Intentional

Chapter 4

Trey soon found out that the world of professional basketball was worlds apart from college basketball. Emphasis on conditioning alone meant hours in the gym with a personal trainer. Two-a-day practices six days a week and spending a half-day on Sundays viewing game films took up most of Trey’s time, including time he’d normally spend with the church. There was not the congenial camaraderie among his teammates as there had been in college, although, generally, everyone got along. A couple of his teammates on the preseason roster were out to prove that they were better than the new guy, and their overaggressive style pushed Trey’s patience and good nature to the limit. But the rookie point guard held his own, and it soon became clear that Trey Glass was the real thing. By the start of exhibition games, he had earned the number-two guard spot and had his eye on a starting position.
Trey’s parents visited often in the weeks leading up to the season opener; they knew they wouldn’t get to see much of their son after October 28. Even time off for holidays wasn’t guaranteed, so the Glass family braced itself for short, infrequent visits once the season began.
The long Labor Day weekend in early September provided a rare opportunity for all the Glasses to gather at Trey’s new Memphis digs. His mom and dad, two older brothers, their families, and Trey spent Sunday afternoon hosting a barbecue for a fellow teammate and a neighborhood couple on the deck behind the house. Adam set up a badminton net in the side yard while Lee and Mr. Glass marked off a horseshoe pit. Mrs. Glass made potato salad and baked beans. Trey handled the grill, carefully watching over the chicken tenders and burgers cooking over charcoal in an old barbecue pit left by previous owners.
Their guests seemed happy to have been invited. Gilbert Warner, a single guy, was one of only three rookies on the team and didn’t have time to go to his home in California for the holiday. Neighbor Lem Davis, who had helped Trey clear some brush from behind the old workshop, and his wife, Carla, were invited. They were a middle-aged African-American couple who grew up in Memphis’s south end with no children but lots of stories about how Memphis had changed since the early days—and how much more it needed to change. It was a memorable afternoon and evening of games, small talk, and relaxation, interrupted briefly by a photographer from a national sports magazine who dropped by, uninvited, to capture the Rockers’ new “phenom hunk” at play. He was offered a bottle of water and a hamburger and sent on his way.
Once the magazine hit the newsstands, word was out about where the Rockers’ new seven-million-dollar-man was living. The local newspaper picked up the story and wanted to interview Trey about his decision to live in that part of town. He refused the interview but invited the reporter to his house for lemonade and chitchat, off the record. He wanted to show he had nothing to hide and where he lived was nobody’s business but his own.
The Rockers’ front office didn’t see it that way. Brett Bing, the team’s director of basketball operations, called Trey into his office.
“We not paying you enough?”
“You’re paying me plenty,” Trey said modestly. “Why?”
“What’s the deal with buying a house in such a bad part of town?”
“Bad? How much time have you spent in my neighborhood, Brett?”
“None. And that’s the point. Most white folks wouldn’t be caught dead down there...unless they wanted to be found dead,” Bing said, trying to be funny. “Seriously, Trey, what’s this all about?”
“It’s not about anything except that I didn’t want to spend lots of money on a place to live when I could get the kind of house I wanted in a neighborhood I preferred for the price I liked. Isn’t that what picking a house is all about? I grew up with very little, Brett, and I feel blessed beyond words getting paid an obscene amount of money for doing what I love to do. I can use that money for more important things than spending it all on me. And why did you call my neighborhood bad?” Trey always bristled when someone from outside a neighborhood felt qualified to deem it good or bad. “Ask the folks who live there if it’s a bad neighborhood. It’s their home; for some, it’s been their home all their lives. Those are some of the sweetest people I’ve met since I moved here. Come by sometime and I’ll introduce you to some.”
“I’ll pass. It’s just that the front office doesn’t think it’s a safe place for one of our players to be living. Crime is exceptionally high in that area, and we’re afraid something will happen to you,” Brett said.
Trey thought for a moment, mulling over the warning and wanting to give Brett a fair hearing.
“I dunno, Brett. Maybe you’re right. Maybe I shouldn’t be living there. I guess I’ve always believed that ultimately God’s got the last call on things like life and death. It’s like…well, like if I’m meant to live longer, then God’s gonna have my back.”
“And the Rockers organization, while wanting you to live long and prosper, most immediately wants you to live healthy. You won’t be too much value to the club if someone breaks your legs.”
“Where would I go, Brett?” Trey asked sincerely. “Is there any place in this town—in any town—where safety is guaranteed? I’m probably as safe here as you are in your neighborhood.”
“My neighborhood’s gated,” Brett said, as if that would close the discussion. It didn’t, and after a few more gives and takes, the compromise agreed upon was that Trey would build a secure garage with remote control doors and a covered and shielded walkway from the garage to his back door, thereby lessening the chance that a sniper would take out the superstar. The Rockers would pay for half the cost. By the time exhibition games started, the project was completed, along with an attached shop and storage room that Trey decided to add at the last minute, at his expense.
During the team’s first players’ press conference, attention was focused on the Rockers’ new point guard. Representatives from local and national sports media outlets were there to ask questions of the players. And they were none too friendly toward Trey Glass.
“Trey, word is that you are pretty squeaky clean. Do you think you’re going to have trouble getting along with some of your teammates whose reputations are…well, let’s just say, not like yours?” A nervous laugh flooded the room full of sports writers and reporters.
“I don’t think so. We’ve gotten along well so far. Hey, look, I’m not here to judge anyone or preach to anyone or demand that people act the way I think they should. I’m here to play basketball and lend to the team what I might have so that we can make the playoffs.”
“Trey, I notice you don’t have any tattoos. Do tattoos bother you?”
“Are you saying you’ve seen my entire body?” he said, eliciting laughs from the crowd.
“Do you have a girlfriend?”
“Not right now. Do you know someone I need to meet?” Trey said, to the delight of the crowd.
“Trey, why did you buy a house in the slums?”
“The slums?” Trey retorted, his patience stretched. “I didn’t know it was the slums. Still don’t. I’ve made some pretty good friends in my neighborhood. If you knew them, I think you’d like them too. Anybody got any questions about basketball?”