Darius and the Vanilla Funk Read online

  Mrs. Daniels was now the principal of the school and she had me working with other classes when I had the chance. She would also pair me up with some “troubled” kids who were mini versions of D Mitch. I truly felt their pain and anger and was there for them like Mr. C was always there for me.

  By the end of the school year my average had jumped to 87 and I was ready to come back the next year and kick it up even higher. I had been working out with Mr. Cohen for a few months and was starting to forget about the pain in my knee. Taking a multi vitamin every day and eating well didn’t hurt my muscular 5’11” frame either.

  In tenth grade I was about 5’9” and 140 pounds. Quickness was my ally and I was driven enough to stay out of tight situations. The new version of Darius Mitchell was

  165 pounds of muscle. My life was now calm and much of the stress I had carried over the years was gone. Mr. and

  Mrs. C also had me do yoga and tai chi so I would increase my flexibility and I also meditated to calm my mind.

  I had passed the basket on the outside of the house every day without thinking about it too much. It was a calm summer night and for a change I was in a house with good air conditioning. This cooling did little to distract my attention away from picking up a ball and shooting it through the hoop.

  Although Mr. Cohen and I would talk about basketball that we watched on TV, neither of us ever mentioned me playing again. He probably knew I would play again but didn’t want to make it the focal point of either of our lives.

  I was initially surprised to see the ball bounce back up to me when I took my first dribble. Mr. C was always a step ahead of me—he must have filled up the ball with air and expected me to use it. I was a bit stale on the first few shots but I wasn’t thinking about my leg. However, I felt a twinge in my left knee a few shots later when I tried to jump off the ground.

  Mr. C came out of the house, saw me rubbing my knee and smiled. I complained, “What’s so funny?” He replied,

  “You always want to take short cuts. Don’t you realize this is a process? First you worked on the brain, then the body, and now it’s time find your game again.”

  I shot back, “Well maybe we can search for that tired game of yours, too.”

  We spent many hours in that driveway and eventually graduated to the local park by the end of the summer. Mr. C had grown up in that park and played against many college and pro players. It was still a decent place to test your skills against some serious white talent, but I quickly learned that color had no boundaries on these courts.

  At first my knee was telling my brain not to go all out. I couldn’t stop having flashbacks about that practice when I heard my knee go “POP”! As time wore on, I was feeling less like the Snap, Crackle, and Pop of Rice Crispies and more like Tony the Tiger.

  Although I hadn’t regained my entire 40-inch vertical leap, I still had over 30 inches of hop. It was clear by the end of the summer that both my knee and my head would be strong enough to give my senior season a chance. Of

  course there were no guarantees whether the knee would be able to hold up to a full season. Mr. Cohen always told me that “You never know until you try” and I was more than willing to try.

  Blame It on the Funk

  School started and I felt completely different when I walked through the main entrance. In a matter of months my entire outlook on life had changed. While I used to be closed off to legitimate opportunities, the thought of going hard from start to finish my senior year was my entire focus.

  The last time I held my life in high regard was probably the last time I saw my dad alive. It had been over 12 years since he was killed and it took me that long to realize that life moves on. I’m sure my dad saw his share of tragedies, too, and he always found a way to put a positive spin on life. He was always really upbeat and was the glue that held the family together—that’s probably why our family fell apart when he left us.

  It really helped me to be in therapy the past few months. When I survived putting a gun to my head and then pulling the trigger, it probably was a foregone conclusion that I would need to talk to someone. I didn’t realize how much crap I had bottled inside of me; it was as if I never really moved on from seeing my dad get lit up on our front lawn. Yes I cried, but at five years old I didn’t have the capacity to process all of that crazy information.

  Slowly moving on wasn’t easy but it came a lot smoother now that I was part of a loving family. The Cohen’s and I blended like peanut butter and jelly—if you ask me which one I am, I’d probably say the jelly—they held it all together and I was loose and sweet.

  It had been quite some time since I had received a letter of interest from a college. With my average now in the mid-80’s, after a late year swoon, I was looking to get into position to go to college solely for my brain, not my basketball skills. Relying on my knee would not be the way to go because that was out of my control. What I could

  control was my effort in the classroom and Mr. And Mrs. C

  would make sure to crack the whip if needed.

  I waited to walk in the gym until the first day of practice. The basketball team’s coach had seen my walking through the hallways a few times and had barely acknowledged my existence—ignorance noted. The guys hadn’t seen my all summer and much of the fall because I was living with the Cohen’s in Bailey Woods, not in the cozy Branchville confines.

  When I walked on the floor with my number three Branchwood practice jersey, a few eyebrows were definitely raised. There was this guy named Patrick Morgan who had taken my number three in my absence—he came walking on the court like he owned me.

  I felt a little grumbling in my stomach as Coach Barstow gathered the 20 players in the gym around him and said, “OK ladies, this is a tryout for the varsity basketball team. Only 12 of you will make the team, and he looked at me and said, “There are no guarantees.”

  I played a little cat and mouse on the lay-up line as I held back any bursts of speed. Patrick Morgan kept looking at me and rubbing his hands together like it was Thanksgiving Day and he was getting ready to carve the turkey. Little did he know that he would be the turkey on this day, not me.

  We went through a bunch of drills and then coach broke us up into teams to scrimmage. He thought so little of me that I was placed on the third team; once the first ten- minute scrimmage ended, my team was told to take the court against the first team. Coach Barstow yelled out, “First team stay in black, new team turn your jersey’s to gold!”

  I flipped my jersey around and slid it past my head and let it settle on my shoulders. I looked down to my chest and saw the letters “AI” written in black letters. My head swiveled around in time to see Mr. Cohen walk in the gym and settle in to the bottom row of the bleachers. I looked down at my chest knowing that Mr. Cohen had marked up my jersey for inspiration. I nodded at him and he smiled back and nodded at me.

  It was like the first day of kindergarten all over again. A few of the first team players saw my AI and started pointed a laughing. I learned a valuable lesson that day—a few seconds changes everything. The starting team began the scrimmage with the ball and missed its first shot. I dribbled the ball up the court; being bumped my Patrick Morgan all the way. I spotted a teammate cutting to the basket and hit him with a no-look pass for a lay-up.

  My first piece of action drew a faint reaction from the guys watching from the sidelines. I had played against Patrick Morgan a few times over the years and even made him cry once. The guy was about my height, slightly under

  6”, but he was skinny and the junior guard had only one move, a between the legs dribble.

  I picked him up hard under our basket and rode him pretty hard until we reached half-court. By forcing him to use his weak hand, his left, I knew the between the legs dribble would be next. Before he even had a chance to cross the ball through his legs I used a burst of speed to steal with bal
l and had nothing but open spaces in front of me.

  Mr. Cohen stood up as I made my charge toward the basket. If I had thought about dunking the ball then it probably wouldn’t have happened. I dribbled the ball and few times and then went airborne once my feet hit the black painted lane area. Once in the air I turned my body so my back was facing the basket. I slammed the ball through and then held on the rim for a few seconds before settling back to the ground.

  Mr. C started strolling out of the gym and looked at me with a smile. I didn’t dare smile because I had to give the appearance that I knew it all along. In typical Branchville, over-the-top style, the scrimmage was stopped for a few minutes while the guys could get their collective breaths. Coach Barstow even went over to Patrick Morgan and ushered his bench-warming ass over to the sidelines. It felt good to have my team back, but it felt even better to finally have control over my life.

  Within a few months I was back to leading my team in scoring and assists, although my points were down from my sophomore year but my assists were up. I was less selfish

  and getting my teammates more involved and we were winning again. My average had also held firm at a B+ all year and I was looking forward to going to college.

  We lost in the state finals but the recruitment letters had been pouring in for months. While I still had a lot of confidence in my game, my focus had shifted to picking a good school, not attended a college because of their excellent basketball team.

  When a local Division I college came calling, I knew that I could get both a great education and make a difference on their team. The basketball team had recently made the jump from Division II to Division I and was happy to see me get my game back. When I was a sophomore, the coach sent me a nice letter that I ripped up and threw in the garbage. At the time I didn’t think that they would be worthy of my services, but now I just feel lucky to be of service and getting a full scholarship.

  It was spring again and the anniversary of my dad’s death was once again upon me. What a difference a year had made—it had taken a near-death experience and two

  loving people to elevate me to a much higher place. I met Mr. C at his classroom after my day ended and read my usual story to his class. We got in his car and drove away from the school and toward home.

  When Mr. C slowly came to a stop across the street from my old house our thoughts had once again connected. He reached into the back seat of his car and pulled out a bouquet of bright, colorful tulips. Mr. Cohen waited for me in the car as I strolled up the walk and stopped next to “the spot”. I took two yellow tulips out and placed them on the ground.

  I saw a little kid staring at me from the screen door and he excitedly ran and got his mother. She initially said, “Can I help you” but when her son pulled her arm and said, “Mom, that’s Darius Mitchell.” She smiled and said, “Would you like to come in?” I said “This used to be my house” and I walked around my house and basked in all of the familiar sights.

  We spent a few minutes on the house tour and then I said, “My dad’s waiting for me in the car.” It had been a while since I used the word dad in a sentence in the present

  tense. For all intents and purposes, Mr. Cohen had taken the torch passed to him by my dad, the original D Mitch. Mrs. Williams and her son Shawn walked out to the car with me and Shawn even brought his basketball with him.

  Mr. Cohen got out of the car and I said “Mrs. Williams, this is my dad Mr. Cohen.” Mr. C looked at me as tears welled up in his eyes. He introduced himself to Mrs. Williams and she recognized him from the school. “You’re that third grade teacher my son is always talking about. Do you think you can get him in your class next year?” Mr. Cohen looked at me and said to Mrs. Williams, “Well, if he’s anything like Darius then it would be my pleasure.”

  I played with Shawn Williams for a few more minutes and then got back in the car. I reached down under my seat, picked up jersey and walked back across the street. “Hey Shawn” I said as I flipped the jersey at him – “Make me proud.” Shawn immediately put the jersey on and was dribbling with the dress-like jersey blanketed his small frame.

  We pulled away from my old house and Shawn and his mother were saying “Thank you!” and “Don’t be a stranger.”

  I looked over at Mr. Cohen and he smiled a teary smile at me. I returned the smile and extended my black fist toward his strong, white first. Our knuckles banged together and I thought that life could only get better with the Vanilla Funk around.