Mitch Albom - The Fab Five: Basketball Trash Talk the American Dream

Other books by Mitch Albom

Bo

The Live Albom

Live Albom II

Live Albom III

Copyright 1993 by Mitch Albom, Inc.

All rights reserved.

Warner Books, Inc.

Hachette Book Group

237 Park Avenue

New York, NY 10017

Visit our website at www.HachetteBookGroup.com

First eBook Edition: September 2009

ISBN: 978-0-446-56526-4

To David, for getting me into this,

and Janine, for getting me through it .

Contents

Age looks with anger on the temerity of youth, and youth with contempt on the scrupulosity of age.

Samuel Johnson

Let your nuts hang!

Fab Five pregame chant

Traffic is at a standstill. Horns honk. Music blares. People line around the block, and beefy security guards in white T-shirts that read Panther Protection Service, are holding back the mob. Something huge is happening inside the State Theatre on Woodward Avenue in downtown Detroit, June 30, 1993. It must be huge, because you dont get this many people out on a Wednesday night, not even in the summer.

LET US IN!

CHRIS INVITED ME!

IM ON THE LIST. YO, MAN. CHECK THE LIST.

Such commotion! And such women! Its as if every black female in the city aged 18 to 25 has shown up in a tight dress, plunging neckline, gold jewelry, poufed hair. The men respond in olive and maroon suits, with neat gold tiepins, and shoes that shine. Together they form a hurricane that swarms the theater, engulfing it, like one of those early rock-and-roll concerts in the 1950s.

The marquee reads, CHRIS WEBBER DRAFT CELEBRATION.

The front panel says, The Best Party in the Free World.

And here comes the man of the hour.

ITS CHRIS!

YOU THE MAN, CHRIS!

CONGRATULATIONS, CHRIS!

Chris Webber, 20 years old, who grew up a few miles from here and as late as a week ago didnt have enough money in his pocket to buy a full tank of gas, now steps out from a new vehicle in a fine Italian camel-colored suit, with a rust handkerchief peeking out the front pocket. His shirt is tailored. His tie is silk. On his shaved head is a cap reading, Golden State Warriors, the team that will make him rich. He waves at the crowd and hears it roar back at him.

WHOOO, CHRIS!

ON YOUR WAY, CHRIS!

Four hours earlier, before a nationwide TV audience, Webber was selected No. 1 in the NBA draft, meaning, at the very least, a $ 35-million contract, endorsement deals, an appearance on The Arse-nio Hall Show. His father cried. His mother cupped his face when he kissed her. Chris, who still looks a lot like his fourth-grade picture soft features, big eyes, and a winners smilehad rented this theater in advance, because he felt sure something good was going to happen to him. Something good always happens.

Now, surrounded by an entourage, he eases through the lobby, parting the crowd like a shark fin.

GOIN TO THE LEAGUE, CHRIS!

DONT FORGET TO HOOK ME UP, CHRIS!

WHASSUP, CHRIS?

Flashbulbs explode. Everyone wants a hug. He stops to talk to a TV camera, the hot light blinding him momentarily.

Hows it feel? a reporter asks.

Its my dream, he says.

He moves to the staircase marked, VIP Section, Passes Required, where two Panther Protection people grant him immediate passage. Up the stairs now, gawkers pointing, his entourage behind him like a bridal train. Hes here! Hes here! Music is thumping from the main room, rap, R&B, party music. A girl in a low-cut, red sequined dress sidles up to him, whispers Hi. He says Whassup? and smiles.

CHRIS! CHRIS!

The mob, many of whom have never met Webber, is cheering now, urging him forwardGO ON IN, CHRIS!and as he steps into the balcony that overlooks the already packed main floor, a king above his subjects, every eye in the place turns to spy him, the dancers, the drinkers, the videoids whove been watching a wall of TV sets replaying his brief but brilliant college career: Chris slamming a dunk, Chris blocking a shot, Chris going the length of the floor in his bright yellow Michigan uniform, baggy shorts, black shoes.

The DJ on the microphone can barely contain himself.

The MAN is IN the HOUSE! The MAN is IN the

From the corner of his eye, Chris spots them. They stand out, taller than the rest. Theres Jimmy, in a pale blue sports coat, and Juwan in a silk shirt, and Jalen in some kind of turquoise suit, the kind of suit only Jalen could wear, with his bald head and his earring. Only Ray is missinghe couldnt get a plane up from Texasbut Chris thinks of Ray when he thinks of them all, and when the others see him, their eyes lock in that group telepathy, and for a moment, all the noise in the theater swirls into the background, a seashell pressed against their ears. Its the same noise they heard when they were center of the storm in the national championship games, those huge domed stadiums, the whole world watching, and there they were, the young guns, the Shock the World boys, their throats dry, their nerves jangling, but somehow still tossing alley-oop passes and slam-dunking and hanging on the rims, the crowd going A A A A AHHHHHHH!

Chris? somebody asks, but he ignores it. He is moving toward them now as if no one else exists, and they are moving toward him, the smiles burstingYou made it, boy! one of them yells, and the others join in, You made it! You made it!and they hug like soldiers on the plane ride home. Chris hugs Jalen. Chris hugs Jimmy. Chris hugs Juwan.

The DJs voice echoes in their ears.

The MAN is IN the HOUSE! How about it for CHRIS and the boys from the FAB FIVE!

At the same time, not far away, in a small, single-level house on Bramell Avenue in Northwest Detroit, Michael Talley flops on his mothers couch. His droopy eyes are only half-open. The pop bottles are empty. The potato chip bags are down to crumbs. His friends from the neighborhood have gone, and his wife is off at her mothers place. Shell take care of the baby tonight, which is good; Mike doesnt feel like dealing with that crying right now. He is staring at the TV set, which flashes quietly.

Damn, he says to himself. He had been hoping to hear his name from that box during the NBA draft tonight, hoping to hear some team say, We want Michael Talley, we want the senior guard from the University of Michigan. Deep down, he knew it was a pipe dream. He had no agent. Hed gotten no calls. Unlike other seniors in college basketball, his playing time went down in his final year, because, well, the Fab Five needed their minutes, right? Now the league was looking right through him, an invisible commodity, him, Mike T, of all people, the kid theyd recruited out of high school so desperately youd have thought he was the Messiah.

Tonight, with each passing pick, his friends told him, Aw, youre better than that guy, Mike. Theyre screwing you, Mike. He watched Chris Webber get drafted first, watched him take those long strides down that red-carpeted walkway, raising his fist like an Olympic hero. Sure , Talley thought, Chris gets his. And Talley had helped recruit Webber in the first place! Took him around on his campus visit. Said, Come to school here, well both get a championship ring.

But Mike was two years older, and he was there first. He keeps saying that to himself. I was there first. I was there first. He grows angrier with each recital. He was once a hot recruit, he was once voted best high school player in the state, same as Webber. Why didnt things go in order, same as they always had? / was there first!

He remembers how his life changed when those kids showed up in the autumn of 91, Chris, Jalen, Juwan, Jimmy, Ray, how everything changed when they showed up, the coaches, the media, his career, everything. The Fab Five. Give us the Fab Five! Fab Five Fab Five Fab Five Fab Fi

The hell with the Fab Five, he figures.

He reaches for the remote control, flicks off the set, walks up to his childhood room, and goes to sleep.

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