Shed So Many Tears, Part II

.....reprinted from the St. Louis Post-Dispatch March 9, 2004.....

LAW & ORDER

ST. LOUIS

Woman is charged with killing boyfriend

Jacqueline Neal, 25, was charged Monday with second-degree murder in the fatal shooting of her boyfriend, Julius Eberhart , 32, St. Louis police said. Neal told homicide detectives the shooting happened about 9:45 p.m. Sunday during a quarrel in a car as Eberhart was driving on Interstate 70 near West Florissant Avenue, police said.

Neal said Eberhart had pulled out a pistol during the quarrel but later placed it on the seat. She said she then picked it up, police reported. Neal said that as she was holding the gun, a vehicle struck their car in the rear, causing the pistol to discharge, police said.

Eberhart was shot in the chest. After the shooting, Neal called authorities.

Neal also was charged with armed criminal action. The couple lived in the 1300 block of Warren Street.----Copyright (c) 2004 St. Louis Post-Dispatch Record Number 0403100477

Shed So Many Tears, Part II

"Nigga, you can’t hoop," I teased an old friend nearly ten years after our last encounter. The friend, Julius Eberhardt, had wandered, quite aimlessly, into the convenience store my family owned on The City’s Southside, sorting through an array of over the counter goodies and cakes, obviously oblivious to my presence.

"Toriano?" JuJu enthusiastically surmised after realizing the subject of his impromptu ribbing. "Hell naw! What’chu you doing in herre?"

"Man, this my people’s spot," I said shortly after a empathetic handshake/hug. "I’m here damn near everyday."

JuJu was a standout basketball player throughout his younger days playing for the St. Louis Zips, a 1980’s staple in the annals of youth basketball programs in St. Louis. By the time the Carr Square Village reared ball hawk got to Eureka High as a sophomore he was a combination point guard/small forward with deft ball handling skills and uncanny scoring ability. His defense, according to our sophomore coach, Craig Kennedy, left a little to be desired. His offensive capabilities were more than enough to atone for any of JuJu’s defensive liabilities.

Coach Kennedy regular chided JuJu about his defensive shortcomings. Coach would constantly question JuJu’s commitment to defensive excellent—our sophomore squad was built on speed, defensive pressure and smarts—but nonetheless place the enigmatic JuJu among the first five game after game. JuJu had mad game and Coach K knew it. In fact, JuJu was even getting looked at by Coach Gene Myers for possible varsity playing time.

"Damn, JuJu," I continued after our heart-felt embrace, "where you been, man."

"Man, I been around," he said, steady searching for some mid-afternoon snacks. "Where you been? Nigga, I ain’t seen you in hellas."

"Shiiidddd, man," I countered, "I been around."

JuJu and I jaw-jacked a few more minutes before the young lady he was riding with came into the store. She was a bit annoyed.

"Damn, JuJu," the portly-shaped woman screamed, "what’s taking you so long?"

"Damn, baby, chill out," JuJu shot back, "I’m in herre hollin’ at my homeboy from high school."

JuJu, smoothing over the slight episode, casually introduced me to the woman--his girlfriend and mother of JuJu’s two kids. He paid for the snacks and sent his girl back to the car before going down memory lane.

"T, remember when we played The V our sophomore year," JuJu chimed, "and we had that two-on-one fast break?" The V—as in national basketball powerhouse Vashon High, as well as local power DeSmet High’s "B" teams were two of the teams on our sophomore team’s 1989-90 schedule.

Coach Kennedy was enthused about the sophomore class of 1992 from both Rockwood South and Eureka Junior Highs. Rockwood South and Eureka Jr. were both feeder schools to Eureka Sr. High at the time. The gig was Coach Kennedy’s first boy’s basketball job after coaching the girl’s varsity at Eureka a couple of seasons prior to ‘89. He challenged his talented collection of athletes by assembling a schedule that featured some of the area’s better basketball programs.

"You remember that shit?" I asked JuJu about the not so distant memory of him and me running one of Coach K’s fundamental fast breaks.

JuJu, based on his Carr Square Village roots, resided within The V’s boundaries. He dreamed of donning the Wolverine Blue and White of The V, but his mother had other plans. She enrolled JuJu and his siblings in state of Missouri’s voluntary desegregation program. JuJu, like the most of us from The City, had trouble adjusting to the rural aspects of Eureka, Mo, but somehow still managed to enjoy the daily 30 mile excursion.

"Man, we straight beat them cats that day," JuJu exclaimed about the mild upset. His former Zips teammate, Jermaine "Q-Ball" Kemp, had told JuJu all week long how Kemp and his Vashon "B" team comrades were "gonna kill ya’ll white boys."

We beat both The V and DeSmet that year, finishing a respectable 18-6 before heading for the varsity team the following year. "Them niggas was talkin’ all shit, too."

We wrapped up our nostalgic based conversation by exchanging contact information. JuJu wanted to know—and me to prove—if I still had some basketball skills. He assured me he hadn’t lost his touch.

"We gon’ go hoopin’ Monday," JuJu boastfully promised, doubting my claims I still had it, "and see what’chu got. Make sho’ you call me Tory, man."

I watched JuJu out the door on that beautiful early spring Friday afternoon. I could see his still annoyed girlfriend…well…still annoyed. He flashed his trademark toothy grin through the front windshield at her as approached the car. I laughed because I remembered the Rudolph Valentino type charm he displayed to the girls at Eureka back in the day. He and his girl kissed as they pulled off the lot and I laughed again. That big-headed fool has still got it, I thought.

It was business as usual the Monday after JuJu’s visit to the store. In some ways it was fitting JuJu would come into my place of employment—after all his brother Jason, Jason’s girlfriend and Jason girlfriend’s younger brother Brandon were regular patron at the Porter gas filling establishment.

In fact, Brandon mentioned to me shortly after JuJu’s visit that he didn’t know I knew his "big brother". Three days later, Brandon dropped a load on me that reverberates numbing pain through my body to this day.

"Cuzz, JuJu dead," Brandon said to me as he approached the sales counter door. Immediately my heart sank. "His gal shot him last night, cuzz, and killed him."

I was too distraught to make sense of the circumstances behind JuJu’s death. Brandon tried explaining to me what had happen between JuJu and his girl, but the story was so unbelievably cruel I couldn’t make sense of it.

"Man, you bullshitting!" was all I could muster.

JuJu’s wake, funeral and coming home celebration was difficult for me. I mean, here it was, a friend who I hadn’t seen in nearly a decade, dead because of a domestic dispute (his girl was charged with involuntary manslaughter) merely three days after our post-high school real world encounter. I said many a tear as they laid my homie to rest.

JuJu you left this place a legend from a legendary family. Your kids will continue to live on in your legacy. God knew I needed an angel in my life so he sent you to see me before your homecoming. I’m glad I knew you. You’ll be sorely missed.

....reprinted from the St Louis Post-Dispatch, April 4, 2006....

ST. LOUIS: Woman gets 5-year term in boyfriend's death

A St. Louis woman has pleaded guilty of a lesser felony rather than face trial on a murder charge in the fatal shooting of her boyfriend in a car on Interstate 70.

Jacqueline Neal, 27, of the 1300 block of Warren Street, was scheduled for trial this week on charges of second-degree murder and armed criminal action. Instead, she pleaded guilty March 20 of voluntary manslaughter and was sentenced to five years in prison, prosecutor Christine Krug said Monday.

Neal shot Julius Eberhart , 32, in the chest on March 7, 2004. At the time, Neal told police that Eberhart had pulled out a gun as the two quarreled while driving on Interstate 70 near West Florissant Avenue. She grabbed the gun when he put it down, she said, and it went off when they were rear-ended by another vehicle.

Krug said that Neal was found to be suffering from battered spouse syndrome.---Copyright (c) 2006 St. Louis Post-Dispatch Record Number: 1000534017

GENERAL ISAIAH

I can’t possibly imagine enduring the forty weeks of struggle and uncertainty General Isaiah has just faced.

Closed in, oblivious to the outside world, his only means of communication being his mother’s sweet, sassy and soothing voice, echoing in his head.

The tossing, the turning, the upside-down pretzel-like twist consuming him during many confusing, sleepless nights. The hunger, the pain, the craving for some sort of relief. Man, way too many obstacles for anyone to overcome just to breathe fresh air.

Only two people really know the true facts that led to General Isaiah’s capture. All that is known is one careless night of booze and drugs during battle will lead to major strategic mistakes.

Anyway it goes, the General had absolutely nothing at all to do with his current status, only abiding by the rules thrust upon him.

There’s no turning back now, though. Wayward on, son, wayward on.

Going along with the program, the General realized, rather instinctively, that in order to survive until he reached the outside world, he had to grasp for air on a limited oxygen supply and kick down the walls responsible for his confinement.

The General played the part of soldier to the fullest, earning his much ballyhooed release from captivity.

Now, he’s out.

Look at him.

Yep, he’s a soldier alright, the epitome of a soldier; tall, long, dark and handsome not to mention the mental toughness to match.

The doctors and nurses are the first to greet the General upon his release. They’re grabbing, pulling, and sticking all types of sharp, gleaming instruments in every nook and cranny from the General’s ear-hole to ass-hole.

They’re checking limbs, eyes and hell, those folks are even spanking the General, trying to get an emotional response from him.

Ah yeah, there it is.

A thunderous cry that could have been heard within a five-mile radius if not for the plexiglass windows and closed corridors.

Welcome, General Isaiah.

Wayward on, son. The world shall soon be your oyster.

Got Kindle?

Get the electronic version of The Pride of Park Avenue for $4.99 on Amazon's Kindle

Goat cheese no, tomato sauce yes.

Im not a real big vinegar guy.

Wipe out: The Last Time The Pride of Park Avenue rode a mountain bike

The last time I hopped on a mountain bike was quite memorable.

It was the summer of 1997 and I was in Warrensburg, MO attending summer school and preparing for my senior season of football at Central Missouri. I was without a vehicle, or as my boy Nose always called it, a whip.

I was without a whip, but managed to score a used mountain bike for a little of nothing at a local garage sale. I rode that sucker daily. To class, to summer workouts and weight lifting sessions and to my homies Sean Mac and Fat Joe's respective dwellings.

Honestly, the riding, coupled with weight training and wind sprints, had me in the best shape of my young life. I violently smashed against many running backs, qbs, tight ends and wide receivers as a result.

One day, I was a little too aggressive as I came upon a construction site near campus and MO Hwy 13, the main north-south artery through the town. Exiting campus headed toward Hwy 13 northbound I hit a patch of gravel, lost control and literally wiped out.

I picked myself up off the pavement, took one look at the palm of both hands, which were badly scraped after I tried to brace my fall, peeked at my mangled bike, and tossed the heap to the side of the road and walked with disgust a half mile home.

I hadn't been on a mountain bike since that day...until this morning, which although liberating, was not as eventful.

Early morning mountain bike through the streets of KCMO=liberation!

Hanging by a Moment

"I'm desperate for changing/Starving for truth/I'm closer to where I started/I'm chasing after you/I'm falling even more in love with you/Letting go of all I've held onto/I'm standing here until you make me move/I'm hanging by a moment here with you...

"Forgetting all I'm lacking/Completely incomplete/I'll take your invitation/You take all of me now/I'm falling even more in love with you/Letting go of all I've held onto/I'm standing here until you make me move/I'm hanging by a moment here with you."

Original story from the book The Pride of Park Avenue by Toriano Porter

HANGING BY A MOMENT

 The situation was real as all-get out.

“Your baby daddy is bout to die tonight!” I screamed at Keva.

Barely three months after we met, the relationship between me and Keva had become unpredictably crazy. Her man at home, Jerome, was not happy to be left all alone with their kids the majority of his free time. 

The youngins were disposed to the home of the couple’s family and friends while Jerome was out looking for Keva, who was taking up her free time hanging with me.

Our time together was fun, intense and went by extremely quick.

A day with her usually went like this: wake and bake, screw, go to work, take a lunch break, drive Keva to friends or family’s home near my job, (she didn’t work, she slept in my car while I clocked in for a few hours) go back to work, finish work, pick a so fresh and so clean Keva back up from the home of friends or family, bake some more, comp some Belve and juice, hit the town, party up, bake some more and then screw. 

The screwing, of course, was the best part.

One day, the party on wheels came to a screeching halt. 

The deranged --yet rightfully so-- jealous-hearted father of her kids had chased me and his broad some twenty semi-odd blocks through the streets of South St. Louis, literally trying to run us off the road.

From Broadway Street and Lafayette Avenue in Soulard all the way up Lafayette to the Gate District’s intersection of Louisiana Street and Park Avenue, the cock-strong, bald-headed, dark skinned son of a bitch tried with all his might to make us wipe out. 

He had just spotted the early 1990’s Ford Probe I had brought after soberly wrecking the ‘81 Chevy that Keva had praised so often during our excursions.

As mad as I was when I wreck the Chevy, I was also blessed to get out what we call in the hood a “hot box” or a “cat car.” 

That bad boy was a police magnet and I was never spared the moment law enforcement caught a glimpse of the candy paint. 

At one point in late 1999, early 2000, I got pulled over seven times in six months.

The candy paint paired with a broken speedometer and a 350 engine was not a good combination to ride indiscreetly.

Jerome had spotted us during one of his fact-finding missions to locate his broad’s whereabouts. It was obvious to him his broad was cheating. 
The fact I called the home the two shared with the kids probably didn’t help, nor did the fact I picked her up from their digs in Soulard, while he was there no less. 

Still, he hadn’t put a name or a face on the man responsible for taken his children’s mother on a three month adventure through creepville. 

Keva’s three-days-at-a-time no call, no shows only made the man more furious. 
He had it in his mind he was going to find out the deal and he did. 
Right there at Broadway and Lafayette.

“Oh my God,” Keva screamed prior to the chase. She was visibly shaken. Just seconds before we were laughing and giggling like school children, listening and singing along to the St. Lunatics’ “Let Me in Now”. “It’s him! It’s him!”

She was too afraid to look back over her shoulder from the passenger side of the Probe, but she made it clear we had been made. 

I was cool, but a tad confused. 

Dumping the ashes of the second blunt cigar we had smoked that early summer evening, I asked casually : “him who, baby?”

“Jerome!”

My heart sank. 

Adrenaline shot up, then I looked. “It’s cool, we good, see what he wants.”

“Forget that,” Keva screamed, “he’s crazy. Let’s go!”

“Man, I got this,” I said, underestimating the fury that burned inside Jerome. “See what the fool wants.”

I busted a southbound U-turn on Broadway, headed west up Lafayette when Jerome’s inferno became abundantly clear.

“Keva,” Jerome not so kindly screamed from the driver’s side of the new model Chevy he drove. “You betta’ get yo’ ass home to these kids!”

I tried to remain cool.

“Hey look,” I reasoned to Keva. “I’ma pull over up there and let you out so you can get back to your kids, ma.”

Keva had been hanging out with me four at least four straight days, even though I held a full-time job. 

She didn’t care and I didn’t either. 

On the nights we partied up to the wee hours of the morning, she would ride with me to work, sleep in the Probe until my lunch break and I’d drop her off to freshen up at some obscure destination before heading back to the gig. 

I’d pick her up later and we’d do it again.

“Naw, man,” Keva screamed. “Just drive. He’s crazy. Drive!”

So I drove. I mashed on the pedal a bit to gauge if Jerome was really intent on getting his main squeeze back in the fold.

“Where my cell phone at?” I spoke into the air. “I got to get Nell on the phone.”

The damnedest thing happened. 

I had removed earlier that evening the little .25 semiautomatic I kept stashed in the Probe for security purposes.

It was a Friday. 

I had gotten off work around 2 in the afternoon and made a trip - Keva in tow- to Streetside Records in the Delmar Loop. 

A local rap group had scored a nice lick with Atlantic Records for the music giant to distribute their debut album and they were scheduled for an in-store appearance to promote their hit single.

The in-store was at 4 p.m., so Keva and I milled around at a few of the shops in the Loop, before we descended on Streetside.

I was scheduled to interview the group for the newspaper I worked, so the in-store made it an all around better story.

Anyway, Keva told me about a talent show her younger sister was participating later that evening at Riverview Gardens High and we made plans to make it. 

I just had to run to the City after the in-store to put the strap away. 

Bad enough we rolling with blunts, brew and vodka, I thought. Damn sure ain’t ‘bout to go to no Moline Acres with a pistol.

Just my luck we made it back from Moline Acres unscathed, but caught in a middle of a cat and mouse game of Speed Racer with Jerome and his cruel intentions. 

The man had the look of kill in his eyes, I wasn’t strapped and I definitely didn’t know what Jerome had on him. 

So I made a few calls to the people I trusted most and nobody was answering. 

It’s Friday night in the City and ain’t nobody answering their cellies, I thought. 

Ain’t that a blimp?

“Damn,” I mumbled to the air again, Jerome side-swiping the Probe at Lafayette and Tucker St. “Nell ain’t answering. Carly ain’t at the crib. Ain’t nobody answering my mama’s phone. This fool is trying to straight make us wipe out.”

“Hurry up,” Keva screamed again. “He’s crazy. Drive. Go faster. Drive TP, damn.”

“Look,” I said, agitated at the circumstance I was in. Jerome had continued chasing us after the side-swiping at Tucker and now we were both on a top-speed sprint towards Jefferson Ave. I blew stop signs at the Interstate entrance and Mississippi St. and a red light at Jefferson. I honked my horn incessantly to warn on-coming traffic to take heed. “We just gonna make it to the hood and everything’s going to be good.”

As both the Probe and Jerome’s Chevy made it through the intersection, Jerome tried another maneuver in the attempt to cause the Probe to lose control. 

I was going at least 75 to 80 mph up Lafayette in a 35 mph zone.

He had to tap out at least at 90 mph because he cut us off three times before I made my most aggressive move of the ordeal.

I had already blew past stop signs at California, Nebraska and Compton, headed for Park Ave.

It was the summer of 2001. Somebody from the hood was out and more than likely strapped up, I thought.

I didn’t want to take the flair up to my stomping grounds but my instincts told me to get to the homeland.

At Lafayette and Louisiana, I was supposed to make a right to get to the hood but I was going too fast to make it. 

Had I tried, I firmly believe I would have wiped out. 

Instead, I hit the brakes, Jerome barreling down on us, dashing out of the way of the Probe’s sudden stop. Alas, I thought, my opportunity for breathing room.

Once Jerome passed us, I hit the Probe into reverse, spun out to head north on Louisiana, stopping at the corner of Louisiana and Park Ave.

“Hey man,” I yelled to my younger brother and his posse of comrades.

The young turks were milling about on the porch of the four-family flat that housed our mother as one of the tenants. Jerome had corrected himself and was giving chase down Louisiana. “Get this fool up off me.”

On command, the younger brother and his partners came out the cut with small guns, big guns, machine guns, I mean an cache of weapons fit for urban warfare.

“This fool right here,” I yelled, jumping out of the Probe, pointing Jerome out. 

Jerome had seen the convoy form from the flat’s porch and managed to avoid the wrath. 

He drove past us, lowered his window down and screamed, “Aw woman, you gon’ get some fools to shoot me.”

“Give me the strap,” I said to the younger brother. 

He held a Tech-9 semiautomatic that I knew would tear Jerome a new one.

Before I could even consider squeezing the trigger, Jerome had vanished down Park Ave and was already at Compton Blvd. 

I turned my attention back to Keva. 

“Your baby daddy is about to die tonight!”

Background Check: A piece from The Pride of Park Avenue

Background Check
From The Pride of Park Avenue
By Toriano L. Porter

I knew, subconsciously perhaps, that my ladies' man reputation may have preceded me when Tracie didn't return the last of my five phone calls. I mean, just two nights earlier we’d had our first date. It was great. We met promptly, ate well and drank mercifully at O’Charley’s Restaurant, all the while conversing about life situations.

After dinner, we went back to her non-descript one bedroom apartment. Over a post-dinner celebratory funny cigar, we discussed our professional lives, eventually leading to our talk about college life. She mentioned she had attended my alma mater for two years before transferring, which coincided with my last year there.

“Are you serious?” I asked her when she informed me of her two year stint at Central Missouri State University in Warrensburg, Missouri. “You went to CMSU?”

“Yes,” she replied, “but I had to leave. I was tired of the people up there always in my business.”

We couldn’t remember each other from campus, but we both knew some of the same people. After awhile, it became apparent that we may have known each other but were unaware of each other’s core existence.

After going out dancing together for a few hours that night, Tracie mentioned she would try to get the inside scoop on me from some of her old CMSU friends before our next date. I didn’t think much of her sleuth work until the second date never materialized.

She must have gotten a bad word.

The City of No Luv

Inspired by and written for Wesley Maurice “Milk” Drummond and contained in the book The Pride of Park Avenue by Toriano Porter

Every time I saw Rod Smith catch a touchdown pass for the Denver Broncos I got teary eyed. Not because I'm a fan, (although I am a huge Rod Smith fan) or because he has overcame serious knee injuries to become one of  the premier pass receptors in the NFL. I get moist eyes because of what Rod Smith represented to me; toughness, desire, athletic ability and heart.

You see, I have never met Rod Smith in person although I had an opportunity to see him play twice in college. Well, actually I got a chance to see him play one full game and one quarter of another one.

Let me explain. The first time I saw Rod Smith play, I was a red-shirt freshman football player at Central Missouri State University in Warrensburg in the fall of 1992. We were playing host to the Missouri Southern Lions. We came into the contest sporting a 3-1 record and Mo. Southern was undefeated at 4-0, so it was a pretty big early season conference game.

To tell you the truth, most MIAA (Mid-America Intercollegiate Athletic Association) Conference games were big games considering you had to play against the likes of perennial Division II powers Pittsburg State, Missouri Western, Emporia State, Northeast Missouri State (now Truman State) Washburn (yes, Washburn was a torn in Central Mo's side in the early 90’s) and of course, Mo Southern. Northwest Missouri State had not yet become the class of the MIAA. Any of those teams could claim potential pro ball players and various D-II All-Americans amongst their roster.

Anyway, MO Southern came into the game explosive on offense and athletic on defense. We were the exact opposite; dominating on defense and athletic on offense. (In this tense, athletic refers to good athletes on their respective sides of the ball, but as a unit, not very proficient).

The Lions boasted an array of talented performers on offense, including lefty quarterback Matt Cook, a tall and rangy Rod Smith, a bruising tailback in Karl Evans and a stout offensive line.
On the other hand, Central Mo. countered with a Dirty Red defense that was nationally rank #1, 2, or 3 in total defense, total points, and turnover margin. Not bragging, but I was a pretty heralded D-II recruit but I never stepped on the field that year because we had 14 pretty good defensive backs and ten of them got ample playing time. Hell, I couldn't even crack the special teams unit that season.

Out of four defensive back positions, we had four dope starters, four solid backups and two more ball-hawks who played both the safety and cornerback positions. One of those ball-hawks was a sophomore from Parkway Central High named Wesley Maurice Drummond. We called him Milk because he never drank alcohol, didn't use drugs and hardly lifted weights. He didn't even drink milk, but he was so naturally cut and strong the name just fit.

When I first met Milk the summer prior to that season, we didn't quite hit it off too well. He was from the Walnut Park (North Side) area of The City and I was off The Block in South Saint Louis. His particular set was a blood set and my preference was to the guys in blue (and I'm not talking about the STLPD).

After that intensely hot summer camp of two-a-day practices, we bonded in a teammate sort of way. It was no longer a personal beef between us being from opposite ends of the gangbang spectrum, but love and respect that come from going through football's version of a military boot camp.

Like I was saying, Mo. Southern had a deadly one-two punch at quarterback and receiver. Fortunately, Cook, the quarterback, had been injured the week before and was ruled out for the game against us. So what does Mo Southern do? Yep. They moved Rod Smith to quarterback for the game. Thanks to Milk, we would never see him take a snap from underneath center.

After winning the coin toss we received possession of the football first. Promptly, the offense stalled and we were force to punt.

All week, we had prepared for Rod Smith to return punts. He was very good at it and we prepared accordingly. Milk, who was a back-up at both cornerback and safety that game, was geeked. He knew he wasn't going to be on the field to start the game on defense, but he felt he could set the tone for the defense with a big hit on Rod Smith during punt coverage.

Things started moving slowly for me on the sidelines during that first punt. Although I couldn't play in the game, I was dressed out in our black pants, scarlet red jersey uniform-- complete with crisp, white wrist bands and a fresh, pretty boy towel. I was taking mental reps as the coaches like to say.

I was watching Milk because he was the 'gunner' on the punt coverage team, and I hoped I could do that job later on in the season if the coaches decided I was ready to contribute. His job was to 'gun' down the man with the football. In this case it was the All-American Rod Smith

As the ball floated off our punter's foot, Milky shook the man responsible for blocking him and was on a streamline bee right at Rod Smith, who stood some forty yards from the line of scrimmage waiting anxiously to return the punt for what he hoped would be another one of his spectacular plays.

Gauging the punt, first I saw Milk glance at Rod Smith. Almost on cue, Rod Smith looked at Milk and in a cruel twist of fate, sized him up for the juke move he had in store, then refocused back on the hanging punt. While this was going on, I looked at them both, then refocused on the ball, as well. Out the corner of my eye, I could see Milky zero in on his prey as the ball descended towards Rod Smith's oversized mitts.

In a blur, I, along with the 8,000 or so people in the stands, heard a thud, a pop and a scream. Within seconds, Milky was hot-stepping and celebrating, as Rod Smith lay in a sprawling heap--yellow flags from the referees abounded the sculptured green grass of Vernon Kennedy Field.

"Trainer! Trainer," one of the Mo. Southern Lions yelled out as their teammate summed up his plight in a painstaking "aaagggghhhh shit."

While the Mo. Southern trainers attended to their fallen stud, Milky was being chastised by our defensive back coach, Mark Hulet, who was being chewed out by our head coach Terry Noland.

"Mark, we can't afford 15-yard penalties," Coach Noland said to Coach Hulet, "get that straightened out would 'ya!"

"O.K. Coach," Coach Hulet politicked, "Wes...."

By that time Milky was amped. Not only had he blown out Rod Smith's knee, he was also penalized fifteen yards for unnecessary roughness; hitting the punt return man before he was allowed to catch the ball. What’s crazy is Milk thought he had time the hit perfectly.

"Man, what?" Milk sniped to Coach Hulet, still in an oversized zone, "what?"

"Time that hit the next time," Coach Hulet said emphatically. "Ease up and time that hit."

During the brief silence that followed Milky's hit, we could hear the moaning and grumbling on the Lions’ sidelines. They seemed to think we had a bounty out on Rod Smith but actually all we had was an overly-hyped 'gunner' with bad timing. In fact on the very next punt, Milky did the exact same thing to Rod Smith's replacement, smashing him before he caught the punt, again drawing a 15-yard penalty.

"Coach Hulet," Coach Noland screamed as he ran a forty-yard sprint from the offensive side of the sideline to the defensive side, "get Wes' ass out of there."

Coach Hulet was not defiant about it at all. "It's done Coach, it's done."

For a brief second I was hoping they would put me in the game, but I knew that would never happen without me practicing with the punt coverage team first. I snapped back to reality, walked up to Milk and said "damn, dirty what the f*** is wrong with you."

"Get the hell outta my face Crab ass rookie," Milky exclaimed, "get on the field first before you start popping off at the mouth you goddamn scrub."

I knew Milk was heated so I pardoned the eruption. Still I couldn't help but feel his frustration. He just wanted to hit somebody. Anybody.

"Calm down, dawg, calm down," I said, “it's the first damn quarter and you got 30 yards worth of penalties."

We went on to win that game, (we finished 6-4 that year) Rod Smith missed the rest of that season with a torn ACL and me and Milk went on to solidify our friendship. "You aw'ight with me Crab ass nigga," Milky would say later on, “you aw'ight with me."

In November, following the ’92 season, my teammate and friend Leon Moody and I needed a ride home from Warrensburg to Saint Louis for Thanksgiving break. Since we only socialized with other football players at that time and the Amtrak train was already booked full, our choices for a ride quickly dwindled. In a pinch, Milk came through. Only one catch, though. We had to mob with his Blood homies from Walnut Park who came up to The ‘Burg to kick it at a party CMSU hosted before the break.

"Hey, Blood," Milk said to one of his comrades the day he introduced us, "these niggas 'pose to be some Crabs."

"Yeah?" his partner countered.

"Yeah," Milk said.

"From where, blood,"

"Shit, I'on know," Milk chided, "where you niggas from again."

Moody chunked up his North County Hathaway South hood, while I chunked up The Block.

"These niggas claiming hoods mugs ain't never even heard of," Milk jokingly said to his friend. He got serious then. "They aw'ight with me, though, dirty," he said, "these young niggas got some heart."

Milk had become an integral part of me and Moody's lives even though we were on the opposite sides of the gangbang fence. Although Saint Louis was in the middle of a record number murder rate in July of 1993
Moody and I had grown even closer to Milk. That's why I froze up when Moody called me with the news Milk might not play ball for Central in the fall of '93.

"Cuzz," Moody said after I retrieved the phone from my Grandma. "Milk got popped last night."

"What?" I screamed in disbelief. "By who, cuzz?"

"From what I'm hearing," Moody surmised "it was supposed to be a couple of them cats he hangs out with, but I'on know, cuzz."

"Was it them cats we rode home with?" I asked dumbfounded.

"I’on know,” Moody said, “but I think it happened over on the North by where them niggas be, but I'on know…they saying he might not be able to play ball this year. Once I find out more I'ma come and swoop you up, cuzz.”

Milk used to always were this fire engine red St. Louis Cardinals baseball jacket with 52euce Mob stitched on the sleeve and No Luv embroidered on the front. I never really fully understood what that meant until Moody called me with the unconfirmed word of Milk’s plight. His own homies, I thought? No wonder he calls this mutha the City of No Luv.

Moody did come down that pre-4th of July night to picked me up and give me the word on Milk’s situation. Seemed details were sketchy--no one knew who the perpetrators actually were and no one we knew could figure out why Milk had gotten shot. All was known was the homie was laid up in the hospital, expected to live, but unable to play football for the Mules that upcoming ’93 season. We didn’t get a chance to see him until we returned to school that fall, but we never asked him about what happened. We were just happy he was still alive and enjoying life.

A lot had change for me when I enrolled for the fall ’93 semester. I had blown the scholarship awarded to me by Coach Noland following my senior year at Eureka High. That red-shirt year affected my grades, as well as my off field behavior and it caught up with me my second year at Central: I was ineligible to play. So while my red-shirt brethren and fellow scout team members advance from red-shirts to starters (WR’s Moody and Sean McIntyre and DB Marlon Johnson among them) in one year, I was stuck in the bleachers, cheering on the Fighting Mules with the rest of the student body. My only solace was Milk. The injuries from that past summer’s shooting had left his hands and wrists a tangled mess so he couldn’t play either. We both just stood in the stands and critiqued every missed tackle, dropped ball, bad call (coaches’ and referees’) and the like.

Well, that was our routine for the first two homes games prior to Missouri Southern and Rod Smith’s return to Vernon Kennedy Stadium that season. (The Mules had only played one away game at that point of the season. Milk and I spent that particular afternoon listening to the game on the CMSU radio network, smoking blunts, drinking 40 Ounce brews and bitching about the DB’s not making enough plays—even though one of Milk’s roommates and best friends, Wayne Carter, and my good friend Marlon Johnson were the starting corners and my mentor Tom Jackson and pro prospect Creston Austin were starting at safety.

The 1993 Mo. Southern game was different than the one the season before. The ’93 game was an afternoon tilt and it was cold, wet and windy. Rod Smith was mad. He was motivated and he was on a mission. Milky couldn’t take it. Hell, I couldn’t even take sitting in the bleachers and I was ineligible. We both wanted to be out there. We couldn’t, so we did the next best thing. We asked the DB coach, Coach Hulet, if we could stand on the sidelines for the game against Mo. Southern.

“Stand over there and stay outta the way and don’t be talking trash to those guys,” was all Coach Hulet said. “Remember last year don’t you, Wes?”

I stand before this: to this day I say Rod Smith made it to the NFL based on his game against the Mules that late September afternoon. I don’t know how many catches he had, but I know he had three touchdown receptions on us and it crush me and Milk. The first one was a pretty left-handed loft from Matt Cook, the QB who sat out the game against the Mules the year before. It covered at least 65 yards—all I can remember is Rod Smith escaping Wayne’s Cover 2 jam at the line and Smith subsequently blowing by T.J. (Tom Jackson) at safety.

“Man, what the fuck?” Milk screamed, adjusting the straps on the black hand-wrap like cast he wore on his left mitt. “How they just gon’ let that nigga run by them like that, T.P.? Huh! What’s that shit?”

The second Rod Smith touchdown came in similar fashion as the first. Somehow Smith escaped our cornerback’s jam at the line of scrimmage and streaked toward Vernon Kennedy’s south end-zone. This time, the safety, Creston Austin, slipped and fell on the wet surface. Keep in mind, a Cleveland Browns’ scout had told Coach Noland and his staff Creston had the best footwork of any college defensive back in the country. Nevertheless, Creston slipped and Rod Smith ended up with another 60-yard plus TD reception from Cook.

“T.P., man that’s bullshit,” Milk screamed at Creston’s plight. “We suppose to be out there, Blood, we suppose to be out there.”

The third touchdown was classic Rod Smith. I mean, the two bombs were impressive as hell, but it was his leaping, sprawling catch over Marlon in the north end-zone that solidified Rod Smith’s standing in my eyes as the best wide receiver I ever saw play in person. It was a simple fade to the corner of the end-zone-- my boy Marlon, who would become a four-time All-MIAA performer--was draped all over Rod Smith and Smith still caught the ball. Classic.

“Ain’t much MJ could have done about that,” I said to Milk after Milk’s initial response of Smith’s third TD. “He was all on that nigga and that motherfu**a still caught the damn ball. That nigga going to the league, cuzz.”

We lost the game that year. Mo. Southern had just too many weapons for our Dirty Red Defense, which was still one of the top units in all of Division-II football. Too much Rod Smith to be exact.

After the game, we accompanied the team into the locker room. After hearing Coach Noland’s teary-eyed, post-game speech, Milk and I quietly pointed out all the mistakes the defense made. We both were extremely critical of our defensive back brethren, but what could we do about it besides getting back on the field the next year. Ping, as Wayne was affectionately known, didn’t want to hear it. M.J. sure as hell didn’t want to hear it. T.J. and Creston? We just let them stew in their post-game misery. They both were excellent safeties who just happened to run into a buzz-saw type wide receiver with a grudge.

Milk wanted to talk to Rod Smith after the game. He wanted to apologize. He wanted to talk shit to Smith—sort of congratulate Smith on his game. He wanted to let Smith know there was no bounty the year before. He even wanted to tell Smith about his shooting injuries. Eventually, Milk simply said “fuck it, that nigga know I ain’t have no bounty out on him. I ain’t gotta apologize. Let’s go get high while these bum ass niggas get dressed…them niggas let that boy scored three touchdowns on them T.P. Three! That’s bullshit!”

Milk and Ping lived with another Mules’ football player, Big Mo (Maurice Zanders) at The Estes Apartments. The ran down, semi-condemned mini high rise was our little private oasis. Moody and Sean Mac were roommates who lived down the hall from Big Mo, Ping and Milk. Our former running back, Henry Caldwell, who had a tryout with the San Diego Chargers after his eligibility was up, lived in The Estes, too. He had a couple of fellow Floridians living with him—cousins Cecil and Troy. I had moved out of the dorms at the beginning of the semester into the living room of a pair of female friends from Hannibal, Missouri—Marcia and Markita. I had met them freshmen year in the dorms and they were mad cool. I didn’t want to live in the dorm my second year but Moody and Sean Mac, who were suppose to be my roommates, had moved a defensive end from South Carolina named Willis Moye in right after two-a-days. I didn’t return to Warrensburg until school started that fall so they thought I wasn’t coming back. But I did and it was too late. Willis had moved in.
Anyway, The Estes was a hop, skip and jump from the locker room. Milk and I was talking about the game on the walk towards The Estes, when I told him about my situation.

“So, you saying your lil’ broad finna come drop your son off and ya’ll ‘bout to get on the train and go back to St. Louis?” Milk pondered when I informed him of my plans for to stop at Marcia and Markita’s apartment.

“What time she coming?”

“As soon as I call her.”

“What time does the train leave?”

“4:45.”

“What time is it now?”

“Right at 4:00.”

“Damn, nigga, we ain’t got that much time to smoke. When you coming back?”

Milk’s attitude had changed after his injuries. For instance, the drinking and smoking that was never apart of his life before, was a constant. He also chased more skirts than he had before his injuries. It was like he was determined to enjoy the college experience of drank, drugs and sex.

The apartment I lived in was a five minute walk from The Estes, which was right across the street from The Amtrak station, so I had a few minutes. I just had to make sure my female friend Crystal was coming. I had told here when I gave her my five-month old son to watch, that she was suppose to be ready to bring him to me right after the game was over. I just had to make it to my apartment, which was also by the stadium, to get my bags and call her.

“She’s on her way,” I said to Milk as he rolled up the stashed away blunt cigar. “Hurry up, I want to hit that shit before I get on the train.”

My son had been in Warrensburg for about two weeks. I was missing him real bad, so I made an Amtrak trip to St. Louis to get him for a week and he ended up staying two weeks. It was cool, though because my friend Crystal and my roommates helped me care for him to entire time he was there. Milk didn’t even know the boy was there.

“T.P., when you coming back?” Milk asked after toting the blunt a few times.

“I’m coming back tomorrow night with Ray and A.B.,” I said, referring to Ray Lingard and Anthony Badlinger, two ex-Mule defensive backs who had finished their eligibility my red-shirt year. I had lined up a ride with them before the beginning of the Mo. Southern game. “They were at the game, but they left at halftime.”

“That’s cool,” Milk said, passing the hocus-pocus. “I’ll be right on that Amtrak Tuesday.”

“Whatta mean?” I asked inquisitively.
“I got a doctor’s appointment Tuesday afternoon, so I’ll be on the train Tuesday morning. I’m trying to see if they gonna release me, so I can play this year.”

Milk surprised me. I mean, I knew he still wanted to play ball, but with his hands being as limp as they were, I figured he would try to come back the following season. I was wrong and I’m sure Rod Smith’s exploits that day made Milky even more anxious to get back on the field.

“We should have been out there, today, T.P.,” Milk said before I got in the car with Crystal. “He wouldn’t have got that shit off, I’m telling you, nigga. We would have shut that shit down.”

Whatever the case, I ended up missing the ride back to Warrensburg with Ray and AB the Sunday after I touched down in St. Louis. I chalked it up to a communication breakdown, but either way, I was stranded in St. Louis because no one in my family had money to send me back on the train. I wasn’t on the team so I couldn’t call Coach Noland, Hulet or our defensive coordinator Jeff Floyd. I tried asking Moody and Sean Mac for money the Monday after the Mo. Southern game, but they were busted, too. Moody said his mother would buy me a ticket if I was still in St. Louis that Wednesday because that’s when she got paid. So with no other alternative, I was stranded in St. Louis until at least Wednesday evening.

That Monday evening, after getting off the phone with Moody’s mother to set up our meeting later that week, I started reading a book called Monster Cody to kill time. It was about a Cali gang-banger who had went to prison, redeemed himself and decided to write a memoir about his gangbang days and reformation. It was a powerful book. Considering the fact the STL was in a full-fledged gang war itself, the book shed insight on some of the gang factions that had infiltrated The Lou in the late 1980’s. I ended up reading half the book that night.

I woke up the following morning to finish the other half of the book. By Tuesday afternoon, I was restless, so I took a nap. I woke up about a quarter to 5 p.m. and immediately went into my Grandma’s kitchen to catch the KMOV evening news, which I hadn’t seen since I left for fall semester in Warrensburg.

As the 4:58 p.m. news teaser came on that September 30th day, the broadcaster boldly stated “a 20-year old college student from Central Missouri State has been shot in the 5900 block of Garesche…”

My heart floored. My mouth dropped. In the midst of my own self-wallowing, I had forgotten Milk told me he was coming home Tuesday morning to see the doctor for clearance to play. I knew Milk lived on Garesche. I remembered he was coming home, but I was still in denial. But, who else, besides me, would be home in the middle of the week from Central Missouri State.

I waited on the subsequent newscast. They gave me all the info I needed to know that my homeboy had been shot again. They didn’t say his name, but they did say he was in critical condition. I picked up the phone to call Moody and Sean Mac. No answer. I called the football offices for Coach Noland. No answer. Everybody was still at football practice or getting ready to go to the dining room. Either way, I had to get in contact with somebody on the team.

As I waited for numerous phone calls to be returned, my mother and I were standing on my Grandma’s front porch when she noticed the strain on my face.

“What’s wrong, baby,” my concerned mother asked. “What happened?”

“Mama, I think they just killed my friend,” I calmly reflected. “I think they got him.”

“Your friend?” Moms politely asked. “What friend?”

“My friend I play ball with up at Central.”

“They killed him?”

“Naw, he ain’t dead yet, but I was watching Channel 4 and they said a twenty-year college student from Central Missouri State is in critical condition….”

“He got shot in St. Louis….what was he doing here if he was suppose to be at school?”

“Naw, mama, he came home to go to the doctor because they had all ready shot him this summer….”

“Who is they?”

“Don’t nobody know, mama, we never asked him what happened the first time, but I know it’s the same people…I know it is. I think they got him this time, mama…they killed my homie.”

A million and one things happened between the 5 and 6 o’clock newscast that evening. Moody had called back and said Coach Noland had made the team aware of the situation. Moody told me to just sit back and wait on the word. His mother still was going to get me a ticket back to The ‘Burg, but he wanted me to be cool in the meantime.

“They done took another one of our soldiers, T.P.,” Moody said before excusing himself to be with Ping, Big Mo, Sean Mac, our freshmen homeboy from Tulsa, Marcus, and the others. “My mother gonna have that ticket for you tomorrow, so just lay low until she get down to the City.”

The 6 o’clock news was a crusher. The news anchor started the broadcast with an update on Milk: “That twenty-year-old college student we told you about at five has died from his injuries. Police has identified the victim as 20-year-old Wesley Maurice Drummond, a former all-metro football player at Parkway Central High…”

I couldn’t believe what I had heard. I had always thought that if you left the streets of St. Louis, you couldn’t possibly die on the streets of St. Louis. Not a college student. No way had I thought that could ever happen. It happened, though and it happened to my friend and teammate. It was definitely a wake-up call for me.

Nobody seemed to care about the positives things we were trying to accomplish, especially in St. Louis. That’s all that ran through my mind after Milk’s death. The City of No Luv. That was Milky’s motto, St. Louis is Cutthroat City—The City of No Luv.

Things had changed drastically by the time I returned to Warrensburg that Thursday evening. The team had had a memorial service at The Chapel on campus the day before. Ping and Mo were among the hardest hit—they were Milk’s roommates. In an effort to keep the team focused on their upcoming game against Missouri Western State, Coach Noland decided against the team traveling to St. Louis for Milk’s funeral, which was held the Friday after his death. Not only did I miss the memorial service on campus (I was still in St. Louis), I missed Milk’s funeral in St. Louis. I got caught in-between and never got to see my homie laid to rest.

The Mules and Missouri Western played to a 14-14 tie that weekend, the first time Mo. West had ever played CMSU and didn’t come away with a loss. The Mules would wind up 7-2-1 that season, missing the playoffs by one game. Some say, to a man, the Mo. West game is what caused the Mules to miss out on the school’s first ever NCAA playoff berth that season.

The CMSU athletic department honored Milk after his death. They established an award called The Wesley Drummond Memorial Award, which awards a scholarship, plaque and game ball to the Mules’ player who best represents Milk’s courage, heart and determination. The award would be presented after every fourth game of the season (in case of a Mules’ victory). The award is still presented to this day, nearly 13, 14 years after Milk passed away. We miss you homie. See you in that Big End-Zone behind them Gates. You are truly our angel.