Playing the Field: Out of Bounds

Playing the Field: Out of Bounds By J.M. Snyder It was only three weeks into the fall semester, and already school was the last thing on Joakim Gaithers’ mind. Twenty-two, with three years of college under his belt and nine months away from graduating with a bachelor’s degree in economics, he had a bad case of senioritis. Since returning to campus at the end of August, he’d yet to crack open the first textbook, and he’d already skipped a handful of classes—the ones he knew he could get away with. The only bright spot on his schedule was basketball practice, which would be starting up at the end of the month. Then he could lose himself in the game like he did every year and coast through everything else until March Madness. From there it would be a short two months before he walked across the stage in his cap and gown, and done! College degree, check. Real world, here I come. But first, he had to make it to practice. Baby steps, Jo kept telling himself. Some days he had to repeat that phrase half a dozen times before he could manage to get out of bed, and he’d taken to muttering it under his breath in the shower, keeping his voice down so his roommate’s girlfriend wouldn’t overhear as she primped in front of the bathroom mirror. Jo lived for basketball; it got him this far in life, and even though he didn’t have anything lined up yet after graduation, he knew whatever he chose to do after college would somehow involve b-ball. He was a good player—hell, he was better than good, he was one of the best. His coach knew it, his teammates, too. After his freshman year, he’d been one of the top NBA draft picks, but he had a full sports scholarship and his father had advised him to finish school first. “Keep playing the way you do,” his father told him, “and they’ll keep a spot open. You’ll see.” And damned if they hadn’t. The same teams who tried to snag Jo the first year he was up for the draft came back the next, and the next. He kept up a strong defense, scored big on rebounds, and could sink a three-point shot with ease. Come May, he suspected he wouldn’t only have a degree but also another offer to play, and hopefully this time he’d have his pick of teams. His father was making noise about going on to get a master’s degree, but Jo wasn’t thinking that far ahead. He was tired of school—tired of classes, and dorm life, and tests and books and essays, everything that wasn’t a basketball in his hands, his feet pounding on the pavement, the ball sailing through the hoop like a dream. He couldn’t wait for practice to begin. The calendar on his phone already had the dates blocked off—practices in green, home games in blue, away games in red. He hadn’t even bothered to put down the deadlines for his class assignments, but he had down what counted to him so nothing in the rest of his life would interfere with his sport. Basketball was life, as the poster hanging in his room declared; the rest was just details. * * * * Going into his final year at State, Jo was a little nervous about…well, nervous in general, he guessed. His future was up in the air, but he knew that would solidify itself in a few months when classes ended and he graduated, one way or another. And classes, well, he’d get through them—he’d have to if he wanted to walk across the stage in May. He was in no fear of being tapped as valedictorian or anything, but as long as he got a diploma in the end, it’d be time and money well spent. But he was a bit worried about basketball. He could admit it, if only to himself, though he’d never breathe a word of doubt to his fellow teammates or even his coach. But this was it, his last chance to take his team all the way to the Final Four in March. They’d gotten as far as the Sweet Sixteen bracket the year before, and the team that ended up winning the tournament had knocked them out of the running, but it would be so nice to take home the gold trophy his final year. Only the team had undergone a few changes between the end of the spring semester and the beginning of the fall, and that was why Jo was worried. The seniors who had played so well last year were gone, and there were fresh faces onboard, new teammates whose strengths and weaknesses he’d have to learn in the few short months between the start of the season and the beginning of the opening of the tournament. And then there was the new assistant coach. Or rather, Jo hoped there was a new assistant coach. The previous one had moved on to coach his own college team somewhere in the Midwest. Jo knew the school had been interviewing applicants all summer long; for a while, Coach had sent out e-mails updating everyone on the team with details about the search. As the field narrowed down, the e-mails grew more frequent, and Jo didn’t even bother reading them. Hello? He had other things on his mind in the middle of the summertime than school. He deleted them unread, even the last one that came in late August with the subject, Found a winner! Meet new assistant coach, Kevin Jones! Now that classes had resumed, though, Jo wished he had bothered to open at least the last message, if only to read the new assistant coach’s credentials. He wanted to go out with a bang his final year and hoped the team could create the sort of magic they’d need to make it all the way to the top. He could barely wait for practice to start up again so he could see the team all in one place at one time and assess their chances of winning himself. * * * * Unfortunately, the team couldn’t officially practice before the end of September in accordance with NCAA rules, but Jo often got together with a few of his teammates in the evenings in the campus gym to shoot hoops, and on weekends they played pickup games. Basketball was big at State—bigger than anything else, because the college didn’t have a football team, so all the energy was funneled into b-ball. Team pride surged at the games, and even the stands were full during practices, with times posted on the school website so students could come out to watch. Since enrolling four years earlier, Jo quickly became the team’s star player. It was no exaggeration to say everyone knew his name, everyone. Not only collegiate fans and coaches but professors whose classes he didn’t even take and students who passed him on the quad. It helped that the team website had a phonetic spelling so he didn’t get shout outs during play mispronouncing his name. Coach had only called Jo Wah-Keem once, at the very first practice way back in freshman year, then frowned and squinted at the tall, buff, but decidedly white guy in his lineup. Jo’s skin was tanned from shooting hoops outside all summer, but his skin was still the palest out of everyone else on the team. At least his buzz cut didn’t stand out—many of the other players had shaved heads, or barely-there hair. But his name was pronounced Jo-ah-kim. It was a family name on his father’s side, Hebrew in origin, though his mother liked the sound of the J and didn’t want to pronounce it with the usual Y. Her reasoning had been it would be easier for him to be called Jo, a perfectly acceptable nickname, than to go through school being bullied for being saddled with a name like Joakim when he wasn’t even Jewish. His father had only wanted the name carried on; he didn’t care how it was pronounced. And, to be honest, Jo liked the confusion it caused, particularly on the court. When he was younger and attended basketball camps, he knew he got called on more than once for a team because someone saw his name on a roster and thought he was black with a name like that. He saw the disappointed twist of their mouths when they realized they were getting a scrawny little white boy instead, but then he showed them whenever he brought his A game. He had to admit, that felt good.