[b]Pickett County, South Carolina[/b]

Antwan Dixon had been preparing for this moment his entire life. Whilst the other children were out playing with their friends, Chew Lewis had been forcing Antwan to run suicides. Of course, Antwan had hated it at the time but with four seconds left on the clock, down two points, he was thankful for it. As he stood in the huddle and watched Coach Calhoun draw up a play he could see from his teammate’s demeanour that they were tired, that they needed one final piece of magic from him. Everyone in the arena knew where the ball was going. Antwan welcomed the pressure, he’d built up an immunity to it over the years. His hands didn’t shake, his palms weren’t sweaty, and his pulse was steady as he took to the court. He knew whether the shot went in or not he was destined for the NBA, but this win meant something to him, to his teammates, to Norman. So Antwan wouldn’t even entertain the thought of missing.

And he didn’t. He sprinted round a perfectly set pick and received the inbound pass with enough time to take a dribble, throw up a pump fake to get his defender off the ground, and let the shot leave his hand. The momentum of the shot took Antwan to the ground but he knew the second it had left it was in. The screams of joy from the crowd as the buzzer sounded only confirmed it.

Pickett wasn’t exactly a basketball town. As in most places in South Carolina, college football ruled the roost here with professional football and baseball competing for a distant second spot in the hearts of Pickett residents. Tonight? Basketball would be their religion and Antwan Dixon, the highest rated recruit to come out of South Carolina in a decade, would be their prophet. Antwan could barely hear over the cheering crowd, he felt his teammates arms wrapped tightly around him as they bundled him to the ground, and he felt euphoria wash over him. This was his moment, this was what he’d worked for all that time. But there was someone he needed to share it with.

Roland Spencer stood in the tunnel of the arena beaming with pride. He was below average height, balding slightly, with a black goatee peppered with grey hair and thick bushy eyebrows. His suit was expensive, even to the untrained eye it was clear he took a great deal of pride in his appearance, and he stood out amongst the swathes of casually dressed people. After battling through the crowd, enduring hug after hug from inebriated fans, Antwan made it to Roland and threw his arms around him.

“This wouldn’t have been possible without you, man.”

Roland smiled broadly, his pearly white teeth flashing through his goatee. “You were the one that took the shot, son, not me. A hell of a shot it was, at that.”

“Thanks,” Antwan said as he grinned like a star struck child. “I owe you, man, more than any of these people can understand. You might not have been out there with me but I wouldn’t have been out there without you watching my back.”

From the mouth of the tunnel a woman cleared her throat noisily to interject in Antwan and Roland’s conversation. Antwan’s mother Michelle stood with her hands on her hips and an unimpressed look on her face as she gazed at the pair of them impassively.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

He’d never quite understood why but his mother had always had it in for Roland. When Roland had given him food for money, for clothes, even let him borrow one of his cars, his mother had forced Antwan to give everything back. If she only knew how bad things had got before she’d shook the habit, how close they were to losing everything, and how Roland had helped them through that time, she’d feel differently about things. Antwan was sure of that. 

Antwan smiled politely in his mother’s direction, “Gimme a minute.”

“Have you lost your mind? No, Antwan, I will not give you a minute,” Michelle said with a shake of her head. “Your teammates put their body’s on the line for you out there tonight. Don’t you think you should be thanking them instead of standing over here chatting?”

“Come on,” Antwan said with a sigh. “Don’t be like this, Ma.”

He knew there was no changing her mind. His mother was fierce, fiercer even than any woman he’d ever met, once her mind was made up there was no changing it. Was there any surprise though? She was Uncle Chew’s little sister and he was a legend in Norman. She had to be tough. She had no choice.

Roland placed a reassuring hand on Antwan’s shoulder and gestured towards the locker room, “No, no, mother knows best, Antwan. Go celebrate with your teammates. There’ll be plenty of time for us to catch up in the week.”

[center][b]*****[/b][/center]
It ate Michelle Lewis up inside to watch her son hanging on Roland Spencer’s ever word. This was Antwan’s moment and somehow Roland had found a way to make it about him again. Michelle had watched as her baby had ignored his teammates, fought through the crowd, all to seek the favour of that dime store pimp Roland. Antwan thought that because Roland stuffed his pocket with bills and let him drive fancy cars that Roland had his best interests at heart. She knew better than that, she’d seen Roland’s type before, and more importantly she knew where his money was coming from. He was a vulture, circling her baby boy like carrion, and with each step Antwan took closer to superstardom it seemed like Roland’s influence grew even more. 

Antwan nodded at Roland’s instruction and shot her a polite smile before jogging off down the tunnel to be with his teammates. The affection he showed Roland cut her deeper than any words might ever have, she knew she’d not always been the best mother in the world to Antwan, but it was the little gestures that hurt the most. She gritted her teeth as she watched her baby disappear into the locker room and stood in silence before Roland.

“He’s an extraordinary boy, Michelle. You ought to be very proud of him.”

She could barely look at him. 

“I’ve been proud of him since the day he was born.”

Roland’s sickly sweet smile appeared once more from within his goatee. Though this time it was tinged with a hint of malice, “And what of you, Michelle? Has Antwan been proud of you since he was born?”

It hurt. Michelle’s substance abuse problems after Antwan’s father passed were an open secret in Norman. For the best part of five years she’d put drugs before her son and she was more ashamed of that than anything else she’d ever done. Losing Marcus the way she did, Chew going to prison, it had all been too much for her to handle whilst clean. Antwan had never looked at her the same way after that. It was then that Roland had swept in to take advantage of her only son.

“Eventually he’ll see you for what you are, Roland.”

Roland shook his head dismissively.

“You just remember who it was putting food on that boy’s table when you were too busy chasing a high.”

Roland smiled one last time before disappearing off into the tunnel. He walked with his hands tucked into his pockets, without a care in the world, and it took everything for Michelle not to chase after him and lay her hands on him. She wasn’t strong enough to break Roland’s hold on her son, she didn’t have enough pull in Norman, but there was someone that might have enough of both. If he was willing to talk to her after the way they had left things.

[center][b]*****[/b][/center]
Another day, another memorial service in Norman. It was the part of his job that Deacon Augustus Harris enjoyed the least. It had never gotten any easier for Deacon Harris even with twenty years of experience. In fact it had got harder and harder as time passed to hold the hands of the bereaved and assure them that things would get better with time, that it was all a part of God’s plan for them. It wasn’t that his faith had grown weaker but that the memorial services seemed to be coming thicker and faster than ever before in Norman. It took a toll on even the godliest man. Especially when the young men in the caskets seemed to get younger and younger at each service.

How many times had Gus come close to being a father himself before he had found God? He had long since forgiven himself for the life he’d led before God came to him and he revoked his mistakes. Perhaps there was some young man out there bearing his face from one of the many women that Gus had lain with before he came to the church. Perhaps one of the young men at the countless memorial services he attended had been the product of some spurious sexual encounter he’d had decades ago. How could he ever know? All he did know was that he’d been to enough services to have come to the conclusion he was glad he never fathered a child. This world was not kind to African-American men, this county was not kind to them.

Once Gus had stood shoulder to shoulder with other men of colour and demanded for equal rights. The rent strikes, the riots, the social unrest had all been in the name of equality and the common good. Somewhere along the line the African-American man had been convinced that the enemy was not poverty or inequality but himself. Every year black-on-black crime got worse in Norman and every year the community swore that things would change. It never did.

The boy in the casket before Deacon Harris was a victim of that growing disconnect. Vontae Carter was twenty-three years of age, father to two children, and by all accounts a hard-working man intent on bettering his life and the life of his children. He had been gunned down in the street over an altercation about a pair of sneakers. It sickened Deacon Harris to think that someone might have such little regard for human life that they would put an end to one over something so trivial. They had taken everything Vontae ever was away and ever would be away from him, in the process altering the lives of his children, all without even a thought for the consequences. And for what? Accidentally scuffing someone’s Jordans?

It was madness. Vontae’s mother Janelle had cried into his shoulders for ten minutes straight the day after she had found out her only son had been murdered. His words had failed him then. What could you say to a woman that lost a child she carried to term, gave birth to, and spent her entire life loving? There were no words that could soften a loss that profound. Even at the service when asked to speak Gus had felt a twinge of reluctance to do so, he knew the community looked to him for some semblance of leadership, at least the Godly amongst them did, but this was a moment that even God had left him ill-prepared to handle. He had done his best, spoken at length of Vontae’s determination to escape Norman and provide his daughter’s with more than he’d had growing up, but he couldn’t help but feel it wasn’t enough. Of course it wasn’t enough. No words would ever be.

Gus took one last look around the room before he left the service. There were young boys in ill-fitting suits that they would likely only ever wear to court proceedings and funerals, the mothers frozen with fear that the same fate that had befallen Vontae might befall their children, and the absentee fathers struck with guilt at having lost a child they had never truly known. It was a sight he had seen many times before and sadly a sight he would see again soon.

As Gus made his way down the stairs he noticed a woman stood waiting for him. She was taller than the average woman and possessed a strength that seemed out of place combined with her wiry frame. Her features were youthful but her face was covered in the wrinkles one can only attain through having survived years of adversity and pain. 

It was Michelle Lewis.