I stood outside Big Mike's barbershop on 79th Street, working up the courage to walk inside. The old heads had been cutting hair and talking politics in this spot for twenty years, and if anyone could help me navigate the Malik situation, it would be them.
Especially Big Mike himself, who used to run with Jakari's pops back in the day.
The bell chimed when I pushed open the door, and conversations paused as heads turned to look at me. Three barber chairs were occupied - Big Mike cutting hair in the first chair, his massive 6'4" frame moving with surprising grace as he worked. The man was dark-skinned with a full beard going gray at the edges, arms covered in old school tattoos that told stories of a different era.
"Well, well," Big Mike said without looking up from his customer. "If it ain't Little Dre. Boy, you look skinny as hell. You been eating?"
"Yeah, Big Mike, I been eating."
"Come over here and sit down. I'll get to you in a minute."
I took a seat in the waiting area, nodding to the other customers. Jerome "Old School" Washington was getting a shape-up in the second chair - a wiry dude in his forties who'd been around the neighborhood forever. And getting lined up in the third chair was Curtis "C-Note" Johnson, about fifty with graying waves and hands that had seen some things.
All of them had known my father. All of them had known Jakari's father even better.
"So," Big Mike said, finishing up his customer's fade, "what brings you by? You ain't been in here since you was running with them BD boys."
I felt my stomach tighten. Of course he knew about my involvement with Malik's crew.
"Actually, that's what I wanted to talk to y'all about."
Big Mike's customer paid and left, and Mike gestured for me to come over to his chair.
"Sit down, young man. Tell Big Mike what's on your mind."
As I settled into the chair, I looked around at the three OGs - men who'd survived decades in these streets, who commanded respect through wisdom instead of violence.
"Malik and his crew been pressuring me. Want me to stay in the life, but I'm trying to go straight. Work with kids, get back into basketball."
Big Mike started working on my taper fro, his movements slow and deliberate.
"Malik Thompson," he said thoughtfully. "Little hothead who think he run something. What kind of pressure he putting on you?"
"Saying I owe them for helping me handle the North Side situation. That I can't just walk away from the life."
Old School laughed from the second chair. "That boy don't know what real loyalty looks like. Think loyalty mean keeping people trapped in the same bullshit forever."
"What you want from us, Dre?" C-Note asked, studying me carefully.
I took a deep breath. "Protection. Or at least advice on how to handle this without going backwards."
The three men exchanged looks that said they were having a conversation I couldn't hear.
"Son," Big Mike said, continuing to work on my hair, "you think we ain't been watching over y'all this whole time?"
"What you mean?"
"I mean, you think some seventeen-year-old boys just happened to stay safe while making moves against the North Side? You think Malik's crew just happened to have all the right information about who to target?"
My mind started racing. "Y'all been...?"
"We been protecting Jakari since his daddy went away," Old School said. "And by extension, we been protecting all y'all. Anthony Williams was our brother. Real brother. When he got locked up, we promised to look out for his boy."
"Then why didn't y'all stop us from getting involved with Malik?"
"Because y'all needed to make your own choices," C-Note said. "Couldn't protect you from everything. Sometimes you got to touch the stove to learn it's hot."
Big Mike tilted my head to work on the sides of my hair. "But we been making sure touching the stove didn't burn the whole house down."
"So what about Malik?"
"What about him?" Big Mike's voice carried an edge I'd never heard before. "That boy think he got power, but power come from respect. And respect come from taking care of people, not threatening them."
"We gonna have a conversation with young Malik," Old School said. "Remind him about the order of things in this neighborhood."
"But more than that," C-Note added, "we gonna make sure he understand that y'all under protection. Official protection. From people who been running these streets since before he was born."
I sat there processing what they were telling me. These OGs had been watching over us the whole time, making sure our mistakes didn't get us killed.
"So I can keep working with the kids? Keep trying to get back on the basketball team?"
"Boy, you better keep working with them kids," Big Mike said firmly. "That's the kind of work that honors your father's memory. That's the kind of work that makes the neighborhood better."
"Malik ain't gonna be a problem no more," Old School added. "Trust us on that."
As I left the barbershop with my fresh cut and a weight lifted off my shoulders, I felt better than I had in days. The OGs had our backs. Malik would back off. And I could keep building the life I wanted.
-----
Marcus POV
I stood outside Lincoln Park High School's soccer field, watching players warm up for what Coach Jones had called "open tryouts." My stomach was churning as I studied the competition - about thirty guys ranging from current JV players to kids I'd never seen before.
Coach Jones was a thin Black man in his forties who moved with the controlled energy of someone who'd played Division I soccer. His graying beard was neatly trimmed, and his eyes missed nothing as he watched players stretch and juggle balls.(pause)
At exactly 3:30, he blew his whistle.
"Good morning to you all!" he called out in a voice that carried across the field.
"Good morning, Coach!" the group responded in unison.
I joined in a beat late, still getting used to the rhythm of organized team dynamics.
"On this first day of tryouts, we will only be testing one thing, and that is your physical fitness," Coach Jones announced, walking along the line of hopefuls. "So our test is simple. You will run twenty-four laps around this field. Those with the fastest times get to stay for the main trials."
My heart sank. Twenty-four laps was basically six miles. I'd been working out for three weeks, but mostly sprint conditioning. Soccer fitness was different - longer, more sustained.
"This isn't negotiable," Coach Jones continued. "If you can't handle the physical demands of this sport, then technical skills don't matter. Line up at the goal line."
As we lined up, I found myself next to a stocky white kid who looked nervous as hell.
"You ever run six miles before?" he asked.
"Not recently," I admitted, smoothing down my waves nervously.
"Shit, me neither."
Coach Jones raised his stopwatch. "Remember - this is about finishing, but it's also about competing. The top finishers move on. Everyone else... there's always next year."
He raised his whistle to his lips.
"On your mark..."
I got into a runner's stance, my face catching the afternoon sun as I prepared to find out if three weeks of conditioning had been enough.
"GO!"
The whistle blew and thirty hopefuls took off around the track, each of us chasing the same dream - a spot on Lincoln Park's varsity soccer team.
Six miles to find out if I still had what it took.