Middleground - Issue 3

I’m Nigga DAMIEN BELLIVEAU

March, 1990. The fog was wet, thick, and everywhere.

The dirt field was riddled with gopher holes. We were crouching in a huddle. Terry was quarterback, and between his dark brown hands he held the pebbled leather football. Jheri curl activator dripped across his broad shoulders as he spoke to us. His braces gave him a soft lisp, but even that couldn’t hurt his cool.

“Dee,” Terry said, “you want the ball this time?”

“Nuh-uh,” I said, shaking my head.

Terry sucked his teeth. He was the type of dude that made an effort to include people, even shy kids like me. Terry was a leader: confident, tall, outgoing and charismatic. He was everything I wasn’t. And he was black, real black. James Brown and Miles Davis black.

Black-Is-Beautiful black. African-ancestors-goingall-the-way-back black. “Dee, listen,” Terry said, “you gonna be ready when I throw to you?”

I was scared to say No, but terrified to say Yeah.

“Come on, Dee,” Terry reassured me, “it ain’t nothing. I’m just gonna fake one direction then hand the ball off to you.”

6

Terry delivered a final slap to my back and then nodded at everyone else in the huddle. He clapped his hands and we broke into formation.

“Hut! Hut! Hike!” Terry stuffed the ball into my chest.

I ran. I was sprinting down the field, slipping people’s outstretched hands, taking step after confident step.

For the very first time, the plastic flags on my hips were whipping and popping like everyone else’s. I noticed some Filipino dude gaining on me. He reached for one of my flags. I batted his hand away. I knew this was illegal, but I risked it anyway. The kid threw his hands up in protest and Coach DiMaggio blew his whistle.

Everyone on the field slowed to a trot.

“I had his flag,” the kid moaned. “He blocked my hand.”

DiMaggio approached, his head nodding like, Yeah, I know. “Belliveau,” DiMaggio shouted, “you can’t block someone’s hands like that. The hell’s wrong with you?”

Coach reached for the ball and I handed it to him. I dropped my head, disappointed in myself. DiMaggio fell in line beside me as we walked back a few yards. He