Any Way the Wind Blows - E. Lynn Harris [70]
“Yeah, you right. But read this,” I insisted.
“Is it sumthin’ ’bout her being single? You think I’d stand a chance when I’m flossing in the NFL, dawg?”
“Just read it and see,” I said.
“I’ll read it later,” Daschle said as he pushed the magazine away. He leaned forward uncomfortably and placed his magazine back into the pocket.
“D, I need to ask you something,” I said nervously.
“What’s up, B?” Daschle asked as he looked out the left side of the car.
“D, uh, can you read?” I asked. Daschle turned to me and looked genuinely shocked by my question.
“What are you talking ’bout? Shit, yeah, I can read,” Daschle said.
“Then read this,” I said as I opened the Ebony magazine again and placed it in Daschle’s lap. He quickly knocked the magazine to the floor of the car.
“Niggah, whatsup with you? Why you trippin’?” Daschle asked.
“Daschle, I’m concerned about you. If you can’t read, then I can get you some help. I’m not the kind of agent who’s only interested in getting a huge commission from my players. If that’s what you want, then the big boys can do that. I’m concerned about you after your playing days are over. You can’t be a baller your entire life,” I said.
“You don’t need to worry ’bout me. All you need to do is get me more paper than I know what to do with.”
“But if you can’t read, all the money in the world will be gone like this,” I said as I snapped my fingers in the air. Daschle didn’t answer, and his eyes looked cold and expressionless. The silence between us was as thick and hard as bulletproof glass. About five minutes passed, and when I looked up and saw we were coming to the exit for the car dealership, I thought I’d give it one more shot.
“D, listen to me. Man, I can get you a private tutor. It’ll be just between you and me. It ain’t nobody’s business. Be honest, D. Can you read?”
“A little,” he said softly.
“Do you know what level?”
“The last time I checked, a mutherfuckin’ counselor said on a third-grade level. When they told me that shit, I just quit trying,” he said. There was deep pain in his voice. I didn’t ask him how he had gotten into college and managed to last two years. There was no need to. I knew that when someone was a gifted athlete, there were ways around anything, including entrance exams and required classes.
I touched Daschle on his knee, and he flinched like he had been pricked with a needle.
“Say, man, trust me. This is a problem we can solve,” I assured Daschle.
“It might be too late, B,” he said sadly.
“Naw, D, it’s never too late.”
• • •
Dealing with Dashcle and his problems had almost caused me to miss an event I was looking forward to: the Sportsman of the Year Awards, being held at Radio City Music Hall.
It was a cool winter evening as I walked down the red carpet frantic with sports stars like Derek Jeter, Alan Henderson, Jason Seahorn and movie stars like Samuel Jackson, Halle Berry, Angie Harmon and groups of fans smiling and waving as they walked into the auditorium.
I was looking mighty fly if I do say so myself in a midnight-black suit tailored to perfection by Everett Hall out of Washington, D.C., and a snow-white French-cuffed shirt, no tie. I was enjoying being out with my peers and I smiled proudly for the pool of photographers. The only thing missing was a beautiful lady on my arm.
I was halfway down the red carpet when I spotted one of the most startling bodies I’d seen in a long time. The young lady was wearing a body-fitting floral silk dress and was posing like a fashion model for the photographers. I stopped to just look at her. Her ass was calling my attention in one direction, and her robust breasts were calling me in another. When she turned around and smiled, I realized this golden brown woman with long black hair and the face of an angel was television hostess Ananda Lewis of BET and MTV fame.
Just as I was getting ready to make my move, I heard someone call my name. “Basil Henderson, can I get a few words with you?” a female voice shouted.