I would often wake up after midnight, wondering if my father had made it home from work. Sometimes I woke because I could hear my father’s car enter the driveway (which was adjacent to my bedroom). If I heard that then heard him jingle the keys and open the kitchen door, I could relax knowing my father was home and OK.
Other times, I woke up and look out the window to see if his car was in the driveway. If it was, I was able to quickly fall back asleep.
A number of times during my childhood and adolescence, the phone would ring in the middle of the night after my father arrived home. It was always the police informing my father that one of his bars had been burglarized. They would ask him to come to the bar to help them with their investigation. It was always the same, the burglar(s) would have broken through seemingly strong iron bars to break down a door or window. They would have emptied storage room the bar of beer and wine. My father only had a beer and wine license as his clientele would never order mixed drinks. They limited themselves to beer and cheap wine. If the burglar(s) had time, they also emptied out the jukebox and any other vending machines (snacks, sodas, and cigarettes) of all the coins and bills they could get their hands on.
One night during the beginning of my last year of high school, my mother answered the phone shortly after midnight. It was the police, but it seemed too early for a break-in. My father had been closing the bar with an employee, Sam, when someone snuck up on my father and assaulted him. This time they took cash from my father as well as all the other things they typically took. When the police and ambulance arrived, my father was unconscious. Sam had also been assaulted but had not been hurt seriously.
My father was rushed to the hospital where he spent several days under observation for a severe concussion. Sam believed that they hit him and my father hard enough that they probably left them both for dead.
Both of them were taken to the hospital. The police were calling from the hospital to inform us of the assault and robbery. Fortunately, my father had no significant injury except for an extreme concussion.
While my father recuperated from the injuries, my mother asked Leo, Jr. to run the bar, which dragged out for several months. The assault left him temporarily impaired cognitively and physically. He was not the same for quite a while. Neither was I as it turned out.
Two days later, after basketball practice, several of my teammates challenged each other to a dunking contest. Unfortunately, not one of my teammates including me, had been able to successfully achieve this feat. I had not seen anyone at our school dunk a basketball in almost a year. Only Goose Garrett who was about 6-foot, five inches had been able to do it. Unfortunately, his father was in the military. The family had moved away and Goose transferred to another school between school years. No one else had done successfully dunked, even though we would routinely attempt to do so. Marlon Blanford who was 6-foot, 7-inches hadn’t done it a couple of years ago, Emmitt (6’-3”) had not done it. I would try, but other than my unusually large hands, there was no evidence that I had the ability to do so. In fact, Coach Goodwin once said jokingly that I was perfect for our team because I was slow but balanced things out by not being a good leaper either. Think about that for a minute.
Anyway, I tried to dunk the basketball that day with all the other guys, only to come down awkwardly. As I tried to walk away, I felt something painful down my lower back. As with most injuries, I tried to shake it off. As the pain subsided, I chose not to tell anyone about it.
A few days later, during basketball practice, my back seized up. I didn’t know what was going on, but again I did not tell the coaches. I was hoping it would go away quickly. Of course, it did not and the pain persisted in my lower back and most of the way down my left leg for several weeks into the middle of the season.
Despite the persistent pain in my back, I pushed through basketball practice with gritted teeth and a determined mindset. I couldn't let my team down, especially during such a crucial part of the early season. But as the weeks went by, the pain slowly worsened, affecting my performance on the court.
The pain in my back and leg seemed to persist as the days went by. I struggled through each basketball practice, gritting my teeth and trying to hide the discomfort from my coaches and teammates. The shooting pain that radiated down my leg made it difficult to move on the court, let alone try dunk a basketball.
One day, as I sat on the bench during a game, Coach Goodwin noticed my grimace every time I shifted in my seat. He approached me with a furrowed brow, concern evident in his eyes. "What's going on, son? You look like you're in pain," he said, his voice laced with worry.
I hesitated for a moment, unsure of whether to share my struggles with him. I replied, “I’m fine, I’m just not happy with how I’m playing.” I did not reveal anything about my injury, nor my father’s incapacitation.
But my back and leg pain were becoming unbearable, and I knew I couldn't continue like this. We easily won the game. So, at our next practice, I finally opened up to Coach Goodwin about my back injury and how it had been bothering me for weeks.
It seemed that telling Coach Goodwin actually reduced the pain in my back as if my confession and acknowledgement was all that it took to begin the road to recovery. I did not miss any practices or games, but I had to be very diligent about stretching before any strenuous activity and especially before games.
All the while, our family continued to watch over my father’s slow recovery and kept the bar going. A cloud seemed to hang over us, but little did we know how much.