Philly Style and Philly Profile

Prologue

Walter Chandler’s legs pumped like automobile-engine pistons as he dodged the occasional newspaper stand with the owner holding out the late afternoon copy of The Philadelphia Bulletin. This was one of the obstacles Walter faced as he sprinted the length of the 69th Street elevated subway station. He skirted past this obstruction like he did when he won the Championship of America hurdles race at the Penn Relays track and field carnival.

He squinted in the glare of the late-afternoon sun that streamed through the spaces between the iron beams, supporting the platform. Walter dodged groups of people getting on and off regular scheduled El trains coming from Center City, the heart of downtown, Philadelphia.

Walter reached the stairs to the concourse and then the long corridor that led to the platform of the high-speed line that carried commuters to Norristown, a small town on the western side of Philadelphia. Norristown was situated in the direction of the state capitol of Harrisburg.

Walter evaded two old ladies who were not watching what was going on around them. He peered down the passageway, saw the 4:09 train and picked up speed. His thoughts raced faster than his feet. ‘If I don’t hustle, I won’t reach the train. I can’t be late.’

His forearm knocked open one of the swinging doors; he put on a burst of speed that would make Olympian Carl Lewis blush with envy. Walter smiled as he stepped through the train doors and sat down on the black plastic seat. Breathing hard, he closed his eyes for a few moments. He opened them and saw every seat taken except for a few near the front of the car.

He heard the conductor yell through he window, Pull outta here. The high-speed line car jerked forward, eased out of the 69th Street terminal and headed to Norristown.

Walter endured the 30-minute commute, knowing that when he stepped off the train, a phase of his life would end. When he got the telephone message, he was suspicious, but he knew he had to go to Norristown or he wouldn’t find any inner-peace.

He got off the train and walked the three blocks to the First Pennsylvania Bank on McArthur Road. Inside the bank, he headed for the safe deposit boxes. Walter put the letter in the box, closed it, locked it, and smiled at the bank teller who gave him the lock-box key. He walked away from the vault area of the bank toward the front entrance.

Walter had a few minutes before the meeting. When it was over he’d sprint to catch the high-speed line train for the return trip to the 69th Street Market elevated station.

After catching the elevated subway to West Philadelphia, he’d relax for the rest of the day. He might even jog over to Franklin Field, near Spruce Street, in West Philly and get in a few laps around the track he’d made famous, five-years ago, on a warm spring day. He laughed as he pushed the revolving door.

Walter stepped out of the bank door. He stared straight ahead, across the street, to the pawnshop that had the black and orange sign that advertised discount prices on gold, silver and electronic equipment. The lock-box key felt good in the palm of his hands. He didn’t see the Deuce& and a Quarter Oldsmobile.

Walter’s foot touched the pavement. The car bumper sent his body rolling back onto the sidewalk. The force of the car knocked the lock-box key and it made a jingling noise as it bounced off the sidewalk curb and into the gutter.

His body rested against the steps of the bank.

Spectators gathered.

Walter looked up and then closed his eyes as the late-afternoon sunlight washed his lifeless body.

Chapter One: Friday Afternoon

Philadelphia streets were never silent. Gang wars on corners, screeching cars on avenues, and squealing steel trolley tires on tracks kept you alert for the next confrontation.

Philadelphia playgrounds were sometimes silent. These were sanctuaries where you confronted your deepest memories. These were places packed with people, but on a late summer’s midday, they were virtually empty.

On the basketball court at 48th and Woodland, in a run-down section of southwest Philadelphia, the occasional thump of a basketball striking the cement startled the hibernating ghosts of past hoop games. Karl Mathis, a promising Division One college basketball player stepped on pieces of glass from broken wine bottles as he passed under the gate that led to the playground. Two little kids, who were engaged in a one-on-one battle, caught Karl’s attention. The kids spent more time wiping sweat from their foreheads than dribbling a basketball.

Karl watched the intense game and thought about when he was that age. He thought about the bridge to something else as he called the award he received, when he was the age of those little kids, from the boys’ club: THE NATIONAL BOY OF THE YEAR.

Karl was smart, in fact he was in the top ten of his class, yet he was cool and his friends thought he was unique.

His friends said he was heavy and he could change his surroundings, not with force, but with his brains. Karl played down his A-average at West Philadelphia High. His grades and his basketball talent earned him an athletic scholarship to Blake University in North Carolina. He was an emerging Philly basketball legend.

In three days, he’d be back at college for his sophomore year.

Some West Philly basketball fans boasted Karl could take a quarter and make change for a teammate, on the top of the backboard. The scar on his arm, from a gunshot wound, was visible every time he went up for that sweet jump shot. His shot always played string music as the ball rarely touched the rim and swished through the net.

His mother, Doris, always told him nothing would take away his goals. Sometimes he listened, other times he didn’t; he knew it was important. She said, A person who lives with acceptance and friendship learns to find happiness in the world.

One day he hoped to understand the quote.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Slowly, the bouncing ball relaxed him.

His back was to the street as his fingers grasped the iron mesh fence. He stared at the kids’one-on-one basketball game.

Across 48th Street, a car pulled in front of the iron-gate entrance. Four young men got out of a Deuce & and a Quarter. Jake Myers entered the gate. He was shirtless, so the scars on his arm and chest drew attention.

Jake’s raised scars resembled the stitches you saw on a leather basketball. His hands were in his pocket. Three members of the Young Outlaws walked behind him as he moved toward the 48th and Woodland playground.

Karl sensed somebody behind him, but only turned toward the street to watch the kids chase the ball out of bounds, when he saw Jake.

Karl’s mind raced faster than he could sprint from half-court to dunk a basketball.

Jake glared.

Karl stared.

Early Philly memories: Gang members chased Karl down empty streets, throwing trashcans on the pavement. Gunshots fired into the air. Switchblade knives were glinting in the sun.

Escape form Market Street was Karl’s everyday memory.

Yo, I want it. Homie. Jake stared and stepped closer to Karl.

I don’t have it.

You do.

No.

We just got back from Norristown and had a little run in with one of your friends. Or should I say, former friend, Walter Chandler. He had a run-in with a bumper.

Jake’s buddies laughed out loud. You ain’t getting on that plane Sunday if I don’t get my brown-leather bag.

Jake backed up a step, turned and walked away. He looked back at Karl. Along with his buddies, they walked out of the playground.

Karl turned, continued watching the kids one-on-one basketball game. A sound startled the people in the playground. Karl dived onto the sidewalk. He arched his head to see that everybody moved in unison. The tires from the Deuce & and Quarter screeched as a second shot sent a bullet into the wall of the playground office.

The Deuce & and a Quarter sped down 48th Street.

Karl raised himself off the concrete, sprinted out of the playground, down 48th Street and opposite where the car sped, and headed toward the Southwest Philly Boys Club.

Chapter Two

Andy Michael Pilgrim stepped off the Market Street Elevated subway car at 30th Street station. People bumped, pushed, shoved and elbowed each other in a moving frenzy to get off the train. Workers from the main Philadelphia post office and commuters from the Pennsylvania Railroad Station fought to get into the silver subway car.

Everybody jostled for position in moving toward the subway station exit. People avoided bumping into the newsstand that was situated in the middle of the platform. Andy waved at Lucas the owner with his blue Philadelphia Bulletin apron. His radio blared the newscast from the all news station, KYW-AM. Philadelphians turned their heads slightly as the announcer described a hit-run in front of a Norristown bank.

Andy dodged people on his left, heading out of the subway station and people on his right, sprinting to catch the next subway train. He missed living and working in Washington, D.C. and besides he didn’t have to face crowds of crazy people fighting to get on and off the subway. While working at the Washington Star, he could walk to the Newspaper.

The move to Philadelphia was better, since this placed him closer to his mother, Golda, and father, Marvs, living in a Brownstone in Brooklyn, New York. Now, he was ninety minutes from his family.

Andy sprinted up the steps, where the subway exit faced The Philadelphia Bulletin’s flashing message board. As Andy was turning to walk onto the entrance ramp, a woman approached him, holding a brown-leather bag with a zipper across the top. The bag had deep scratches that created a criss-cross pattern on one side. The other side was smooth.

Here!

Andy instinctively reached out for the brown-leather bag. The woman stared into Andy’s eyes, turned and ran away.

Andy held the brown-leather bag. He scanned the intersection, but people were waling should-to-shoulder and he couldn’t find the woman. He gave up the search and walked toward The Bulletin building. Andy pushed one of the double glass doors open, focused on the elevators, rode to the third floor and walked past the sign that shouted, Nearly everybody in Philadelphia reads The Bulletin. He walked to his desk in the sports department, still clutching the brown-leather bag.

Andy pulled the zipper, opened the bag and looked inside.

Oh No.

He zipped the leather bag, grabbed the handle, pushed himself from his chair and walked out of the newsroom and into the hallway. He couldn’t concentrate on his work and decided to leave the newsroom.

His confidant and friend, Roberto Savan, was coming in the door as Andy was leaving the third floor Yo Andy, I’ll catch you when I get back from vacation. We’ve got to plan the rest of the high school football coverage for the fall, and really get that football guide ready for the deadline…let’s stay the best in Philly.

Okay.

Andy took the elevator down to the parking lot. He spotted his forest green Pinto. He opened the trunk, tossed the leather bag inside and slammed the trunk hard.

Andy got into his car, stared for a few minutes, turned the ignition key and heard the engine purr. He pulled his car away from The Bulletin parking lot, turned right, and headed up Market Street to Karl’s house.

Chapter Three

Karl walked into the red and white brick southwest Philly Boys Club with its’ game room, arts and crafts, wood shop and a swimming pool. Chemistry among the members created a motto, You don’t have to belong to a gang. You don’t have to get high off drugs.

In the early afternoon, The Club filled fast. The doors burst open—get out of the way, man—here comes the kids. It was a place for activities. It was a place for having fun, like hanging around the pool.

Assistant club director Ques Johnson unlocked a cabinet and gave out basketballs, ping-pong balls, chess sets and checker sets.

Sports were the drawing card, the interest builder, and the best way to get to the kids. From the beginning, people met, ideas expressed and attitudes changed.

The basketball court was in the old waiting room. The benches around the walls reminded visitors that this was once a train station that was situated along the old Western Pennsylvania railroad line.

There was a game room, a library, and an arts & crafts area for the boys and girls to use during the evening.

From The Club emerged different people with different stories to tell: their experiences and why this was a special place of hope.

Karl walked down the hallway and into the main meeting room. His picture was on the wall with the caption: KARL MATHIS, OUR NATIONAL BOY OF THE YEAR.

Karl smiled.

In the middle of the room, standing on a pedestal with glass surrounding it, was the 48th and Woodland summer league basketball trophy. It was still gleaming. Inscribed on the trophy base: Philadelphia Blazers, Champions.

Karl moved toward the trophy and touched the glass with all ten fingers. He stared. He daydreamed.

One moment he’s in the present, a Division One basketball star, and the next moment he’s a sixteen-year-old playground legend again. Karl’s mind drifted back four years when the gangs controlled The Club until Mr. John Clinton brought positive changes.

The first year eight or nine kids came in the door. They carried knives. There were threats on Mr. Clinton’s life. The lingo: turf and gangs. Everything in the hood belonged to the family, which meant the gangs. If you did something to a gang member, expect retaliation.

Mr. Clinton taught the young people to live in society or they’d be put away. They lived by the framework of The Club’s rules to help them live in the framework of society’s rules.

Mr. Clinton’s biggest success: Karl Mathis

Mr. Clinton’s biggest failure: Jake Myers

Karl rubbed his fingers on the glass trophy case and smiled. He remembered the words he said as he was leaving The Club, that day, to win the trophy. Yo, Mr. Clinton…we’re taking the championship. Karl stared in the door leading to the swimming pool. In his thoughts, it was four years earlier, and he was gathering up his best friends, and teammates---Philip and Edward.

The three buddies walked around the pool.

Girls! Girls! Girls!

Edward almost fell into the pool looking at Sharon Taylor. Karl kept smiling at Linda Maxwell. Philip admired all the girls at once.

You ain’t getting nothing. Karl teased Edward.

Wonna bet.

You’re so dumb Edward…you got to write R and L on your sneakers to put them on. Karl grabbed his side laughing.

Yeah…right.

Both of you ain’t got no rap, Philip said.

Ain’t got no, Karl mimicked. The brother can’t talk.

Well…we’ll see after the game, Philip said. The pool will be open and the honeys will still be here.

Let’s stay, Edward whined.

Outta here. Karl ordered and broke into a jog with Edward and Philip following. The threesome hurried to meet the other Philadelphia Blazers.

Edward was point guard and team leader. Philip was a tremendous shooter and Carlton (Oops) Jones was a skinny slashing forward that could drive to the basket. Everybody called him Oops because when he got a rebound people yelled Oops…that skinny kid grabbed a rebound. Walter Hopkins was a nasty rebounder. The acknowledged star was Karl Mathis.

When the starting five put on the sky-blue T-Shirts they could run, jump, shoot and play defense with any playground basketball team in Philadelphia.

Watch out, Mousetrap.

The threesome sprinted through the gate and into the 48th and Woodland playground. They saw Oops and Walter sitting on the concrete table. The playground was full of spectators. The stands were crowded. People stood three deep. It was crowded. When the Philadelphia Blazers sprinted on the court, the crowd responded with loud cheers.

Showtime.

This was the battle---Philadelphia Blazers vs Mousetrap for the 48th and Woodland Summer Basketball League Championship.

The game flowed evenly for three quarters. In the fourth quarter the game tightened. The official a.k.a. Country couldn’t do anything to stop the Blazers. Mousetrap in their bright red T-Shirts, was being outplayed. Karl was the star of the playground. Every jump shot, steal, dunk or creative drive to the basket brought, Oohs and Ahs from the spectators. When Karl did a reverse jam, the dunk made the spectators slap their palms in the high five fashion. Karl didn’t play the game; he culminated the game. The Blazers celebrated.

Whenever we play together now or in the future, we’ll always be champions, Edward yelled.