Middle Men Read Online Free PDF

emergency call box. I had never been this far north. California seemed to go on forever. The freeway was surrounded by farms and I could smell manure. When Coach Boyd got back, he opened the hood and stared idly at the engine. The Triple-A guy arrived and informed us that we were simply out of gas. “My bad, guys,” said Coach Boyd, laughing. “I forgot the gauge is busted.”
    We had reserved two rooms at Motel 6. After we put our bags away, Coach Boyd led us down to the beach, only a couple blocks away. We walked through a sleepy neighborhood and then over some sand dunes. It was overcast andthe shoreline was littered with driftwood and seaweed. In the distance I could see a giant hotel right on the beach. I figured Trinity was staying there. Coach Boyd told us to sit down and relax.
    â€œThis is a big tournament,” he said. “And I know for some of you it probably feels like the most important thing in the world—”
    â€œIt’s just summer league. Who gives a shit?”
    â€œI know, Tully. But some guys might feel like their whole lives . . .” He squatted down and picked up a handful of sand. “Listen. What you have to understand is that in the big picture, none of this matters.” He let the sand fall through his fingers. “That probably doesn’t mean anything to you guys right now, but it will. Because here’s what’s going to happen. Someday you’ll be on a beach somewhere . . .”
    â€œWe’re on a beach right now,” said Tully.
    â€œI know, but I mean like a beach in Mexico or something.”
    â€œWhat about the beach in Long Beach?”
    â€œI guess,” said Coach Boyd, “but it’s a pretty crummy beach.”
    â€œI’ve always wanted to go to Hawaii,” said Pham.
    â€œMe too!” said Coach Boyd. “And that’s the point. Someday you’ll be on a beach somewhere, a beautiful beach, in Hawaii or Mexico, and you’ll be with your friends, or your girlfriend, or maybe you’ll be there by yourself. Who knows? But either way, evening will come and you’ll see the sun going down in the water, and you’ll get it. You’ll just get it.”
    At two o’clock we drove to a local junior college. In our first game, Weaver played out of his mind. He dropped thirty, but we still lost. Afterward, we came out of the locker room in time to see Trinity warming up. We had to play them the next day. Iwatched the mesmerizing spectacle of their pregame drills and felt my stomach drop. Ted Washburn stood at center circle, surrounded by a retinue of assistant coaches.
    â€œIs that the guy who raped you?” said Tully.
    â€œWe can watch a little of this game,” said Coach Boyd, “and then we’ll hit Sizzler. How’s that sound?”
    Since Weaver gave me the pamphlet we had been avoiding each other, but now he sat next to me and asked about all the Trinity players. “I can run with them,” he said, suddenly full of himself. “One of their coaches said so.”
    â€œWhich one?”
    â€œI don’t know if he was a coach, but he said he helps out the program.”
    During warm-ups, all the Trinity players wore custom Nike T-shirts with a nickname printed over their number. Mark McCracken, Trinity’s best long-distance shooter, was “AT&T.” Jelani Curtis, the fifteen-year-old featured in Sports Illustrated , was “Money.” Darren Hite, a wiry small forward, was “Skeletor.” Tully commented on how incredibly lame all the nicknames were, until he saw Andy Fague, the biggest wiseass at Trinity, whose nickname was “Nickname.”
    â€œThat’s not bad,” said Tully, and it was the only time I remember him complimenting someone.
    The game tipped and we watched Jelani Curtis put on a show. He handled the ball, zipped passes, buried jumpers. There was an ease and confidence to his game, a kind of