endure fooling around with me during her collegiate experience.

First it was my old friend Eriana, who I had met a year prior to meeting DeDe. Eriana and I had freaked each other, but we never had sex. I put DeDe abreast of the brief encounter, but she had a hard time believing Eriana and I didn't have sex. She really became suspicious when Eriana tried to fight her.

"DeDe, I didn't have sex with that girl," I told her after Eriana and a few of Eriana's friends became overtly obsessive with pummeling my baby. "She's just mad 'cause I won't leave you for her."

"Yeah right," was the only thing DeDe could muster out of her mouth.

Then there was Keena. DeDe told me Keena had been her best friend from seventh grade up until high school graduation. Kenna first went to college down south, but transferred to our school before the start of DeDe's sophomore year. She said she relocated closer to home because she missed DeDe too much. My guess she was wound too tight to fit in down south.

Keena and I started off cool. After all, she was my lady's best friend and they roomed together Keena's transfer year so I felt obligated to keep the peace. I mean, I had to show her love out of respect for DeDe, but I did think she was cool.

I don't know what happened with their friendship. It seemed so genuine and sincere that I never would have thought I would be the source of the tension. For whatever reason Keena didn't take to me and when DeDe refused to dump me, their relationship hit the skids. It actually came to the point that Keena and I had a verbal confrontation. It happened during an argument DeDe and I was having in their dorm room about some telephone numbers she had found in my Nautica Jeans' pocket.

"Look, DeDe, I done told you a thousand times, these numbers don't mean nothing," I protested upon learning DeDe's discontent. "People slide their numbers to me, I take them and throw them away. Honestly, I just forgot to throw those in the trash."

"Oh yeah," DeDe shot back, ripping the numbers in half. "Then let me help you with that."

I was peeved. Another heated argument followed and then boom, Keena spoke her piece.

"Get out!" Keena exploded. "I'm tired of you making my girl cry all the damn time. Get out of here and don't come back."

Naturally, I was stunned. Not only did Keena jump full-bore into our disagreement, she had the audacity to put her hands on me trying to escort me out the door. I held firm, looked at DeDe, looked back at Keena, then lost my composure.

"B****," I said aggressively, "don't you ever put your hands on me again." At that point, Keena was hysterical and DeDe was silenced. DeDe knew I had an ugly side, but I think she was disappointed that I would show it to her best friend.

"B****? B****?" Keena responded, literally bouncing off walls because I called her a name. "Oh, yeah? You get the hell out of here right now!" Keena picked up the phone. I thought maybe she was calling some of her campus henchmen, but she did me one better.

"Hello, Public Safety," Keena screamed into the phone, "we have a problem in room..." Anything she said after that is a blur because I was out of there quicker than greased lighting.

A couple of hours had past before DeDe and I spoke on the situation and by that time Keena had called public safety, her mother, father, brother, cousin and boyfriend. She even had the nerve to call my girl's parents. Boy did it take some damage control to keep DeDe's parents from throwing a hizzy-fit.

Keena was a nuisance to me after that encounter and became a hindrance on my baby's love-nest. Suffice to say, they eventually fell out and when the smoke cleared DeDe was still in my world, down like four flat ones.

We made it through DeDe's junior year pretty much unscathed, but this year could be classified a sure-shot disaster.

Like I was saying earlier, the only reason DeDe's not my girl anymore is because of my fling with Tiarra. My purpose with Tiarra wasn't supposed to go down the way it did. Just so happened, we had a communications class together last semester; Foundations of Broadcasting (she for the first time, I for the second). One day the professor assigned the class a group project, forcing us to partner up with someone we didn't know. Why did destiny pull me towards Tiarra? I damn near fell on my face trying to scrunch into the seat next to Tiarra's desk.

"I'on know you," I confidently noted, gazing into those amazing eyes. Like deja vu all over again, I introduced myself. "My name is Cassius Clay Winston and we're partners today."

She intently looked up from her notebook, and lovingly quipped "that's fine."

And thus, my current predicament.

From the short story collection

The Swinging Gate featuring Rory L. Watkins

Cassius Clay Winston circa 1985:

Yesterday was a strange day. Even though it was strange, it was kinda fun. It was the first day of the new school year and I was going to a new school, Eureka Elementary. I woke up yesterday morning at five o'clock, but I wasn't mad or tired or nothing. I was excited and could not wait to catch the bus at six. My mother Moms was up with me and my big brother Sonnie. As you can tell Moms is a BIG boxing fan.

Anyways, like I was saying, me and Sonnie woke up, took our wash up, brushed our teeth, and ironed our clothes. Moms took us school school shopping Saturday, so we were trying to be nice and clean for the new kids we didn't know. Sonnie was funny. He was the reason why we couldn't go to Columbia Middle School. He kept saying yesterday to Moms "I'on wanna go to that white school, I'on wanna go to that white school." I was thinking 'fool, you the reason we going to that white school.'

See, we used to live on the Southside of The City and had seen a few white people, but our neighborhood was all black. Then we moved to the JVL. The Jeff Vanderlou projects that is. The JVL is on the Northside of The City and we have been having problems with the JVL Posse. I'on know why they don't like us, but they don't. Them cats look very scary. Sonnie wants to take 'em all on and I'm like 'they cool, they ain't said nothing to me.'

See, Sonnie went to Columbia Middle last year and I went to Dunbar Elementary and me and some of those JVL guys were real good friends. And I know for a fact they were in the JVL posse. But Sonnie got into it with one of them cats on the last day of school and they been looking for him all summer long. He stayed with my grandmother Grandma on the Southside all summer so they haven't caught him yet.

Moms knew some of the people in the neighborhood and they told her the JVL Posse was looking for Sonnie so she made us transfer schools out to the county. I was mad at first because I wanted to go to Columbia. People was saying how much fun it was. I guess I'll never know.

So, anyways, when me and Sonnie got to the bus stop yesterday I saw some of my friends from Dunbar on their way to Columbia and they were looking at us crazy and mean. I just saw them cats a week ago and we played cork ball together on the Church lot and everything was cool, so when I saw them I was like 'what's up, Darius, Marcus, Baby?' and they just looked and stared. Sonnie just stared back, grabbed me by the back of the neck and said "C'mon little brother, I got you."

I really don't know what happend between my brother and my friends but I get the feeling Sonnie don't like them cats too much. I was really glad when our bus came, because Darius 'nem was tripping off me and my brother's new shoes Moms had got us at the mall Saturday and I thought we was gonna have to fight. And man, I hate fighting. I just wanna play ball and live good like Ozzie, Vince and Willie.

The morning kept getting weirder. The bus pulled up and the busdriver asked me for my bus pass. He looked at it and said "Wrong, bus little guy, you have to wait on the other bus." I was like "what other bus?" "The one that says Eureka Elementary, this bus here is for the junior and senior highs." I looked at Sonnie, Sonnie looked at me and we both looked at Darius 'nem. "You'll be alright little brother, they yo' partners right?"

Sonnie got on the bus. I wasn't scared but I was. Darius, Marcus and Baby had always been cool with me but they hated my brother, so I was kinda nervous. They just started asking all sort of questions out of the clear blue sky "Why ya'll ain't going to Columbia, Cass? Where you get them shoes at Cass? Where dat 'foxy momma of yours at, Cass?" And then the bus came.

Rejected Submission

Thank you very much for your submission to BREVITY, the e-journal of conciseliterary nonfiction. I am sorry, however, to say that we will not be ableto use the essay.
Good luck with your writing.
Dinty W. Moore
Editor, BREVITY

Age Ain’t Nothing But A Number, Right?

By Toriano L. Porter

The heated exchange between my fiancé, Latrice, and I was much ado about nothing. Seems she couldn’t understand the reason Coach Moore and the rest of the St. Louis Bulldogs semi-pro football team were all gung ho about our new quarterback prospect, Darryl Jackson.

Jackson was a do everything quarterback at Webster Groves High in Webster Groves, Missouri. Latrice, of Kansas City and still living there, had never heard of him, but I had. Jackson chose to attend the University of Missouri on a full football scholarship. Within days of his first practice at Mizzou, he abruptly left the team and un-enrolled from school. Some serious allegations had surfaced against him and he had to face the music.

“He did what?” Latrice harped when I mentioned Jackson had pleaded guilty of sexual misconduct after leaving Mizzou. “He had sex with an eight year old child? You’ve gotta be kidding me?”

“Yeah,” I deadpanned, “seems he had sex with her off and on for at least five years.”

“How did he know the girl?” she asked, “were they neighbors or something?”

“Naw, nothing like that,” I explained. “The guy was a part of the deseg program we got down herre and he and the lil’ gal’s big brotha was cool like that. They played football together and the dude used to spend the night ova therre all the time. One thing led to another, I guess. I know the shit went on for a minute, but as soon as the dude went away to college, the lil’ gal told her parents about what was going on.”

“Man, that’s crazy,” Latrice scoffed. “If that was my baby, I would want to ring that guy’s neck. He shouldn’t be allowed to play football ever again.”

“See, that’s the point,” I said. “The judge sentenced dude to a hunnard and twenty days in jail and put him on probation for five years. Part of his probation stipulates that he can’t play college football for the five years he on probation and he must either keep a job or be enrolled in school. That’s were we come in. The judge neva said nothin’ ‘bout the dude playing pro or semi-pro ball. We figure if we get him in herre for two years and he leads us to the championship in Orlando, then hell, he may just get a chance to play pro ball somewhere.”

“And you’re cool with having a child molester on your team,” Latrice admonished.

“He ain’t no child molester,” I corrected, “he’s just a young guy who made a mistake. Now, I ain’t saying what he did was right, but hell, when you thirteen and ain’t getting none and you got some lil’ gal who was probably as hot and horny as he was, let’s just say the experimenting went too far.”

“Tory,” she screamed through the phone, “the boy had sex with a eight year old when he was thirteen and it didn’t stop until he was, what, eighteen, nineteen? She wasn’t even in high school when it stopped. That’s a child molester.”

“Well, technically, baby you right,” I acknowledged, “and he does have to register as a sex offender, but does that mean he shouldn’t be allowed to play the game he was born to play.”

“Hell no!” she protested. “Especially, if he is going to get paid.”

“Well, we don’t get paid,” I explained, which I don’t know why because if we had gotten paid Latrice wouldn’t still be asking me about the ring she didn’t have to make our engagement official. “But, if the Arena League comes or the Canadian League comes calling for him, then it’s all good. America is all about second chances, right?”

“I don’t care what you say,” she expounded, “he should never be allowed to play for pay. Never. Make him get a real job and contribute to society.”

“I’m saying, Latrice, the dude already gotta pay the lil’ gal for any medical or psychological bills she gets from here on out, so I’m pretty sure she wants him to make it to the League too.”

“Oh my God,” she pressed on, “how can you say something like that? If that’s how you feel, I may have to re-evaluate this situation. There is no way I can condone you condoning that type of behavior.”

Within seconds, she had hung up and refused to answer my calls the rest of the night.

Background Check

I am pleased to announce that your contest entry “Background Check” will be published in our next PDF issue, debuting October 31, 2005! Readers will vote on their favorite contest entry for the quarter. The winner will be announced in the January issue and will be awarded a $10 gift certificate at Amazon.com!

To see your entry, as well as your competition, subscribe to our PDF version. And spread the word! Only subscribers can vote on the winning contest entry, so have your friends and family subscribe and cast their votes, too. The issue is only $2! See our subscription page for more details.

If you have any questions or concerns, please do not hesitate to email me.

Thank you,
Jennifer Michaels
Senior Editor, Flash Me Magazine
http://www.authorrealm.com
flashmemag@yahoo.com

Background Check

By Toriano L. Porter

I knew, subconsciously perhaps, that my ladies' man reputation may have preceded me when Tracie didn't return the last of my five phone calls. I mean, just two nights earlier we’d had our first date. It was great. We met promptly, ate well and drank mercifully at O’Charley’s Restaurant, all the while conversing about life situations.

After dinner, we went back to her non-descript one bedroom apartment. Over a post-dinner celebratory funny cigar, we discussed our professional lives, eventually leading to our talk about college life. She mentioned she had attended my alma mater for two years before transferring, which coincided with my last year there.

“Are you serious?” I asked her when she informed me of her two year stint at Central Missouri State University in Warrensburg, Missouri. “You went to CMSU?”

“Yes,” she replied, “but I had to leave. I was tired of the people up there always in my business.”

We couldn’t remember each other from campus, but we both knew some of the same people. After awhile, it became apparent that we may have known each other but were unaware of each other’s core existence.

After going out dancing together for a few hours that night, Tracie mentioned she would try to get the inside scoop on me from some of her old CMSU friends before our next date. I didn’t think much of her sleuth work until the second date never materialized.

She must have gotten a bad word.

My First Writing Contest Award

(forwarded message)
Congratulations Toriano!

I'm pleased to inform you that your story, "The Pride of St. Louis,"
has been
awarded an Honorable Mention in Toasted Cheese's A Midsummer Tale
Writing
Contest.

An excerpt from "The Pride of St. Louis" will be published in the
September
issue of Toasted Cheese.

Best of luck with your writing, and I hope to see you at the Toasted
Cheese
forums!

Theryn Fleming
Editor, Toasted Cheese
www.Toasted-Cheese.com
beaver@toasted-cheese.com

***

Toasted Cheese is pleased to announce the winners of the 2005 A
Midsummer Tale
Writing Contest:

1st: Melissa A. Bartell, "Crossing the Mojave"

2nd: Christina Hallis, "Missing Sunrise in Charleston"

3rd (tie): Fatima M. Noronha, "Abbey Road and Mister Maniappa" and
Devon
Ellington, "Dog Driving"

Honorable Mention:
Ellia Bisker, "I Talk the Talk, He Rides the Bike"
Catherine Lanser, "Make Me Laugh"
Jenny Lentz, "Are We Honest Yet?: The Trip of Truth"
Joanna Popper, "In the Back of the Bolivian Bus with My Mom"
Toriano L. Porter, "The Pride of St. Louis"
Jim Walke, "Driving Directions."

This year we had a record-setting number of entries, not just for AMT,
but for
any Toasted Cheese contest ever. In addition, the quality of the
entries made
judging a challenge. So thanks to all who entered; Beaver very much
enjoyed
circumventing the world via your road trip stories!

The Pride of Saint Louis

The Pride of St. Louis

by Toriano L. Porter

When I first saw the 2005 schedule for the St. Louis Bulldogs, the semipro football team I've been a member of since 1999, I was stoked. After last season's horrifying playoff lost to the Springfield Rifles (the game was called with eight minutes to go in the 4th quarter with the Rifles ahead 40 something to 8; a bench clearing brawl prompted the cancellation) I swore I was done playing football. After all, the prospects of receiving a professional tryout from the various pay for play leagues around the country were becoming dimmer as time passed.
The schedule, which I went online to peruse back in April, featured games against teams in Memphis, Chicago, Kansas City, Lincoln, Nebraska and the city that pique my interest the most, Dallas, Texas. I'd had fond memories of Dallas. Back in the summer of 1994 I was part of a select college level baseball team that won the Missouri State Championship and advance to regional play in the Land of the Cowboys. While there, I had a chance to soak up the nightlife of Dallas, meet some ladies and do what most soon to be adults do--make irrational decisions.
After a few hours of boozing it up with my Denny's teammates, (the name of the select baseball team) on a dare from one of them, I got a tattoo. On the inside of my wrist sits a set of crap shooting dice, with a banner between them that reads: NATRUAL SEVEN, that's a lifetime reminder not to overindulge alcoholic beverages. Never in my wildest dreams did I ever thought I'd have a tattoo, but it fit right with the rebellious streak that pervaded that particular realm of my existence.
On top of those memories, an ex college roommate from Tulsa, Oklahoma, Marcus Carliss, had relocated to Dallas and I hadn't seen him in a few years. I had gotten his number from a mutual friend in Kansas City, touching basis with him every so often to talk about life situations and old memories living in Warrensburg, Missouri, home of the Central Missouri State Fighting Mules.
"Lil Nigga, what's up dirrty?" I spoke into the cell phone, referring to Marcus by the nickname bestowed upon him by a few CMSU football teammates. "What's cracking wit’cha'?"
"TeePee," Marcus responded with vigor, "what's up homie, what's going on?"
"Aw man, nothing," I prolonged, "jus' callin' to let you know I'ma be in yo' town June 11th."
"Oh word," Marcus said, "for what? You still ballin'?"
"Yes sir," I proudly replied, "still looking to get that ring, dirrty."
Marcus just laughed. He knew that the crew of brothers we linked up with as CMSU footballers always wanted some sort of championship ring to take with us to our football graves. We never got one at CMSU. Marcus, however, did. After transferring from CMSU in the fall of 1995, he was part of a National Association of Intercollegiate Athletics national football championship at Northeastern Oklahoma State University in Tahlequah, Oklahoma. The luck of the draw is what we called it.
"T.P., man you crazy," he said. "How old are you now?"
"Thirrty one, dirrty, but I tell errybody I'm thirrty for life," I responded in my country grammar slur.
"There you go putting them extra r's in everything," Marcus chided, "sounding like an outtake from a Nelly video."
Marcus and I had a history of making fun of each other's dialect. He was born and raised in Los Angeles, moved to Tulsa as a teenager and relocated to his present digs in Dallas. All of those cities tend to have a proper talking dialect whereas in St. Louis, no matter the intelligence level, most brothers spoke with a verbiage now dubbed Country Grammar. Back in the early to mid-nineties, out of town brothers used to simply call our outback, down south country.
"What I tell you 'bout how we live up herre dirrty?" I joined the verbal conflict. "Ain't nuthin' country 'bout my city, cuzz. We gangsta gutta up herre."
"Whatever," Marcus continued the jostling, "ya'll still ain't LA. You want to talk about gangsta? Now LA is gangsta."
Marcus was a running back and I a defensive back in college. Playing those different positions sparked a natural rivalry between us, but it wasn't a jealously type thing. It was purely competitive. True to form, I egged the spat on.
"LA?" I countered, "LA? Man, Lil Nigga', you ain't lived in Cali in umpteen years, nigga. What'chu talkin' 'bout LA?"
"That's alright though," Marcus stood firm, "LA's in my heart. In my blood. I'm always LA."
"Nigga, you from Tulsa, Oklahoma," I teased.
"It's all good, though, T.P.," Marcus said in fun, "where ya'll playing at and at what time?"
"Man, I’ on know yet," I explained, "but when I find out, I'ma call you and give you the heads up."
"Alright," Marcus said, "Cool. Just hit me up and let me know the deal."
"No doubt," I said.
"Alright, peace," he concluded.
"One luv," I wrapped up. "Holla at'chu ina minute."
***************************************************************** *
The trip to Texas to take on the Dallas Diesel in a semipro football game had all the makings of a bonding outing for the St. Louis Bulldogs. St. Louis' winningest minor league football team ever had struggled with their early preseason games in 2005, losing the first three to opponents deemed very mediocre by Bulldog standards. The team was in the midst of a rebuilding process, having lost key members from the previous year's 8-4 club, including the star quarterback, running back, and wide receiver.
The dwindling out of players and coaches caused a ripple effect for St. Louis, leaving them in a rebuilding stage and struggling to stay competitive in a fledging semipro league.
Feeling a lack of cohesion on the part of the 2005 squad, Bulldog coach Greg Moore reserved a charter bus for the 12-hour ride to Dallas. The plan was to meet Friday, June 10 at 11:00 PM in the North Oaks Shopping Plaza, a local strip mall with retail stores and a bowling alley, and leave for the trip at midnight. St. Louis would then arrive to its' destination by noon Saturday and have a few hours to eat a pre-game meal and maybe watch a movie at a local theater in Dallas. In typical St. Louis fashion, most of the team's players didn't arrive until well after midnight and Moore was peeved.
"Listen up guys," Moore ordered as players milled around the parking lot for a team meeting prior to boarding. The chief of Northwoods' (MO) police department, Moore was used to giving orders. What ticked him off were guys not following the procedure he'd laid out for them.
"Some of you guys don't know the meaning of what it is to be a St. Louis Bulldog,” continued Moore, the Bulldogs' veteran coach of thirteen years and minor league football hall of fame member.
Moore, all of five feet, six inches of him, was appalled. The three losses, even though preseason games, weighed heavily on him. He had scheduled the game against the Diesel thinking he'd have a squad that would compete for a national championship. Never did he imagine he'd have to go to Dallas with practically a rebuilt offense and minus several key defensive reserve players. He let the team know his feelings.
"We're going down here to play one of the better teams in our league," Moore scolded, "and we've only got thirty something guys here."
"Thirty one, Chief," tight end and captain Wendell Mosley informed.
"Thirty one," Moore corrected.
"Chief," Mosley chimed in again, "we ain't got to sit here and wait on none of these cats." Mosley, along with Moore, offensive tackle Stan Johnson and defensive end Fred Robinson, were the faces of the St. Louis Bulldogs. They represented St. Louis at most of the NAFL's league functions, including all-star games and award banquets. Moore gave them a certain leeway others players couldn't quite grasp. "Fuck 'em, let's go. One monkey don't stop no show."
"Yeah, Wendell, you're right," Moore agreed, "but I hate to go down there with thirty one players. We want to make an impression. We need all fifty of our guys--there's power in numbers, boy."
"Guys," Moore said to his team, "get on the phone, call your buddies whose not here and tell 'em to get here. We need bodies. We need numbers, baby. Tell 'em if their having problems with the sixty dollar boarding fee, don't worry about it, we'll get it from later. Tell 'em to just come on."
At 1:40 AM, St. Louis headed for Dallas with just thirty-three players.
***************************************************************** *

"What up, dirrty?" I said to Marcus as he answered his cell phone the early evening of June 10. "You get my email?"
"Uhhh, um, I sure didn't T.P.," he unsurely replied. "I didn't check my email today at work, homie."
"Aw, it's cool," I pressed on, "I was jus letting you know we gon' be leaving the Lou around midnight tonight and get to Dallas 'round noon tomorrow."
"Yeah? You know where ya'll playing at yet?"
"Yeah. We, um, we um, gon' be playing at Capel High, Cappell High, something, at seven o'clock."
"Cappel?"
"Yeah, Cappel High, seven o'clock. I'ma call you when we touch down in the D, aw'ight?"
"Cool. Just call me and let me know when ya'll get here. I'll be around."
I was excited. I hadn't seen Marcus in quite some time and I wanted to catch up on old times and maybe get a chance to meet his two-year daughter who I hadn't met yet. He was astonished with my answer when he asked me the age of my son, Toriano II.
"How old is Lil' T, now?" he had asked previously.
"Twelve," I proudly stated, flashing a wide grin through the phone only a father could muster.
"Twelve!" Marcus deadpanned. "Damn, time is flying by. I know you got him playing ball?"
"Aw, man, football, basketball. I was going to let him play baseball dis' summer, but he been actin' a fool in school."
"What?"
"Yeah, dirrty, actin' a fool. Tellin' the teacher things like, 'so, you can't tell me what to do."
"You know what they say, right," Marcus cajoled.
"What?"
"The apple doesn’t fall to far from the tree."
"Aw, nigga, gone wit' dat bullshit."
***************************************************************** *
After a little over thirteen hours on the road, St. Louis arrived in the Dallas area around 2:30 on the afternoon of the 11th. The team had hotel rooms reserved at a Super 8 in Lewisburg, Texas but had stopped a few miles short of the destination to eat a light lunch before reporting to the high school stadium in Cappel. The majority of coaches and players had slept through the night, including the two chartered bus drivers who took turns behind the wheel. Not Moore, though. He spent the trip trying to figure out a way to get his anemic offense to fire on all cylinders. Realizing the time was getting short, Moore informed his players to fend for lunch for themselves, but report back to the chartered bus in one hour. Accordingly, players split up into familiar factions and dispersed into the humid and hazy Texas afternoon.
"One hour, or you won't suit up tonight," Moore barked to the fleeing crowd, "and I mean it damnmitt."
***************************************************************** *
I had slept through most of the nighttime part of the trip, even sleeping through a rest stop one of the two bus drivers we used made in the heart of Oklahoma. When I did finally open my eyes, I started recognizing parts of Oklahoma that I'd seen before. As the procession moved forward, I spotted a green highway sign that read 'Welcome to Tahlequah'. I had visited Marcus there back in 1996 when he was playing ball at NSU and the sights of the town were forever engrained in my senses.
"Man, I knew dis' shit was startin' to look familiar," I said to my teammate, Arthur Meredith, sitting in the aisle seat right next to my window seat.
"What'chu mean?" Art pondered.
"My homie used to play ball down herre at um, Northeastern State back in the mid-nineties," I recalled. "Right herre in Tahlequah wherre we at."
"For real?" Art asked, pretending to be interested in my speech.
"Yep, back in '96-97," I explained. "Me and my homie Ping from Kansas City came down herre to check him out."
"Where you know that nigga from, dawg?" Art festered.
"Aw man, we went to Central Missouri together for a minute," I detailed. "Nigga transferred 'cause the coach wouldn't give him dat rock. He living in Dallas right na'. I'm finna call him and mess wit him, watch."
Instead of calling Marcus at ten in the morning, I decided to send a text message to tease him about his three-year stay at NSU. It read: We just past a sign that says Northeastern State University. What you know about Tahlequah.
The reply: I'm a legend in Tahlequah, homeboy, what you know about it?"
My reply: I'm already knowing, dirty, I'm already knowing."

***************************************************************** *
Once St. Louis reached their temporary living quarters in Lewisburg, they were forced to get ready for the game at the hotel because of the impending schedule change, courtesy of the Dallas Diesel.
"They want to start the game at six thirty because they got a film crew to video tape the game," Moore explained to his troops. "So, let's get our stuff on in the rooms and be ready to be on the bus at four thirty."

***************************************************************** *
"Lil' Nigga, what's good homeboy?" I screamed into the hotel room's phone. "I'm in yo' area, cuzz."
"Word?" Marcus wondered, "Ya'll just now getting here?"
"Yeah, man, that's how the Bulldogs roll, baby," I tried to convince. "Check it. The game's been moved up to six thirty, so get therre on time so you can see yo' boy get his issue off."
"Alright, homie, I'll see you at six thirty then."
"Aw'ight, one."
***************************************************************** *
The game was a disaster for the Bulldogs. Dallas came out smoking and after being held to a punt on their first offensive series, exploded for 18 points in the first quarter. By halftime, the score was 31-0 and Moore was fuming.
"You mean to tell me, these guys are thirty one points better than us?" Moore admonished the team. "I'on believe that. Just like they scored thirty-one, we can score thirty-one. Defense. That's it. You gotta hold' em to a shutout in the second half. Offense. Let's get our butts in gear and put some points on the board, damnmitt.
Moore's speech was short-lived. On the ensuing kickoff to open second half play, Dallas took the kick and ran it back 70 plus yards for a touchdown. The extra point made it 38-0 less than a minute into the third quarter. By all intents and purposes, St. Louis was done after the touchdown return. Much to Moore's chagrin, the final score was Dallas 73, St. Louis 0.
"We came down here and laid an egg," Moore bellowed from the throes of the post game meeting on the chartered bus. He gave instructions for the final phase of the trip. "For all you guys who came down here to party and enjoy the night life just know at eight o'clock tomorrow morning we're leaving. If you're not on this at bus at eight o'clock, you butt is going to be left here in Texas, damnmitt."
***************************************************************** ******
"TeePee," Marcus called out me after our 73-0 whipping from the Diesel. "Looking kinda slow out there, homeboy,"
"Lil' Nigga!" I yelled back, playfully tugging at Marcus' midsection, "what's up my nigga? Look at'chu nigga, done got all fat and shit."
"Man, gone," Marcus suggested. "What's up for the night? What ya'll got planned."
"Aw, nigga, dis’ yo' town, we jus gon' get in where we fit in."
"Yeah, but what ya'll wanna do?"
"Man, I'on know, but hey look, pull ova therre to wherre dat bus is. We got a team meeting right na, and Coach is already mad."
***************************************************************** *
The trip didn't turn out as well for St. Louis as Moore wanted it, but he was still glad they made it. He preferred to travel with fifty plus players, and considered canceling the trip at the last minute. Not to show up at all wasn't feasible when St. Louis had thirty-three players capable of matching up with the Diesel. Unfortunately, the Diesel handed the Bulldogs the worst defeat in their history. Exhausted from the trip, Moore slept through about twelve of the fourteen hours of the return trip, opening his eyes only for a quick peep at the game film and to grab a bite to eat.
Once the team's chartered bus reached North Oaks, Moore was livid again, and informed the team their practice routine of Wednesday and Thursday evenings had been adjusted.
"We want to see how many of you jokers show up on Tuesday," Moore challenged, "to work on your game."
***************************************************************** *
"Man, Lil' Nigga it was good seeing you again, dirrty," I said to Marcus as we arrived back to the Super 8 in the wee hours of Sunday morning. We had been out after the game at a local pub, having a few beers and chit chatting about old football stories. "You gon' hafta come up to St. Louis and kick it wit us sometime soon."
"Definitely," Marcus assured, "definitely."
"Aw'ight, my nigga, I'ma call you sometime while we on the road tomorrow to let you know all is good," I concluded, reaching out to Marcus to exchange the endearing handshake and hug widely practiced in the urban community. "'Preciate errythang."
"Ya'll be safe, T.P.," Marcus advised, "and get in that weight room. Those Texas boys were a little bigger and stronger than ya'll."

The Pride of Saint Louis

The Pride of St. Louis is a collecting of flash fiction, short stories, poems and essays by Toriano Porter. Mr. Porter is a native of...St. Louis, Missouri and his work has appeared in publications such as the St. Louis American, The Metro Evening Whirl, the North County Journal, www.stlhiphop.com, mid-westlive.com, inBox magazine and the Kansas City Pitch.