The Rat That Got Away: A Bronx Memoir

23. Summer Schooling

23 Summer Schooling After a year of living the life of a prep school boy, I returned to the Bronx in the summer of 1970. Chameleon that I was, it was easy for me to go from one life to the next and make the necessary adjustments. Somehow, I always seemed able to make the best of any situation, a talent or disposition that has served me well in life and one I have long been grateful for. The first thing I needed to do when I got home was deal with my criminal past. Just before the State Supreme Court closed for the summer, I had to appear for sentencing. A year and a half had passed since I last stood before the judge. Since then, I had become a different person, and I was determined to look the part. I had my hair cut short, Caesar style, and wore a suit and tie. In one hand, I held the trophy given to me for winning the conference scoring championship, and in the other I held my honor roll grades, along with the letter offering me a scholarship to Montreat Anderson Junior College. To my great relief, the judge was impressed with my efforts. He took me off probation and told me that I would be treated as a youth offender so that nothing would be on my record. Now I was, truly, a free man. Even the beef in Criminal Court for the stolen car had been dropped. I could not believe my good fortune . When I got outside the courtroom with my mother, we praised the Lord together. Neither of us could fully understand how or why my life had changed so dramatically, but we knew we had been blessed. My time in Rikers, the six felony charges against me, and the threat of 10 to 15 years of prison time all seemed like a bad dream. 128 Summer Schooling 129 Soon I found myself back on the block and glad to be there, especially now that I had regained my freedom. One of the first things I did was walk down 143rd Street and 3rd Avenue hoping to see someone I knew so that I could holler, ‘‘What’s happening, my nigger?’’ But I did not see anybody walking. Instead, as I was cruising down the block, a blue Mercedes-Benz pulled up beside me and slowed down. I was startled because I did not know anyone with a ride like that, but when I looked inside, I recognized Jay, one of the older hustlers around the block. Jay was in his mid-30s, had light skin and a bald head, and stood about 6⬘3⬙. In the street culture of my neighborhood, when an older player stopped to talk to you, it was a sign of respect; so when Jay said, ‘‘Jump in and ride with me for a minute, I got to make a few stops,’’ I felt honored. Even though I was going off to college and leaving the street life behind, I was not going to turn my back on the people in my community who had chosen a different path. We cruised through Harlem, where he made a few stops to drop off some envelopes. I figured some people were getting paid, but I did not say a word. I had everything to gain by being cool, which meant seeing things and knowing things and keeping my thoughts to myself. If this little ride was a test, I soon found out I had passed it. After he finished his rounds, Jay dropped me off back at the Patterson Houses with a knowing look and a nod of his head. During the rest of my time in New York, Jay was a silent presence. Wherever I played ball, I knew the brother had my back, and that meant a lot, given how dangerous my neighborhood was becoming. Being back on the streets, I could see clearly how much the player life and the hope of a big score still captured everyone’s imagination. All of the revolutionary talk and idealism of the ’60s had made an impression on some members of the black community, but other brothers held on to a different dream, one that was especially prevalent among ballplayers. Shortly after I came back from school, I met up with Guy Fisher again and started playing basketball in Clark Junior High School park with him and his crew. Guy, who was...