“In fact, I think you’re the richest bunch on campus. I’m not talking about monetary riches. I’m talking about rich in opportunity. Mr. Sanchez knows the textbook definition of camaraderie, but I don’t want that definition. I’m talking aboutmydefinition of camaraderie.”
I glance over at LaQuan in the desk next to me.
He’s staring at Pops like he did this morning after Keenan called him from the St. Landry Parish jail and Pops told him that tough times built tough men. Afterward I gave LaQuan the crumpled wad of hundred-dollar bills stuck under the soles of the sneakers in my locker to put on Keenan’s books because he said their mom had washed her hands of him. I couldn’t imagine nobody’s mom doing such a fucked up thing, but Mom used to say that not every mom was solid like her. I figured Keenan would make better use of the money than I would.
“I want you all to look around this room,” Pops says.
They hesitate before their heads twist and turn to look at each other from their seats.
I heard this speech before when Pops coached one of my AAU teams back home. All the boys on that team came from different neighborhoods—Watts, Leimert Park, Compton, Crenshaw, Inglewood. I was the only one with a Kardashian as a neighbor, but Pops told me that didn’t matter. We all bled the same and in America, a nigga was a nigga whether he was rich or poor, even though he always tells me I’m not rich. He and Mom are the only rich people in the family, so the Kardashian wastheirneighbor. Not mine.
“These are your brothers,” Pops says. “Your lifelines on and off the court. I’m not here to tell you that you have to love each other. I’m telling you that youmustlove each other because in this world we live in, ain’t nobody else gon' love my brother like I love my brother.”
There’s no talk about his three championship rings, his time playing alongside Kobe and Shaq, or that one time Jordan called him one of the greatest of all time even without that fourth ring. He’s not a bragger and I don’t remember a time he ever was.
“You have a community that wants to support you. Let them. Let them bring you into their homes and love on you like I love on you. Pick your brothers up when they’re down.” His eyes gloss over LaQuan and then me. “Stop harping on what you think I am and focus on what I’m trying to give you.”
It’s so quiet I hear Bryson’s shallow breaths from the bottom of the stairs. I think I hate him a little less even if my reasons for hating him are stupid.
“I’m proud of you, Bryson Sanchez,” Pops says.
“For what?”
“For showing up today. Ain’t nobody ever told you they was proud of you for waking up this morning?”
I see the answer in the glossy coating in his eyes. My old friend Javier told me that Pops was the only man that had ever told him some soft shit like that and meant it. After that, I woke up wanting those words sometimes.
He nudges Bryson in the back. “Go’on and sit back down. Up in here asking me if I think you stupid. You a black man in America, boy. You’ll always be the smartest man in the room.”
Afterward, everybody gets quiet. There aren’t anymore side conversations like before.
Pops snatches his phone from the podium behind him, frowning. He’s hella deep in this new midlife crisis.
“Calloway…” he calls out. “The Brown family is eagerly awaiting your arrival for dinner this Thursday afternoon.”
He keeps on—matching boys with families as if he’s played personal matchmaker to pair everyone with the perfect family. LaQuan with the Andersons, Bryson with the Shafers, Marquise with the Taylors, Lucas with the Clarks.
Everybody comes out of their heads as Pops texts family contacts and dudes realize Mrs. Anderson works in the cafe and can whip up a mean gumbo, the music history professor Mr. Clark owns the original Screwed Up Records and Tapes off Cullen that DJ Screw used to record in, and Mrs. Taylor is the auxiliary squad coach so they’ll get the scoop on the dancers. Everybody’s got somebody.
“Aye…” LaQuan hisses from next to me. “You ain’t got a host family?”
Well, everybody except me.
I shrug. “Guess not. Looks like I’m the only orphan around here.”
“I mean, with a dude like Coach Williams as your daddy, it ain’t like you need one.” He holds up his hands. “I’m just saying.”
I shake my head, looking down at Pops embracing another boy. “A nigga always need family, Quan.”
He nods and I see the pity on his face. It’s not the same expression I saw on all the white faces at UCLA. Those looks made my throat tight. It didn’t relax until Mr. Palmer, the Title IX Director, told Mom it was best I left campus for good. She spent her last breath fighting him on it.
“Williams!” Pops howls from the front of the room, waving his hand.
He’s still gripping that same boy from earlier and I realize that boy isn’t a part of our team. His dingy white tee and steel toe boots give it away. Dudes are so excited about theirhost familiesI didn’t even hear him breeze inside the auditorium because they’re so loud hooting about “gumbo” and “baddies.” When he opens his mouth, the lights flicker off his gold teeth. It’s some real country ass Texas shit.
“Damn… that’s yo host family?” LaQuan whispers as I push up from my seat. “Rest in peace to you, dawg. I’ll save you a bowl of gumbo—looks like you gon' be needing it. He gon' have you eating sardines and fried Spam.”
I smack my lips, but it isn’t like LaQuan is fucking around. Hedidlook like he’d smoke a blunt and then fry up a fire ass Spam sandwich. It would be too much like right if Pops gave me a real host family. He was always preparing me for the world where I’d be “a nigga” whether I was Ason Williams’ son or not.
