in the C.I.F. And if we want to do anything at all, we need to keep up. We need what everybody else already has.”
He looked into the eyes of the board members.
“We need movie cameras,” he said. “We need to take and review films like all the other teams in the C.I.F. Then we will be a complete winning football department. Don’t we owe these kids that much?” Ramirez let his hands drop to his sides. For a moment it appeared that he had gotten through to his audience.
“Mr. Ramirez,” said Vice-Principal Connors, “before we vote on this matter, I’d like to say something before this panel.”
Ramirez nodded.
“I don’t think I’m saying anything that isn’t already on everyone’s mind,” he said. Connors passed a hand through his buzz cut. “We’re already over our pay rate per season. Many of us are concerned about our own projects. We ask ourselves—Why more money for football? We just brought in Assistant Coach Sexton last year. Why the continued expense?”
“Mr. Connors,” said Ramirez, placing his fingertips on the table before him, “you are forgetting our special weapon.”
“And what is that, Mr. Ramirez?”
“I’ll say only two words to you.” It was a dramatic pause. “Charles Jefferson.”
Ray Connors turned to the two teachers on either side of him. “That,” he said, “I would like to see.”
Charles Jefferson was a name spoken around Ridgemont with equal parts awe and fear. Jefferson was one of the few black kids who attended Ridgemont. He was just under six feet tall, quick on his feet, and blessed with those huge NFL shoulders that tended to make opponents take one look and think, Fuck it. At right end, he was by far the best football player Ridgemont High had.
Jefferson played on the Ridgemont varsity squad in his sophomore year, two years ago. He was virtually unmatched in the California Interscholastic Federation. By his junior year, Jefferson, in spite of little support from his less-talented teammates, had attracted the attention of several colleges. There had been a sizable behind-the-scenes bidding war over the young athlete, and UCLA won out with the offer of a $40,000 scholarship. Shortly after accepting, Jefferson turned up at school with a cheery new blue Mustang. It became known among the students of Ridgemont as Jefferson’s Scholarship Mustang, but no one really knew if UCLA had given him the car or not. Charles Jefferson didn’t talk to anybody.
Charles Jefferson didn’t want to be anybody’s “black friend.” His father was an insurance representative for Farmer’s, and Jefferson always seemed more than a little on edge about the middle-class environment his family lived in. Jefferson stalked the hallways of Ridgemont High carrying his football duffle bag and wearing a wronged look on his face, and the hallways parted for him.
Toward the end of last year’s football season, Charles Jefferson graffiti started springing up around school: Bonenose Jefferson Was Here. There it was, on the side of the gym, in the dugout, on the wall of the Mechanical Arts Building. Because the Charles Jefferson graffiti never appeared on any desks, it was presumed that Lincoln High was sneaking on campus after hours with their felt-tip markers and spray-paint cans. Jefferson himself made no comment, and stayed to himself as usual.
Then one day Jefferson walked into the 200 Building bathroom and saw scrawled on the mirror: Send Kunta Kinte Jefferson Back to Africa.
Jefferson went wild. He took off his belt and used the buckle to smash the big grooming mirror. (It was not replaced.) Jefferson walked off campus and decked the hall monitor, Willy Avila, who tried to stop him. Jefferson had been unreceptive to the many white administrators who tried to soothe him. He didn’t apologize to Willy Avila, either.
Then, this year, Jefferson didn’t show for summer football practices. Reached at home, he said he didn’t feel inspired this season. He didn’t feel
He looked into the eyes of the board members.
“We need movie cameras,” he said. “We need to take and review films like all the other teams in the C.I.F. Then we will be a complete winning football department. Don’t we owe these kids that much?” Ramirez let his hands drop to his sides. For a moment it appeared that he had gotten through to his audience.
“Mr. Ramirez,” said Vice-Principal Connors, “before we vote on this matter, I’d like to say something before this panel.”
Ramirez nodded.
“I don’t think I’m saying anything that isn’t already on everyone’s mind,” he said. Connors passed a hand through his buzz cut. “We’re already over our pay rate per season. Many of us are concerned about our own projects. We ask ourselves—Why more money for football? We just brought in Assistant Coach Sexton last year. Why the continued expense?”
“Mr. Connors,” said Ramirez, placing his fingertips on the table before him, “you are forgetting our special weapon.”
“And what is that, Mr. Ramirez?”
“I’ll say only two words to you.” It was a dramatic pause. “Charles Jefferson.”
Ray Connors turned to the two teachers on either side of him. “That,” he said, “I would like to see.”
Charles Jefferson was a name spoken around Ridgemont with equal parts awe and fear. Jefferson was one of the few black kids who attended Ridgemont. He was just under six feet tall, quick on his feet, and blessed with those huge NFL shoulders that tended to make opponents take one look and think, Fuck it. At right end, he was by far the best football player Ridgemont High had.
Jefferson played on the Ridgemont varsity squad in his sophomore year, two years ago. He was virtually unmatched in the California Interscholastic Federation. By his junior year, Jefferson, in spite of little support from his less-talented teammates, had attracted the attention of several colleges. There had been a sizable behind-the-scenes bidding war over the young athlete, and UCLA won out with the offer of a $40,000 scholarship. Shortly after accepting, Jefferson turned up at school with a cheery new blue Mustang. It became known among the students of Ridgemont as Jefferson’s Scholarship Mustang, but no one really knew if UCLA had given him the car or not. Charles Jefferson didn’t talk to anybody.
Charles Jefferson didn’t want to be anybody’s “black friend.” His father was an insurance representative for Farmer’s, and Jefferson always seemed more than a little on edge about the middle-class environment his family lived in. Jefferson stalked the hallways of Ridgemont High carrying his football duffle bag and wearing a wronged look on his face, and the hallways parted for him.
Toward the end of last year’s football season, Charles Jefferson graffiti started springing up around school: Bonenose Jefferson Was Here. There it was, on the side of the gym, in the dugout, on the wall of the Mechanical Arts Building. Because the Charles Jefferson graffiti never appeared on any desks, it was presumed that Lincoln High was sneaking on campus after hours with their felt-tip markers and spray-paint cans. Jefferson himself made no comment, and stayed to himself as usual.
Then one day Jefferson walked into the 200 Building bathroom and saw scrawled on the mirror: Send Kunta Kinte Jefferson Back to Africa.
Jefferson went wild. He took off his belt and used the buckle to smash the big grooming mirror. (It was not replaced.) Jefferson walked off campus and decked the hall monitor, Willy Avila, who tried to stop him. Jefferson had been unreceptive to the many white administrators who tried to soothe him. He didn’t apologize to Willy Avila, either.
Then, this year, Jefferson didn’t show for summer football practices. Reached at home, he said he didn’t feel inspired this season. He didn’t feel
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