South of Broad by Pat Conroy

that already. If my son makes you mad enough that you want to rip his head off and call him the worst name you can think of, then call him Dr. George Washington Carver, after the great black scientist from Tuskegee University.”
    “The peanut guy?”
    “Yeah, that’s the one.”
    “What can he call me?”
    “He’s got to call you Strom Thurmond. That’s about as big an insult as a black man can yell at a white man.”
    “Sir, if I get mad at you at practice, do I call you Dr. George Washington Carver?”
    “Call me Coach Jefferson. Anything else and I kick your ass. Hey, King? You think the other white boys’ll play for me?”
    “Yes, sir. I know they will.”
    “How are you so sure?”
    “Because they love the game,” I said. “And I bet they love those games on Friday night more than they do segregation.”
    A t nine sharp the next morning, I was standing in the south end zone of Johnson Hagood Stadium watching Ike Jefferson walking across the north end zone. We walked slowly toward each other until we met at the 50-yard line, and a strange wariness set up shop between us. Ike did not smile or shake my hand or offer any greeting. He was chewing gum and flipping a football up into the air as a way of ignoring me. He kept flipping the ball, catching it with one hand, then flipping it again.
    “Did you bring your father’s workout plan with you?” I asked.
    “Seem to have forgotten it, white boy.” Ike looked at me for the first time.
    “Gosh, Ike, ol’ buddy, I didn’t like the way it sounded when you called me ‘white boy.’”
    “I didn’t mean it to sound friendly.”
    “Since you forgot to bring Coach’s instructions, you want to run some laps to warm up? Or maybe do some calisthenics?”
    “You do whatever white boys like to do,” Ike said.
    “I knew integration was going to be a pain in the ass, Ike,” I said. “I really did. But I thought I was going to have to worry about my redneck boys a lot more than the black kids.”
    “Sorry to disappoint you, white boy.”
    “Hey, Dr. George Washington Carver Junior, you keep calling me ‘white boy’ and I’m going to start calling you a name with a long tradition in the South that rhymes with Roy Rogers’s horse.”
    “You got quite a temper there, Strom Thurmond,” he said.
    “You’ve been screwing with me, Dr. George Washington Carver Junior.”
    “Just a little bit, Strom. You’re a sensitive little soda cracker, aren’t you? You were about to fight me, weren’t you?”
    “Yep. Sure was.”
    “Does it bother you that I could kick your ass?”
    “A little bit. But I was going to throw the first punch when you tossed that football up in the air. Before that ball came down, I was going to break your jaw.”
    “Can you beat up any of those other white boys in that school of yours?”
    “Not many of them,” I said. “I’m not even sure I can beat up many of the white girls.”
    Ike surprised me by breaking out into an unexpected grin. He tossed me the ball. “You know something, Strom? I’m afraid I may even like you before this is over.”
    “I hope not,” I said as I lateralled the ball back to him.
    From his back pocket, Ike pulled out a piece of paper that revealed his father’s workout plan. I read it over and whistled. “He’s trying to kill us.”
    “His players are always in better shape than the other team,” Ike said. “Let’s start with ten laps, Strom.”
    “It’ll be a pleasure, Dr. George Washington Carver Junior.”
    “I hope you enjoy watching my fat ass running ahead of you.” He began to run.
    “Here’s what you and your daddy don’t know about me,” I said. “I look nerdy, but I run pretty fast.”
    I took off after him, and for an hour we ran sprints, did assorted agility drills, and performed push-ups and sit-ups at twenty-minute intervals. At the end of the session, we went up in the stands. I put Ike on my back and tried to run to the top of the stadium. I went twenty steps before