and told him to leave, that this was an all white club. He took it the wrong way and next thing I knew the NAACP was suing the club. It’s terrible the way things are. I think some day we’ll all be one race. As long as people know what they’re getting into and what it means for the kids, it’s okay with me. Take our company, for example. There is only one black at our regional meetings. He’s really sharp but that’s one of the things wrong with the company. They say they won’t hire a guy if he’s not a graduate of college. I say you don’t need no degree to be a good salesman.”
Our conversation dries up after lunch and then I ease into reading my book. The rest of the trip to Chicago is uneventful and silent. When we land, the salesman says to be sure and look him up in Detroit—maybe I might want to visit the athletic club.
After getting off the plane, I go directly to the soda fountain at O’Hare Airport, where I buy the only genuine vanilla ice cream cone available in an American airport. As we pick up our suitcases from the baggage conveyor, one black porter says to another, “They’re the Knicks. Did you see the one in the long black maxi with the fur collar and hat? He was somethin’.” We board a city bus, the kind whose sides are all windows, whose seats face each other, and whose bright fluorescent lights are either all on or all off. Lucas’s bag is lost. We sit in the bus waiting twenty minutes until the airline authorities assure him it will be at the hotel by evening. People on the sidewalk stare at us in the bus. Lucas finally boards with the team’s public relations man and we pull away. Like an illuminated fishbowl in the rush hour traffic, we move toward Chicago.
I find a message at the hotel which says to call a Chicago friend. When I reach him, he says that he has arranged a little party in my honor at his apartment. He lives off Rush Street in a brownstone. People start arriving around 9:30 and the evening quickly turns into an interrogation.
“What is Frazier really like?”
“Is Holzman the best coach?”
“Will Willis ever be 100 percent again?”
“Is DeBusschere a good guy?” a girl asks.
“Yes.”
“Who is the toughest guy for you to guard?” asks her boyfriend.
“Havlicek.”
“Tougher than McMillian?”
“Yeah.”
“No, how can you say that? McMillian is so much bigger and better at one-on-one. McMillian’s the best. He’s better than Havlicek. He’s harder for you to guard.”
“No, he isn’t.”
“I think he is.”
“Okay, whatever you say.”
Finally, one of the members of the group says, “Do you really like to play basketball?”
“Yeah, more than anything else I could be doing now,” I reply.
“That’s great. You know, I once played the trumpet. I think I know what you feel. I played in a little band. We were good. We’d play on weekends at colleges. In my last year we had an offer to tour and make records. Everyone wanted to, except me.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“My father thought it wasn’t secure enough.”
“What about you?”
“Well, I didn’t know, I guess I agreed,” he says. “The life is so transient. You’re always on the road. No sureness that you’ll get your next job. It just doesn’t fit into a life plan. So, I went to law school and quit playing the trumpet, except every once in a while. Now, I don’t have time.”
“Do you like law?”
“It’s okay, but nothing like playing the trumpet.”
FIVE
T HE NEXT MORNING , DEBUSSCHERE GETS UP BEFORE 10 AND walks to the nearby office of Merrill Lynch, Pierce, Fenner & Smith to check the progress of the market. He is going to have lunch with a vice president of a Chicago bank to obtain information on the McDonalds Co. He has been toying with the idea of getting one of the New York franchises and believes that since his banker is a personal friend of the president of McDonalds, he has a chance.
I eat breakfast with a friend who is thinking about
Our conversation dries up after lunch and then I ease into reading my book. The rest of the trip to Chicago is uneventful and silent. When we land, the salesman says to be sure and look him up in Detroit—maybe I might want to visit the athletic club.
After getting off the plane, I go directly to the soda fountain at O’Hare Airport, where I buy the only genuine vanilla ice cream cone available in an American airport. As we pick up our suitcases from the baggage conveyor, one black porter says to another, “They’re the Knicks. Did you see the one in the long black maxi with the fur collar and hat? He was somethin’.” We board a city bus, the kind whose sides are all windows, whose seats face each other, and whose bright fluorescent lights are either all on or all off. Lucas’s bag is lost. We sit in the bus waiting twenty minutes until the airline authorities assure him it will be at the hotel by evening. People on the sidewalk stare at us in the bus. Lucas finally boards with the team’s public relations man and we pull away. Like an illuminated fishbowl in the rush hour traffic, we move toward Chicago.
I find a message at the hotel which says to call a Chicago friend. When I reach him, he says that he has arranged a little party in my honor at his apartment. He lives off Rush Street in a brownstone. People start arriving around 9:30 and the evening quickly turns into an interrogation.
“What is Frazier really like?”
“Is Holzman the best coach?”
“Will Willis ever be 100 percent again?”
“Is DeBusschere a good guy?” a girl asks.
“Yes.”
“Who is the toughest guy for you to guard?” asks her boyfriend.
“Havlicek.”
“Tougher than McMillian?”
“Yeah.”
“No, how can you say that? McMillian is so much bigger and better at one-on-one. McMillian’s the best. He’s better than Havlicek. He’s harder for you to guard.”
“No, he isn’t.”
“I think he is.”
“Okay, whatever you say.”
Finally, one of the members of the group says, “Do you really like to play basketball?”
“Yeah, more than anything else I could be doing now,” I reply.
“That’s great. You know, I once played the trumpet. I think I know what you feel. I played in a little band. We were good. We’d play on weekends at colleges. In my last year we had an offer to tour and make records. Everyone wanted to, except me.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“My father thought it wasn’t secure enough.”
“What about you?”
“Well, I didn’t know, I guess I agreed,” he says. “The life is so transient. You’re always on the road. No sureness that you’ll get your next job. It just doesn’t fit into a life plan. So, I went to law school and quit playing the trumpet, except every once in a while. Now, I don’t have time.”
“Do you like law?”
“It’s okay, but nothing like playing the trumpet.”
FIVE
T HE NEXT MORNING , DEBUSSCHERE GETS UP BEFORE 10 AND walks to the nearby office of Merrill Lynch, Pierce, Fenner & Smith to check the progress of the market. He is going to have lunch with a vice president of a Chicago bank to obtain information on the McDonalds Co. He has been toying with the idea of getting one of the New York franchises and believes that since his banker is a personal friend of the president of McDonalds, he has a chance.
I eat breakfast with a friend who is thinking about
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