Richie, having misled his family, looked at the clock in his room and realized that unless he did something, this particular Saturday afternoon would last forever. Grabbing the phone in his sister’s bedroom, he made a series of calls, which resulted in a pickup game at ‘Terloff Gardens,’ the outside basketball court of his close friend and team manager, Terry Terloff. Since both of the family cars were in use, Richie caught a ride from his mother, who was on her way, along with his sister, to shop at Wanamaker’s suburban location.
A classic English Tudor, Terloff’s expansive house was situated on six acres of land in Danbury. Richie marveled at this one-of-a-kind home each time he visited Terry. He was the last to arrive, and once there, he made his way down the hill towards the tennis courts, which is where the half-court basketball court was located. Halfway down the concrete steps, he paused to take in the players that were warming up below him. Juniors and Seniors now, they had all known each other since elementary school and junior high. An unusually tight knit group of friends, they would do anything for anyone in their circle; all you had to do was ask. And yet, Richie had said nary a word to any of them about Estelle. Why, he asked himself? But before he could express a thought or opinion, Terry spotted him on the steps and yelled, “Are you scouting, which players to pick for your team? Made up your mind?”
Richie’s countenance relaxed into a laid-back smile, a facial look that his friends were so accustomed to seeing; waving at Terry, he jogged down the remaining steps and caught a basketball thrown in his direction. “What’s the temperature?” Richie asked as he stepped onto the court and began dribbling the outdoor basketball. Without breaking stride, he shed his jacket with his left hand, flipped it against the fence, and with his right hand banked a shot off the boards into the basket---to no one's surprise. He was the guy they grew up playing ball with; he was one of them, and over time, he had become a star in their eyes.
“Fifties,” came the reply from multiple players. Then the varsity starter joined the weakest team and played winners out for the next three hours.
Richie accepted a lift home from Terry, whom Richie had known since fourth grade. Nicknamed the “Professor, Terry, at six feet five inches tall, was a solid pickup basketball player. Unfortunately, his height and competitive spirit couldn’t make up for his lack of athleticism, a requirement to play at the next level of varsity competition. Rather than become bitter at the card the Basketball Gods dealt him, he instead chose to become the team manager and a trusted advisor to both Coaches Allen and Bower. Level-headed and smart, Terry was a year older than Richie and had always treated the starting point guard as if he were the younger brother he never had. But the relationship cut both ways. If there was a problem or situation that Terry was struggling to deal with, Richie was Terry’s go-to guy, to discuss whatever sensitive topic was on his mind. Siblings not traced to a common ancestor, Richie and Terry instinctively knew if something was bothering one of them, it could not be hidden from the other.
Driving in silence, it was unusual for the gregarious team manager to say nary a word as they headed towards “The Wicks.” Richie, attempting to break the awkward silence, asked Terry, “Have you decided on which Ivy League school you’re going to attend?”
Terry, ignoring the question, pulled over to the side of the road and looked Richie straight in the eye and queried, “Are you dating Estelle Dinkins? If you are, it’s a huge mistake.”
Taking in a deep breath, then blowing it out slowly, Richie answered a question with a question: “What makes you think that?”
Terloff responded. “Don’t Bull Shit the Bull Shitter. It’s obvious that she likes you; you’d be a fool not to see it. My question is, do you like her?
Richie, sitting in the passenger seat, didn’t answer; instead, he stared straight ahead, ignoring the inquiry.
Terloff, glancing over at Richie and realizing he wasn’t going to get a response from him, charged ahead. “You know my parents, they’re liberal and I have a great relationship with them, so I cautiously asked them, on your behalf, about interracial dating and marriage. At first, they thought I was obtaining information for myself. Suddenly realizing it was about a friend, and no, they didn’t guess it was you, they both said that the times were not right for it and that it could screw up both lives, negro and white. They’re conclusion, neither side would accept the other, like a Jew marrying a Christian or a Christian marrying a Jew, tolerated but not accepted, with the child being the ping pong ball.
Furthermore, they emphasized that right now, the negroes are in a historic fight for their civil rights, trying to push a reluctant executive branch and Congress to do the right thing. And if a Civil Rights bill is passed, and it’s a big if, the current status quo will change overnight, especially for those whites in the South who oppose it, and they’re like speaking brothers in the North. Laws passed for the right reasons don’t change prejudiced opinions, especially when it involves race. Besides, interracial dating and marriage are secondary to the main civil rights objective, overall equality for the negro. Should you be able to date or marry whoever you want? Sure, that's the right idea, but that’s not the case today, and I’m not sure when it will ever be acceptable. Look you’ve got a lot of great things going for you, and so does Estelle. Can’t say for sure, but my guess is the two of you would isolate yourselves from the rest of your classmates and even be shunned. Is that what you want?” Is that what you wish for, Estelle? It’s sure as hell not what I want for you.”
Richie sat in the passenger seat with his arms folded across his chest and in a defiant tone responded without ever looking at Terry, “If you're asking, if I’ve taken Estelle out on a date, yet, the answer is no, but I’m thinking about it?”
“Well, think again,” Terry countered in a raised voice, and with that he pulled away from the curb, resumed the drive, and turned up the car radio as ‘Go Away Little Girl’ by Steve Lawrence played through the vehicle’s speakers.