Advantage Disadvantage Page 8

  “Dad, you’re right. However, I was hoping to work on the crime desk. I’ll just have to prove to them that I’m worthy.”

  “Ok, so what will you cover? The White Sox or Cubs?”

  “Nope”

  “The Chicago Bulls or Blackhawks”

  “No, Dad.”

  “Local college teams?”

  “Dad, I’ll be spending my time outside on frozen football fields, in sweaty little gyms, and on pock-marked baseball fields. I’m on the high school sports beat.”

  ‘Son, I just offer this advice. Dive in. Embrace your vocation. At first, pretend you like it. Later, fall in love with your assignment. If you love your job, the quality of work will improve. Fair-minded bosses notice and they reward you for your efforts. In business, it’s the only recipe for happiness and advancement.”

  Chapter Twelve. A Cub Reporter Is Born

  Ronnie Edelman did not want to sign his byline with his birth name. As a professional writer, he wanted to make it harder for people to discover his lack of sports participation at any level. He scoured sports publications and wanted to pick a macho name from an obscure sport. While leafing through books in the Daily’s library, he came across a list of English Cricket Hall of Famers. He researched the long list of players, and adopted the name of a great, but dead player for his new byline moniker – Frank Worrell.

  ***

  Several years had passed with thousands of articles written and credited to Frank Worrell. He took his father’s advice and leaned into his profession. He became a good football and baseball scribe, but Frank surpassed everybody’s expectations at the paper by developing a regular following of people interested in high school basketball games. They bought more newspapers which made the advertisers and owners happy alike. He knew this was not rocket science, and he asked Nancy Kapist for a promotion to the challenge of crime reporting at every annual review. The paper’s circulation experienced dramatic increases during the high school basketball season. More importantly, they measured the hits on the Windy City’s Daily Web Site and found an incredible draw to his coverage of prep hoops. Could they ever afford to take Frank off high school sports?

  Frank’s formula was not difficult, but it required a steady discipline. The secret to his success was his investment in every aspect of the high school hoop schedule: a combination of hard work, knowing informed people, and getting them to talk. Frank became a regular in the summer leagues around the city. Over the years, he had developed a working relationship with nearly all of the coaches in Chicagoland who ran serious programs. He knew most of the NAU elite coaches. Frank knew some of the street agents who also hung out in the summertime and during basketball season. Many of the college coaches called him to exchange information. Frank was very protective of his contacts and sources. His reporting was insightful from his pre-season, weekly ranking, and playoff analyses.

  The blogs under Frank’s bylines drew spirited discussion and The Daily was making large amounts of money on web advertisement revenues and paper circulation. Year in and year out Frank discussed his career goals with Nancy and others, only to be rebuffed. He was too valuable where he was. Frank felt pigeonholed into his assignment as a prep sportswriter. He tried to leverage his success by talking to the Chicago Tribune, but they offered him more of the same. He was very frustrated and he felt trapped – never enough salary, writing about sports, and professionally unappreciated.

  Somewhere along the way, Frank ran into Bobby G. who became his bookie, probably at a summer high school basketball league game. Frank worked hard and received raises consummate with his contributions, but he developed a penchant for gambling on professional football games. Fall and winter were costly annual seasons for Frank. He loved to bet but like most gamblers, he rarely had a winning season. Bobby G. had a way of encouraging Frank to continue his expensive habit despite losing thousands of dollars on a regular basis. The bookie would get him to bet increasing amounts of money, and then ridicule him for his losing ways. Frank enjoyed the rush he felt on football Sundays of having gambling interests in several pro games but after most of them, he had lost money and felt lousy for losing – until the next week, when he would put up with some more of Bobby G.’s teasing while making the next round of terrible wagers. No raises received could keep up with the gambling losses Frank incurred on football betting.

  Chapter Thirteen. St. Marlin’s Locker Room

  In the parking lot, the St. Marlin coach climbed into Bobby G.’s BMW. He was there to conduct a little commerce. He had given Bobby G. two thousand dollars to ensure that a couple seventh grade basketball prodigies would attend St Marlin’s camp next week. It was unseemly for the coach, but Bobby G. suffered no guilt.

  High schools and colleges regularly exploited athletes. Coaches, trainers, and AD’s had made money off athletic events and teams. Why shouldn’t the bookie jump on the pay train too? By selling street agent favors to recruiting coaches, he developed quite a complimentary business to his high school bookmaking business. He also began to shake down players and families who wanted introductions to college programs. He took bets, and sold flesh.

  After paying Bobby G., the coach ran into the school from the BMW as fast as he could. Bobby G. noticed that two police officers in an unmarked car were watching him. They probably observed the coach coming into his car and passing over the dough. Bobby G. started to panic. He was on court imposed probation and although his mouthpiece was well connected inside the courthouse, being busted was always a hassle and usually expensive.

  He called his cousin, Davis Fryer, his friend and cousin from childhood and mate in the disbanded gang.

  “Hey Davis, I’m in a fix here and I think I’m fucked. I need your help.”

  “ ’Sup Bobby? Where you at?”

  “I’m near your crib, just outside of St Marlin High School. I think the PoPo watched me do a transaction with a guy in the parking lot. He’s watching me with binoc’s. You’re still my Ace, right?”

  “I got your back bro. Are you loaded?” Davis asked.

  “I’ve got a dime bag, eight grand and my old Cobalt.”

  Bobby G. had shaken down a few coaches that day and did not want to have to explain the money to the police. The dime bag of pot was just part of his trouble. The unregistered pistol had sentimental value to Bobby G. It reminded him of the gang he willingly joined many years ago with Davis, and although saddened by its infiltrated demise, he cherished this illegal gun with the deep blue handle.

  “Don’t get caught with any of that, Bro. You can’t leave that shit in your car – they’re going to search your BMW. You know that, right? OK, here’s the deal. Take that with you into the school. Flush the hooch down the toilet. Put the piece and the dough in a locker when no one is looking. Tell me the locker number. The pigs are gonna rummage through your car, so play it cool. While they are hassling you, I’ll get your stuff and meet up with you at your crib.”

  “I’m putting the Cobalt and cash in my pouch. Hold on…I’ll tell you which locker once I get inside.”

  Bobby G. dashed into the empty boy’s locker room next to the gym. He was panting from running, but had work to do. The place reeked of rusted metal, decaying walls and over taxed plumbing. He looked at the row of wall-mounted urinals. He quickly made a pass in front of the stalls and looked under the doors but saw no feet. Bobby G. opened the plastic bag, dumped the pot into the urinal, and pulled the flush handle. He hurried down an aisle, placed his fanny pack inside a locker and slammed it shut.

  “Davis, you there?” he hollered into the phone. “Ok bro, I put my money pouch in the second row on your left when you walk in the boys locker room at St. Marlin’s. It’s next to the main gym where they’re ballin’ tonight. Locker 14. Get over here quick, and if you don’t hear from me, call the heeb. Don’t forget man, number 14.”

  The door thumped open. Two Chicago police officers burst into the locker room. The water was running inside the urinal. Bobby G. was zipping up his pants. T
hey ordered him to stand against the wall and spread his legs.

  “Can’t a guy take a whiz? Why are you hassling me?”

  They patted him down but found nothing.

  “Sir, would you like to open your car for us to search, or would you like us to break the window to get in?” one of them asked.

  “Do you have a judge’s order or subpoena, Jeeves?”

  “We aren’t trifling with you, boy. You lost your due process when we watched money-exchanging hands in your car. We don’t need shit to get into your car.”

  “Why were you even watching me to begin with?” Bobby G. asked.

  “We had a complaint from one of the parents. They thought you might be selling drugs out of your car in the school’s parking lot.”

  “I’ve got nothin’ in the BMW. I’ll open it for y’all”

  The three of them left the locker room to go to Bobby G.’s car. After a minute, Frank Worrell emerged from one of the bathroom stalls. He had been perfectly still, and undetected, while the police pulled Bobby G. from the washroom. He would not hesitate for a moment to take money back from Bobby G. – turnabout was fair play. He was not sure how much cash was stowed in locker 14, but it could not match the money he lost betting football with this bookie. Of all the raises that the newspaper gave him to reward his contributions, he constantly was paying off his gambling debts to Bobby G. He was still the lowest paid reporter who worked at the paper more than five years. He conducted a quick debate in his head that led him to decide to grab the cash. He opened Locker 14 and saw the money pouch. He was surprised to feel how heavy it was – he thought it must have a lot of money in it. This will solve many current financial problems, and who would ever know? He wrapped the pouch around his waist and pulled his shirt out of his pants to cover the belt. He did not have much time because he knew someone named Davis would be coming to look for the pouch. He walked outside and saw the cops watching Bobby G.’s BMW pull away. Perfect! Frank walked out to his car and drove home.

  Chapter Fourteen. The East End High School Coach

  Hanna City was a small farm town near Peoria, Illinois. Far from the “will it fly in Peoria” marketing demographics, people from Hanna worked the soil. Most of the three hundred families who formed the community belonged to the same church and knew each other. Hanna shared schools with several other like-sized towns nearby. There were no YMCA’s or health clubs. Kids honed their jump shots on gravel driveways aiming at hoops hung on barns. Before the NAU teams sprung up in big cities, boys from towns like this were able to compete with anybody from anywhere.

  One such kid was Scott Venturi. He was a three-sport varsity athlete during his high school athletic career. The team competed against other small towns in Illinois’ single “A” division – schools with less than 600 students. He was captain of his football and basketball teams. Probably, he should have been his baseball team’s skipper too, but he shared the wealth with his best friend. Nearly all of these “Single A” class teams would not be competitive with the big city schools in places like East St. Louis and Chicago and its suburbs. They would not be competitive with perennial powerhouse Peoria Manual High School either. Scott was a cut or two above his classmates. He spent hours, rain or shine, banging warn-out basketballs against the barn hoop on the farm. He excelled despite a lack of competent coaching and adequate competition. He set all kinds of local prep school records: points, free throws, rebounds, and assists. He did not attract much attention from college recruiters except from nearby Bradley University. Scott was mostly a practice player there for four years. He played consistent with his traditional farm family culture, respecting education and hard work.

  ***

  Basketball, not farming, was in his blood. He admired the coach at Bradley and marveled at the idea of earning a living coaching competitive basketball. That was his dream, but it was hard to break-in to college coaching. Without name recognition, Scott Venturi’s chances of being hired on any college coaching staff seemed slim. The best advice from his surrogate father and coach at Bradley was to secure his teaching certificate and hone his craft on the high school level, coaching while being paid to teach. He finished his mathematics major, with a minor in secondary education.

  Tolono High School offered Scott the best opportunity to teach and coach after college graduation. This small town of 2,700 residents reminded him of Hanna City. It was about ten miles south of Champaign in the shadow of the University of Illinois. For two years, he coached the frosh-soph basketball team under the guidance of the thirty two-year legendary head coach at the school. When the legend retired, Scott took over the program and had moderate success. Because of his proximity to the Big U., Scott networked with the university’s coaching staff.

  Scott’s thirst for coaching at the college level remained unquenched. He watched the NCAA basketball tournament with extraordinary jealousy. These coaches made beaucoup money. The press worshipped the successful coaches, and other than basketball, they had no teaching responsibilities. At the urging of Illinois’ head coach, Scott decided to move up to a bigger school to develop his coaching resume. He needed to coach a big city team for a few years, gaining experience competing with diverse teams who played at a higher level, not just white, farm boys. Choices in Illinois were Peoria, East St. Louis, Rockford, and Chicagoland.

  Suburban Chicago’s East End High School’s athletic director earned his undergraduate degree from Bradley. He instantly hit it off with Scott Venturi and hired him with these cautions:

  “Scott, this is different than farmland basketball. Parents here are self-indulgent. You can, and should ask for a much greater commitment from the players as far as off-season preparations and in-season practice commitments, especially compared to the limitations of central Illinois kids with farming responsibilities. They will be less respectful of your coaching decisions – each parent thinks that his or her son should be the star of the team. Parents want their sons to have the most playing minutes, and they expect you to use your connections to help their kids win athletic scholarships. Last I checked, IIAA rules allow five basketball players on the floor at a time, and only five. You cannot please many of these spoiled suburban parents. And, by the way, they expect you to bring home a state championship.”

  “Well, I understand big city ball is different. Nevertheless, I maintain that the players first need to meet scholastic standards. Beyond academics, my coaching system rewards talent and hard work of the players who put us in position to win. And, I have never had problems with any of them in Tolono.”

  “These people are different up here. Scott, I hope you know what you are getting into. Well ok, you are our man. Congratulations coach. Welcome to East End High School.”

  Chapter Fifteen. Summer Strategy

  Four years had passed for Scott while teaching and coaching at East End. He had made multiple contacts with universities and colleges through clinics and seminars. As every spring came to a close Coach Venturi wondered if this would be his last round of prep coaching, perhaps moving on to the collegiate level. In the absence of any upward job offers, the next cycle of the basketball season began with summer basketball. He enrolled his East End team in the Olgesby High School league every year. When he first arrived, he marveled at all of the choices he had to work his team in the summer. Tolono’s team did not play together with the exception of a one-week team camp in Champaign during the August heat. Around Chicago, it seemed like every serious team played in one or two leagues and several “shootout” tournaments. Olgesby was two suburbs away from East End. Parents and players had easy access to the school. Some of the parents initially objected to Scott’s choice – Olgesby High School was in a rough neighborhood and they attracted several inner-city teams. To Coach Venturi, these objections were precisely why he wanted his team to play there. He wanted to toughen up his suburban, mostly affluent soft players in a fast paced, physical summer league. The district began building Olgesby during World War II. The gym had two stories for
spectators. The balcony followed the contour of the gym, except that the builders ran out of cinder blocks above one end line – one horseshoe section of the balcony was never completed. The school had a rich and successful tradition of developing great basketball players – some of them played in the NBA and still came back to run sold-out clinics and camps. Only serious teams played there. The Olgesby summer league was no cakewalk.

  Coach Venturi held his first team meeting of this summer outside the gym at Olgesby while parents waited inside for East End’s first game. This year’s crop of varsity players was not new to Venturi’s system. They were mostly upperclassman.

  “Boys, thanks for coming out to our first game of the summer. We have been playing here ever since I joined East End. The competition here is top notch. I am optimistic for our team this year. I believe that there is no limit to our success. What’s does that mean?”

  No one answered.

  “It means that we can go downstate and win the championship. Last year, we won the sectional title. This year, there is no limit. I am going to use this summer to convince each of you that we can run the table and win it all. But don’t, I repeat, do not be confused by our summer record – we aren’t going to show our competitors everything we have, and each game we will work on a different part of our strategy.”

  The boys seemed confused.

  ‘What I’m saying is that we aren’t going to worry about the Olgesby summer league standings. Everyone is going to get playing time this summer. If you want to make your case for becoming a starter or getting significant minutes during the winter, now is the time to show me how you are improving. Here is the list of rules for our team this summer.”