Coach Allen stood alone, watching studiously as his undefeated basketball team ran through their scheduled ball drills. His determined crew had come a long way from final cuts to play what he called TFB (Team First Basketball), a coaching philosophy Allen had instilled in every team and player he mentored during his evolving coaching career. TFB was founded on the principle that you first coach the team on fundamentals, and once learned, you have the foundation to build a winning organization. Pleased with the players' practice energy, he slowly brought the whistle, which hung around his neck, up to his mouth, as he was about to disrupt his rigid practice structure for the first time this season.
Sam Allen was in his mid-forties and had been recruited to turn around an anemic high school basketball program. This was his fifth head coaching job, each assignment taking him to a larger high school. In the three years since he first donned the school’s maroon and white colors, his teams' won/lost records had improved significantly year over year. At six feet three inches tall, he had played his undergraduate ball in Northeastern Pennsylvania at Lafayette College, a small Division 1 liberal arts college. It was very early on during his playing career that he realized if he wanted to make the game a lifelong pursuit. Recognizing his athletic limitations, he would be a coach and not a player. His physical appearance was the opposite of imposing. He had a mix of thinning brown and blond hair; a long face that housed a nose that hooked down at the end, a weak chin line that led to a chicken-like neck, fair skin with freckles, and hazel eyes that were hidden by sleepy eyelids. Known for his laid-back teaching style, he taught secondary school psychology and speech and was an easy grader. His elective classes were extremely popular with juniors and seniors looking to boost their overall GPA. The contrast between the two Allens was startling. The Classroom Allen was nurturing and easy going in direct contrast to the Coaching Allen, who was a no-nonsense, intense taskmaster.
The shrill sound of the whistle caught every player's attention as Coach Allen shouted out, “Gather around, let’s move it,” as the 15 varsity players stopped their skill drills and ran towards midcourt, followed by the team’s assistant coach, Billy Bower, and the student manager. With a basketball tucked under his arm, the team circled him. Looking at the competitive faces in front of him, Coach Allen finally addressed last Friday’s game at Mayfair. “I scheduled Mayfair to toughen you up, knowing it would be the most hostile environment you would ever face this season or any season, including the PIAA State playoffs. What I didn’t tell you was that I played and coached against Mayfair in that bandbox gym more times than I care to admit, and each time they kicked our ass. Even though I didn’t get to see it, you did collectively what my teams in the past weren’t able to do: you kept your composure, shut out the crowd and the refs, and played like the winners you are. I knew you won the game when the building went silent. I’m proud of you. Great Team Win!”
Never one to heap praise on his players during a season, Coach Allen usually waited until after they had graduated. This was a first. Quickly shifting gears, Coach Allen continued, “Friday, we play our archrival, Chelsea. Like us, they’re also undefeated, and also like us, they play team ball. However, I have a little trick up my sleeve. Instead of playing man-to-man or zone defense, we are going to play a combination of zone and man. A coaching friend of mine tipped me off about this new Combo D, and we spent the weekend talking about it. Chelsea’s never seen this defensive approach, and I believe it will keep their offense off balance and confuse them. Now is the time to spring the trap and use it. There was a trust in Coach Allen’s basketball acumen that was built upon success, as the players took in every word he said, confident in the outcome.
The Head Coach grabbed the basketball from under his arm and passed it to Richie, a symbolic gesture to the floor captain and leader of his team. ” Since there is no game on Tuesday, we have four days to learn this new D. First team on defense and second team on offense, Coach Bower will show the second team Chelsea’s offensive scouting report, so they can work their plays against our starters, while I teach the first team the fundamentals of the new combo team defense.” And that’s exactly what they did non-stop for the next hour and a half as the entire team learned a new way of defending from a coach who expended his energy on the court instead of in the classroom. It was only a matter of time before Coach Allen started coaching at the college level, on his way to the pros; this team, the best talent he had coached to date, was his stepping-stone, and he knew it.
When Allen blew the whistle for the final time, Richie was dog tired and ready for practice to end. Under the Head Coach’s intense direction, they learned to seamlessly switch from zone to man-to-man and then back again, confusing the second team in the process. Exhausted, yet exhilarated, the players headed towards the locker room. Richie, as he jogged off the court, watched Jimmy grab a basketball and slowly dribble towards one of the glass backboards and position his feet on the foul line. Ready for an invigorating shower, Richie reluctantly retraced his steps and joined Jimmy, catching his shots from under the basket.
After Jimmy’s twentieth free throw attempt, Richie spoke, “I talked to Estelle today, she told me about your drive home after last Friday’s game. You want to talk?
Avoiding eye contact with Richie, Jimmy focused on the front rim. Dribbling twice, he hesitated and in one fluid motion released the ball with his right hand. A perfect arc as both players watched the spinning ball swish through the net. Richie caught it before it hit the hardwood. Hesitating, an internal debate taking place inside his head, he held it and then walked towards Jimmy. “Let's talk.”
The wrestling team had an away game, which meant that the gym would stay open until they got back, so out of view and earshot from everyone, the backcourt combination climbed up the empty bleachers about halfway up the stands. Jimmy spoke first, moral indignation in his voice, “Richie, do you know who Martin Luther King is? Are you familiar with the Civil Rights movement: Rosa Parks, Little Rock, Arkansas, Greensboro, North Carolina, James Meredith, and the University of Mississippi?
“Kinda,” Richie answered haltingly.
Judging by the expression on Richie’s face. Jimmy responded, “Well I am, and it is an important movement that is being discussed everyday within the negro community. I attend a predominantly all white school. I blend in. If Sally and I were to walk down the halls hand in hand, the contrast between black and white would ripple through our idyllic school community like an earthquake. I know what Sally’s old man calls me…that ball playin nigger. He stopped for a second to let his words sink in. “Guess what, my old man, who works for the township, and my mother, who teaches elementary school in Upper Bethel, would think?” Well, they would be just as opposed to our dating as Sally’s parents. And Harold, my brother, who’s on a football scholarship to Delaware State, would be horrified if he knew I was dating a white girl. Harold is part of the civil rights movement. He no longer calls himself a negro. He’s black. The situation is fucked, and we both know it. What do I do? You tell me?”
Jimmy’s impassioned words struck a nerve as not a word was said between the two athletes. Searching for an answer, Richie looked around the empty arena. It was then that he realized that he had never watched an athletic event in this gym from this vantage point. He had always been a participant, not an observer. Jimmy was a participant in the Civil Rights movement, and he was an observer never even considering what it meant from a negro and fellow teammates perspective. Sure he read the newspapers headlines and occasionally watched the local and national coverage of the growing racial unrest and the negroes protest against discrimination, but not from the viewpoint of Jimmy, Estelle and their families. If it didn’t affect him, he tuned it out. Realizing his insensitivity, he decided right then and there to do something about it.
Richie, like Jimmy, had a pretty good idea as to how his parents would react to his dating a negro girl. And because he hadn’t the nerve to have a serious discussion with Estelle about their relationship, he had no idea as to how her parents would react if they started dating. Finally, Richie spoke, “I’d say that we have a choice to make. One is which I’ve been thinking about ia lot lately. Our dilemma is that you can’t openly date Sally, and I can’t openly date Estelle because if we did, all hell would break loose. Can you imagine two ebony and ivory couples walking down our school halls, or worse, going to the movies and eating out? The looks we would receive from our fellow suburbanites. We might as well put ourselves on display at the Philadelphia Zoo. That idea won’t work. However, what appears to be is not necessarily what it is. What if you started dating Estelle, and I started dating Sally, and in the process, we pulled off the ‘ole switcheroo.’ No harm, no foul…Right? First, we would have to escape the prying eyes of our township. Instead, we would double date or meet in the city near Penn or Temple’s campus, where interracial dating is at least tolerated. It’s not perfect, but…
Still hidden from their fellow teammates, who were now walking across their home court after showering and getting dressed, Jimmy stood up and waited until they exited before he spoke. “Let me think about it .”Then, after another ten seconds passed, a slight mischievous smile started to appear on his face, “Switcheroo .” As Jimmy put his right hand up to his chin, cupped it, and said contemplatively. “Switcheroo, as I recall, is defined as an act of intentionally or unintentionally swapping two objects,” pausing again for another ten seconds, he optimistically continued…”It could work. And no one would be the wiser?”
Richie also stood up as his eyes followed Coaches Allen and Bower leaving the gym, “It’s a plan, no guarantees, there is always the unexpected, but it could work.”
As they scrambled down the bleacher rungs, energized by their forthcoming deception, Jimmy turned to Richie and said, I’m in,” just before their feet hit the court.