Chapter 26

Spring Term, 1977

The lingering snow was finally retreating as the first warm rays of the sun began to melt away winter’s icy grasp, slowly coaxing the planet back to life. Baseball practice was scheduled to begin, and I was determined to secure my place at First Base. I possessed the height and speed that made a first baseman stand out, and I had been meeting with Coach Larson since the cold days of January. Under his strict guidance, I focused intently on shedding extra weight while building upper body bulk. I also concentrated on core conditioning knowing that every ounce of strength translated into a faster bat swing or a more powerful golf swing. Following his regimented training plan, I began to see results: by the start of the season, I envisioned myself sculpted into a classic, athletic baseball physique, perfectly primed to dominate at First Base.

Coach Campbell, the head baseball coach, could not hide his amazement at my transformation. When I announced my ambition to play at first, he expressed concern over whether I could handle competitive play, fully aware of the deal I’d struck with the school. Like everyone else, he expected me to earn my place—and I was perfectly fine with that challenge. I threw myself into every drill and dug deep inside for every play, knowing that my only competition for the starting spot was Franklin, a formidable opponent in his own right. His skill pushed me to train harder, and just before the season’s first competitive series, I finally emerged as the starter.

Golf, on the other hand, unfolded with its own set of challenges. There was no guarantee that Central would even field a golf team, yet fortune smiled on us we had eight determined players, just enough to meet the minimum requirement.

I remained thankful for every extra moment of practice over the winter, where countless hours of drills brought me down to a five handicap, establishing me as one of the better players on the team. I was also relieved to find that I wasn’t alone as the only black player. Although daily golf practice was waived to honor my baseball commitments, I was required to train every Sunday with Coach Gears, the new mentor for our golf team.

The coach, who once played on the PGA Tour for three years despite never ranking among the elite players, pushed us rigorously. I competed on Saturdays, and this spring, all my resolve paid off when I achieved my long-held dream of becoming a scratch golfer.

The baseball team began the season with a flurry of early wins, only to stumble in the playoffs and finishing third in our district—just short of qualifying for the state tournament. Although dissatisfaction crept into my thoughts, the team collectively celebrated what we’d accomplished, even if I couldn’t quite pinpoint our success. we had, had a better season then in previous years. For me personally, the season delivered respectable numbers: a batting average of .285, an on-base percentage of .495, five proud home runs, and a fielding average of .978. Yet, for me the sting of not pushing further into the postseason lingered.

Thankfully, golf offered a comforting backup; I was set to compete in the City High School Finals, and a strong performance there would secure my spot at the state championship, serving as a regional qualifier per state guidelines.

By mid-season, my prized Mustang was finally completed—a project that had been as much a labor of love as it was a testament to my engineering skill. Alongside the Auto Shop teacher, an Engineer, from my company, who had worked closely with me, and a dedicated Ford technician from a local dealership, I had my car certified as completely roadworthy. Each of these experts took turns driving it, all marveling at its innovative new features. Before any of them could test drive it, they had signed nondisclosure agreements. Their final approval meant it was officially licensed and titled as a modified, experimental prototype fully capable of handling the road. Soon, I would be cruising in it just like any other car.

Driving on Sundays with Coach Gears became a ritual as we journeyed to various golf courses for practice. He took a particular delight in riding in my Mustang, praising that I had completed every modification on my own. I proudly shared the step-by-step pictures I had taken along the way. The instructors had awarded me an “A” on the project, showering generous accolades on my accomplishments.

Academically, I was in the clear—meeting all my requirements with only the golf season remaining before graduating with honors. Nonetheless, our golf team did not score high enough collectively to qualify for a postseason; individually, however, I was ranked third in the city overall. On Saturday, I was slated to compete in the Regional Championship on a brand new course, designed by the legendary Arnold Palmer—a course notorious for its strategically placed bunkers guarding the greens. The challenging layout, with its elaborate series of sandy traps at the Dearborn Country Club, elevated the stakes to an entirely new level.

On Friday afternoon, Coach Gears and I found ourselves at the University of Michigan, standing on the fifth hole where I was ensnared by a deep bunker some 65 yards from the green. I watched in frustration as Coach deliberately plunged my ball into the glistening sand, leaving only the top half visible. My subsequent shot barely managed to disturb the surrounding grit—the ball stubbornly remaining exactly where it had settled.

“This is why we are here today,” Coach Gears declared with intensity in his voice. “You have the worst bunker recovery rate among the top-rated players you’ll face tomorrow. Here’s what we’re going to do: We go home only when you can hit ten perfect bunker shots, each landing within ten feet of the pin.”

The challenge seemed nearly impossible, so I half-jokingly asked if he could replicate it himself. Without missing a beat, he executed ten flawless bunker shots from deep within the trap, each landing within five feet of the pin. With a sly smile, he asked, “Would you like to try for ten of ten shots within five feet?”

I shook my head, feeling overwhelmed. “No, I think I’ll have enough trouble trying to hit this drill,” I admitted.

All afternoon, I labored in the sandy bunker, managing seven, then eight, and finally nine shots that found their mark within ten feet. Just when I believed success was within reach, my final shot failed, and anger began to bubble up inside me. Frustration led to erratic swings, and in a moment of exasperation, I slammed my club harshly into the dirt.

“STOP!” Coach roared, his voice echoing off the bunker walls. “This kind of behavior will cost you the tournament. Should an official witness this, you’re looking at at least a penalty stroke—and possibly ejection for unsportsmanlike conduct. Especially after the recent incident that gave the city a black eye with your lawsuit, they will seize any opportunity to portray you in a negative light. You deserve to be there, so now you must play like it. Slow down. Absorb every lesson I’ve shared about grip, stance, and timing. Swing smoothly, keep your head down, and repeat my method ten times; the results will speak for themselves.”

Embracing his advice, I steadied my resolve. After nine consistent shots, I took a deep breath as I prepared for what I hoped would be the elusive tenth. I recalled a saying from my earlier life about “calling the target.” In my mind’s eye, I saw the pin drawing closer—a towering ten-foot column just three feet away. I aligned my body toward the flag, addressing the ball with deliberate calm, keeping my eyes fixed low. I swung softly and followed through exactly as instructed.