Long Division(29)

Anyway, I was allergic to watermelon, but Grandma seemed so happy when she ate them, so I decided to use the ten dollars Mama gave me for the trip to buy Grandma a gift.

“Coach, lemme get one of them baby watermelons.” Coach just looked at me and started rolling his tongue underneath the inside of his top lip. “Gimme one of them baby watermelons, Coach! Why you looking at me crazy?” He still just looked, steady rolling his eyes like he would look if you fumbled in practice or acted scared to hit someone or didn’t run a play right.

“Come back here with me, Wide Load.” He walked through his truck. I looked at MyMy and walked back with him. “What you doing, man?” he asked me.

“What you mean, Coach?”

“What I mean!? Wide Load, you worse than them ignorant-ass rappers grabbing hard on them dicks, selling that poison, and calling everybody ‘niggas.’ You don’t eat no watermelon in front of no white folks,” he told me. “I know them folks in Jackson taught you better. Don’t look at me like that, boy. I don’t care of she is just a little white gal. Like I told y’all during the season. Practice makes perfect. You play the game the way you live your life.”

“White folks don’t like watermelon, Coach?”

“Naw, Wide Load. That ain’t it. It just some things you just don’t do. I swear before God that I don’t know what’s wrong with y’all little young boys in this generation. Black men like me fought so—”

“Oh Jesus,” I said.

“Now you blaspheming his name? We did our best so y’all could have equal opportunities and some of whatever the white man got. We got a black president in that White House fighting to stay alive and here y’all go trying hard to act like niggas in front of the white man’s woman.” He stopped and looked at me like he’d just asked me a question. “What if Obama acted like that? You don’t see how they love seeing us do things like fighting and acting a fool on TV and dancing and eating on watermelons?”

“That’s stuff I like to do anyway, Coach,” I told him. “Plus, I like to do other stuff, too.”

“Shhh. Wide Load. Shut the hell up. I’m asking you how you think that makes us feel?”

Coach was waiting for an answer, but you know what’s crazy? I’d never thought of Coach Stroud as being any part of the “us” he was talking about. The only time people talked about Coach Stroud was when they talked about Melahatchie’s biddy ball team. And the only time folks really talked about Melahatchie’s biddy ball team was when they were saying we might not need to be coached by someone who liked to bust booties.

“You ain’t answer me, boy.”

I opened my mouth, but he interrupted me. “It’s like this, Wide Load. I’mo say it to you one more time. White man see you acting a nigga, he liable to think we all still niggas. Niggas are less than white folks in they eyes. Look what they did to that young brother, Trayvon. If they think you less than human, you don’t deserve no respect. Period. You are a smart young man. I know you understand.”

“You done?”

“See, that’s your problem, Wide Load. You play too much. White man see your big ass acting a fool on TV, and he gon’ have a reason to take away the rights we done worked so hard for. Y’all gotta learn how to manage that freedom we got for y’all. You see what I’m saying. Ain’t enough to be free. What you gon’ do with the freedom?”

Coach was pissing me off even more than Principal Reeves when she gave that wack freedom speech. “Coach, you know something?” I was about to call him a half-ape, half-faggot in too-tight coach pants.

Instead, I said, “You probably should just give me the watermelon before I say something to hurt your feelings,” and went back around to the side of the truck.

He leaned close to me. “You act like a li’l head-buster, but don’t never forget, City, that you got a head, too.” Coach leaned back, blinked a few times, and swallowed some spit. “Here you go, boy. That’ll be six dollars.”

He really had a look in his eyes that told me he wanted to elbow me in the jaw. I thought about how since my friend Gunn was known as the best young fighter in Melahatchie, there really was no telling how effective Coach Stroud was with his hands, but still I wanted him to know something.

“Coach Stroud.” I looked down at MyMy and thought about not saying this in front of her. “You pissed me off in the back of your truck a few minutes ago, but I guess I really don’t think you be busting Gunn’s booty. I don’t. I just think he’s too young to have a grown boyfriend or girlfriend. And I thought about calling you a ‘faggot’ back there, too, but then I remembered how you were damn near a ninja,” I told him. “I also kinda remembered that ‘faggot’ sounds like some kind of balled-up monster made of ground-up dookie chunks, razor blades, and rotten muscadines. You ain’t no monster, Coach. Not to me.”

I looked at Coach and I grabbed MyMy’s hand and got a little distance from the truck. “I hear what you saying back there, but can I give you some advice? Fuck white folks,” I told him. “For real! Their eyes ain’t gotta be everywhere you are. Y’all are too old to care about them so much. They can only do as much harm as you let them, and all y’all oldheads are letting them do way too much.”