Benny Jay: Out Beyond The Arc

I'm at James Park up in Evanston with my my bowling buddies -- Cap and Norm -- watching Cap's kid, Miles, playing baseball.

Norm notices there's a basketball court across the way.

"You got a basketball in your car, Benny?" he asks.

"No," I say.

"I do...."

He looks at me and I look at him. We don't say a word. But I know what he's thinking: Yes, we came to watch Miles pitch. But he's already pitched his maximum three innings. And it's a lovely spring night. So....

We head over the court. On one end there's an empty basket. On the other end, a dad's playing one-on-one with his ten-year-old son. The dad's pretending he just can't block his son's shot. And the son is really excited cause he only needs one more basket to win the game. Meanwhile, over in the parking lot, a group of teenagers are passing a joint and listening to their car radio. I feel like I've gone back in time.

I won't kid you. As much as I love this game, I was never very good at it. I could never dribble with my left hand and I shot the wrong way (two hands, not one). I played strictly Y ball and intramurals. My game never advanced beyond going to the corner and waiting for someone to pass me the ball....

But, in the spring of my senior year -- when there was nothing much else to do -- I played basketball almost every day. Used to come to this park with my friends and shoot `til the stars came out. I mastered a Chet Walker head fake and taught myself to shoot like Bob Butter Bean Love, with the release behind my head so it's hard to block. I wore cut-off blue jeans, floppy socks and black All-Stars. We played until it was too dark to see and then we walked to the corner store and drank our soda and ate our chips and talked and talked and talked....

Norm throws me a pass. I haven't shot in years. Officially, I have retired. Every five or so years I retire.

My first shot falls short. My second comes closer. The third hits the rim. "Damn," I exclaim.

Norm's not hitting many either. The thing is -- he's the real deal. Back in the day, he started for Hales Franciscan High School on the south side.

We're really getting into it. I hit one. Norm hits a couple. I drill three in a row from the corner. "You love that corner, Benny," he tells me.

We shoot so much we forget about the baseball game. The sun's gone from the sky. It's hard to see. My back's aching -- like I pulled a muscle. Norm says his knee's acting up.

But we keep shooting.

Norm says it's time to take it out beyond the arc. I say, first guy to hit a three wins a dollar. He shoots and misses. I shoot and miss. He shoots -- all net.

"I shoulda known better than to bet with you," I tell him.

He pockets my dollar and says: "C'mon, Benny -- you can't go without hitting a three...."

So I go beyond the arc and launch a long jumper -- all net.

I start dancing and singing: "Oh, yeah! Oh, yeah!"

Norm throws me a pass. I fire up another shot. All net.

"I'm Craig Hodges," I say. "Craig Hodges -- the world's greatest three-point shooter."

My third shot looks dead on. I raise my arms in triumph. But, no, it rattles out.

I figure it's time to go. But Norm's not ready to leave. The pride and joy of Hales Franciscan's not about to let no YMCA boy beat him.

He goes out beyond the arc and just like that -- bam, bam, bam -- hits three in a row. His fourth shot bounces out. But bottom line: He hit three and I hit two.

Don't get it twisted....

"I knew it Norm," I say. "I knew you weren't going to walk off the court in second place...."

Norm can't repress his smile.

"You beat me on my home court," I tell him.

"Next time, Benny," he says.

As we walk back to Miles and Cap, I get a feeling that I may have overextended myself. My toes, knees and back are aching. But, man, for a split second -- when that second three went in -- I almost felt young again....

Benny Jay: Swimming With Sharks

In the middle of the day, I get calling from my old friend, Pamela, the school teacher, calling from her class up in Evanston.

Must be the end of the school year cause I can hear the kids in the background, chattering quietly among themselves.

Pamela starts in where she left off the last time we talked just a few days ago. There's this used Mercedes she wants to buy from some dealership out in the western suburbs. She thinks the salesman is trying to rip her off -- he offered to sell it to her for 24-something but at closing he wanted 25-something. Or something like that. I never could get this car stuff straight.

"It's because I'm a black woman -- they think they can rip me off," she tells me. Just like she told me before. "If I was a white man, they wouldn't play this game...."

"Pamela -- white or black; man or woman -- it's all the same. They always try to nail you by adding on money at the end," I tell her. Just like I told her before. "This is what they do...."

Then I launch into the same story I'd already told her about how a different salesman at a different dealership in a different town pulled the same stunt on me and my wife when we bought our Ford.

But, Pamela's not buying it. She barely listened the first time I told her the story, and she's definitely not listening now.

"Here's what I want you to do," she says.

Uh-oh. Right away, I know, trouble's coming. She wants me to call the dealership and pretend I'm interested in buying the car and see what they offer. "Make sure you talk like a white guy -- use your best white guy voice. They have to know you're white...."

"Pamela, I can't do this...."

"What do you mean, you can't do this. You the president, ain't you?"

About four years ago, I hooked her up with someone she needed to know in a completely different matter and ever since she's been calling me the president -- like I'm the man with the amazing connections.

"Pamela, I don't know anything about cars...."

"So what -- I'll tell you everything you need to know...."

She goes into this recitation of everything I'll have to say. And, like the dummy that I am, I'm taking it all down -- literally. I mean, I'm writing a script of what I will say.

"It's a Mercedes CLK 350," she says.

"DLK 350?" I ask.

"No, C...."

I'm all mixed up. "Did you say C or D?"

"C -- like cat. Not D -- like dog. There's no DLK 350. Don't you know nothing about Mercedes?"

"No, nothing. How many times do I gotta tell you -- I know nothing about cars...."

"C'mon, president -- pay attention. Now, they wanted me to pay 25,800. But they're going to offer you 24,000. I know it. Just ask them for the advertised price...."

So I call the number she gave me and I wind up talking to a saleslady named Liz. Reading from my script, I say: "I want to buy a CLK 350. How much will that cost?"

Pause. Then Liz says: "Did you say CLK 350?"

"Yes," I say, desperately trying to sound confident, even though I'm having a panic attack because I just can't remember -- is it DLK or CLK?

Another pause. Then Liz says: "Sir, this is a BMW dealership -- we don't sell CLK 350s...."

Damn! Pamela gave me the wrong number. I try to play it off, like -- ha, ha, ha -- it's an innocent mistake and that I really know the difference between BMWs and Mercedes. "Oh, yes, of course," I say with a phony chuckle. "Sorry...."

But Liz is not done with me. As long as I'm on the line, she's gonna take a bite. "Sir, I have an LLS 500 on the lot. 2006. I'll sell it to you for 33-9. That's the best I can offer...."

At least, I think that's the car model she mentioned. Lord, only knows what she really said. "Ugh, no...."

"That's better than you'll find anywhere for a comparable Mercedes...."

"I gotta go...."

"What's your name?"

Not knowing what else to do, I hang up and call Pamela. "Okay, Miss-just-do-what-I-tell-you, you gave me the wrong number...."

"What!"

"You gave me the number to a BMW dealer. I called a BMW dealership to buy a Mercedes...."

"Oops...."

I hear the whole class cracking up. I swear, she's got me on the speaker phone. Guess I'm the entertainment for the day.

She gives me another number and I wind up talking to a salesman named Tony. I play it hard. I'm starting to get into this. I'm talking with a thick Chicago white-ethnic accent -- like I'm a Mobster from the northwest side.

"What's your advertised price for a CLK 350?" I ask.

"28,991...."

"Naw, naw -- your best price. I walk in there right now -- cash in my hand -- what are you gonna give me?"

"To be honest, sir, the only way I can do this is if you come in here," Tony says. "I have to run these things by my manager...."

I'm really getting into my mobster routine: "Forget the manager. It's just me and you, Tony. Gimme your best offer...."

"Sir, I can't do this over the phone...."

"Forget it, then....."

"Sir, what's your name?"

I say the first thing that pops into my head: "Harry...."

"Okay, Harry, what's your phone number?"

I start to panic again -- like what if this guy tracks me down? My mobster accent disappears. "I can't talk now," I say.

"Your email, Harry -- what's your email?"

"Oops, got another call coming in...."

I hang up the phone. My heart is pounding. I wait to see if Tony uses the caller ID to trace my number and call me back. Nope -- phew. I call Pamela. "This guy was a freakin' shark," I tell her. "You got me swimming with sharks. Five more minutes and he'd have sold me a car...."

Pamela and her class are howling.

"Find some other white guy to play this part," I say. "I don't even like cars...."