Jai Alai Crazy

“Bolivar,” Granny said.

“That’s right,” Anna Mae replied.

“Bolivar,” Anna Mae repeated. Granny’s face tightened all over again.

“Luewanza, you know damn good and well the game is rigged. Just like the dogs,”  Anna Mae said, shaking her head.

“Yeah, but those players are so much fun to watch,” Mama said, smiling.

Granny and Anna Mae laughed.

“It’s all in good fun as long as you don’t take it too seriously,” Anna Mae said.

“That’s why I set aside so much money to play on. When it’s gone, it’s gone.”

Granny nodded, though the scowl hadn’t quite left her face.

Grandma looked at me and shook her head. “Good God almighty! They’ve gone Jai Alai crazy.”

Anna Mae turned to Grandma. “Mrs. Murphy, you ought to come with us sometime.”

“Well, thanks a million for asking, Anna Mae, but it sounds a little too exciting for me. I don’t like leaving the old home place much anymore other than to go to the post office, the grocery store, or the doctor’s office.”

“I’ll go!” I blurted out.

The women laughed.

“You can’t go, Denny,” Mama said.

“Why not? I just want to see what all the fuss is about.”

“I know, baby, but they gamble and serve liquor there. It’s against the law for children to go inside.”

Grandma was the head of our family, and her house was its center. Her table was where the women who shaped my young life gathered. Listening to Mama, Granny, and Anna Mae relive the disappointment of losing and the excitement of winning stirred my curiosity. Now that I knew I couldn’t go, I was bound and determined to find a way to see a game for myself.

Jai Alai—right down to its very name—was exotic to an eight-year-old boy. The words looked nothing like they sounded—hi-lie. It belonged to a world with its own language, its own rules, and its own secrets.

A few days later, on the drive home from Brandon, we passed the tennis courts on Riverview Drive. I watched the players chase the ball, and Granny’s words came back to me.

That SOB threw the game.

I knew Jai Alai was a game. I just didn’t know how it worked.

“Mama, how do they play it?”

“You mean, how do they play Jai Alai?” Mama asked. “Jai Alai came from the Basque Country in Spain. It’s played in an arena called a fronton. The players strap a long basket, called a cesta, to one hand. They catch a hard ball—the pelota—in the cesta and sling it against the high front wall. It bounces back, and a player on the opposing team has to catch it and send it back. It’s a little like tennis and racquetball—the games Uncle Glenn and Aunt Liz play—only the players use a basket instead of a racket.”

“I think I understand,” I said. “But how do y’all bet on it?”

“That’s where it gets a little more complicated. Well, maybe not complicated, exactly—you just have to understand how the game works before you start betting. You’ve heard Granny and me talk about trifectas, haven’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am. You both seem to like them for some reason.”

“We like them because they can pay a lot. They’re harder to win—you have to pick who’ll finish first, second, and third in one game, in the exact order. Remember when Granny said her bet would’ve paid twenty-one hundred dollars?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“That was a trifecta,” Mama said.

A few mornings later, Mama was driving me to school when she said, “Denny, I woke up with three numbers in my head: 2-3-6. 2-3-6. My gut is telling me to play them. There’s a matinee at Jai Alai today, so I’m going to run over to the fronton and play them. I should be back in time to pick you up from school. If I’m not, Uncle Don will be out front waiting for you. Do you remember what his car looks like?”

I’d heard those numbers before. 2-3-6 and 3-6-1 were Mama’s favorite combinations.

“A blue Regal?”

“Yes, he has a blue Regal!”

After school, Mama was out front, waiting for me. Before I could close the car door, I asked, “Did you win, Mama?”

“I don’t know because the game I bet on hadn’t finished when I left. I’ll call later and find out.”

Later that afternoon, Mama hung up the receiver of our nude-colored wall phone, a smile spreading across her face. “Hot damn, Dennis! You’re not going to believe it. My trifecta hit. I’ve won eleven hundred dollars!”

“Woo-hoo! That’s a lot of money, Mama!” I shouted, dancing around the living room like a wild man. “Can we buy a swimming pool? Summer’s almost here! They’re only $149 at Zayre’s!” I asked, already thinking of all the things we could do with Mama’s winnings.

At Grandma’s house that Sunday, Uncle Glenn stopped in for a visit, as he often did on the weekends. Before long, he began telling a story that sounded familiar.

“Yesterday, we all got together at the Swilleys’ for dinner and a volleyball game. There was a Jai Alai matinee that afternoon, so I drove over to the fronton that morning and placed a few bets. Later, I called to get the results. We’d won twelve hundred dollars, and we weren’t even there. That night, we went back to collect our winnings, stayed to play—and lost some of it right back.”

Somewhere along the way, Uncle Glenn and Aunt Liz had gone Jai Alai crazy, just like Mama, Granny, and Anna Mae.

“Uncle Glenn, what got you and Aunt Liz interested in Jai Alai?” I asked. “Every time Mama, Granny, and Anna Mae start talking about the fronton, I get excited.”

“It was the same for us, Dennis. When Liz and I started going, we kind of got addicted to the game—or the gambling, I’m not sure which. We enjoy watching it for the sport. Those players are good athletes.”

“Who’s the best?”

“Bolivar is considered the best player.”

“Did you hear? Granny lost a big payout a few weeks ago, and she said Bolivar dropped the ball on purpose. Anna Mae says the game is rigged.”

“I heard about it, all right! Sometimes I think it’s rigged, too. Take Bolivar—he’s so good, but he’ll drop a ball he’s caught a million times before. Still, it’s fun to watch.”

He paused and a smile came across his face.

“All this talk about Jai Alai makes me want to go.”

“I’m dying to go, but Mama says I can’t. Kids aren’t allowed.”

“Gaynell’s right, but every once in a while, they have a special event. There’s no gambling or drinking, so they let children inside. I’ll keep an eye out, and we’ll all try to go the next time they have one.”

“That would be the coolest thing ever!” I said, beaming with excitement.

A week or so later, Mama said, “Denny, Jai Alai is winding down for the season. Next week, they’re having a special event for families before they move up to Ocala. Would you still like to go?”

For a moment, I could only stare at her. I couldn’t believe my ears. Was I actually going to Jai Alai? When I tried to answer, the word got caught somewhere between my brain and my mouth.

“Yes!”

“Granny says she’ll go with us, of course. Uncle Glenn and Aunt Liz are going to try to make it, too. Anna Mae would like to come along if Dan gets called back out on the dredge.”

For the next several days, Jai Alai was all I could think about. One of my teachers, Mrs. Page, caught me daydreaming, staring out the window, lost in another world.

Back home, I’d always known the brown paper grocery bag was in the corner of Mama’s bedroom, but I’d never paid much attention to it. One afternoon, I picked up one of the magazines stacked on her dresser, then peeked inside the bag. It was filled with what looked like carnival tickets, except most had Trifecta stamped along the side and $2.00 printed across the top.

The magazine cover was a burst of color. A player and his cesta seemed to fan out across it in a blur of motion, like a peacock spreading its tail. I began flipping through the pages and saw numbers, names, and photographs.

I carried the magazine into the kitchen, where Mama was at the sink peeling potatoes.

“Mama, what’s this?” I asked.

“A Jai Alai program.”

“And what are all those tickets in the bag for?”

“Losing tickets. I save them in case we win big one day. They show how much money we’ve already lost, so we won’t have to pay as much in taxes on our winnings.”

“Why do you have to pay taxes on something you won?”

“Because Uncle Sam wants his cut.”

“I thought it was winners keepers, losers weepers,” I mumbled under my breath.

“Can I take it to my room to look at before we go to Jai Alai, Mama?”

“Sure. Just don’t mess it up.”

The first name I looked for was Bolivar. I wanted to see the player Granny said had dropped the ball on purpose.

After school, I’d rush to my bedroom and flip through the program, hoping to understand more of what I’d heard Mama and Granny talking about. I looked at the pictures, memorized names and numbers, and tried to make sense of the strange words printed on the page.

The rest of the week seemed to crawl by. Then one morning, I woke up and wondered why Mama hadn’t come to wake me for school. It took a moment before I realized: It was Saturday—the day I’d been waiting for. I whispered, “Today, I’ll finally get to see what all the fuss is about.”

Mama must have heard me because she appeared at my bedroom door. “Good morning, Denny. Are you excited about today?”

“Excited?” I exclaimed. “It’s all I’ve been able to think about!”

Later that day, we picked up Granny and Anna Mae and headed to the fronton. We skirted downtown Tampa, passing the estuary and the Coca-Cola plant.

“After you pass the Coca-Cola plant, Gaynell, turn onto Lafayette Street. We’ll cut over to Bayshore before Lafayette becomes Grand Central.”

“You mean Kennedy Boulevard, Mama?”

“Oh, hell, Gaynell, you know what I mean. It’s still Lafayette and Grand Central to me!”

We turned onto Bayshore Boulevard. Anna Mae reached into her purse, fished out a pack of Big Red, and offered me a stick.

When we arrived, the parking lot was filling up fast. As Mama pulled into a space, she reminded me to keep my eyes open for Uncle Glenn and Aunt Liz. “They’ll be in his silver Xerox van,” she said.

Across the front of the building, big letters spelled out Jai Alai. Uncle Glenn held the door for us as the strong smell of cigarette smoke rolled out to meet us. The air-conditioning units kicked on, their hum setting the metal roof crackling overhead.

As we made our way to our seats, I heard something hard striking a wall. The players must be practicing, I thought.

I looked up and saw the court before me. It was long, stretching nearly the entire length of the fronton. Wire mesh separated the court and players from the audience. The back wall was painted green, with a huge Tampa Jai Alai logo taking center stage. The J was in the shape of a cesta, with several more J-shaped cestas in different colors curving around it to form a half-circle, just like the one on Mama’s program. The court’s shiny floor looked kind of like the floor at the skating rink. 

I sat between Mama and Uncle Glenn. A few players were on the court, but they weren’t practicing. They were showing some older kids how to hold and throw the ball. The kids wore helmets and had cestas strapped to their hands. One boy gave the pelota a whirl and sent it hard against the wall.

I bet he plays baseball in high school, I said to myself.

The players’ colorful jerseys stood out against the court, and the strange cestas strapped to their hands looked almost like exaggerated claws. The pelota striking the wall echoed up through the stadium-style seating.

The announcer’s husky voice came across the speakers.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Tampa Jai Alai—the World’s Fastest Game. Take your seats. The game will begin in five minutes.”

It felt like Christmas Eve, waiting for Santa Claus.

A few minutes later, the announcer’s voice came back over the speakers to explain the special event. The players entered the court one by one as he called their names, each raising his cesta in greeting. I didn’t recognize most of them, but then I heard the name everyone in our family knew.

“Bolivar.”

There he is, I thought. Finally, I know what he looks like.

Then came Jesús and Joey.

“Those are the other two guys we like,” Uncle Glenn said. “Joey mostly plays in Miami. He only comes to Tampa once in a while.”

After the first game began, an older, well-dressed couple sat down directly in front of us. The man reminded me of the photograph of Granddaddy Murphy on Grandma’s dresser. He wore a fedora, a sports coat, and large horn-rimmed glasses. The woman wore a stylish jumpsuit, gold chains around her neck, her hair perfectly set, and smelled of Chanel No. 5, just like Granny.

“Give me the program,” he said. “I want to pick some numbers.”

“There’s no betting. This is a special event.”

“Goda-damn,” he snapped. “I wanna place a bet.”

“Santo, watch your words. There are children here.”

He looked around, caught my eye, tipped his hat, and said, “Sorry.”

The man sitting on the other side of us, near Anna Mae, lit a cigar. Smoke curled up over our heads, and Mama and Aunt Liz used their programs to fan it away.

Anna Mae leaned toward Mama and Aunt Liz, lifting her program to shield her face from the man. “I don’t know why in the hell people have to smoke in public, do you?”

They shook their heads in agreement.

As the second game began, I noticed Uncle Glenn jotting down numbers in a notepad.

“What are you writing?” I asked.

“Dennis, I’m trying to devise a system where I pick numbers and not the players. So far, I haven’t been very successful at it, but it’s fun trying to figure out a way to win,” he said, pointing to the numbers he had written down.

The smell of hot dogs and popcorn was making me hungry, but I knew better than to ask. Mama had already told me we would stop at the Seabreeze for devil crabs on the way home.

Funny how I hadn’t thought about food until I started to smell it.

Bolivar finally took the court. The crowd erupted in applause, as if a superstar had just arrived.

I’d never seen him before today, but I felt as if I knew him. I’d heard his name so often around Grandma’s table.

Most of the players seemed to be down at the far end of the court. The announcer said something over the speakers, but all I caught was, “Serve!”

Bolivar held the pelota in his cesta and made a slight twisting motion, his feet spread apart, one slightly behind the other, his eyes focused on the front wall. Then, in one swift turn, he released the ball so fast that I barely saw it. The pelota hit the wall with a sharp, almost violent POP and came flying back toward him and the other players.

As it bounced, another player raced beneath it, his tennis shoes squeaking against the court floor. The pelota landed in his cesta with a hollow slap, and in one sweeping motion, he sent it hurtling back toward the wall. A few plays later, one of the players dove for a low ball, rolled across the court, and sprang back up. When the rally ended, the announcer called, “Point!”

It all moved so fast that it was hard to keep up. Mama was right—the players moved around the court just like in tennis and racquetball, only faster. I could make out “Serve!” and “Point!” but the rest of what the announcer said came too fast for me to follow.

“It’s fast, isn’t it, Denny?” Mama asked.

“Yes. Too fast, Mama.”

“I told you this was a serious game,” Uncle Glenn added. “These guys are real athletes.”

As the last game ended, I couldn’t believe it. Three hours had passed, but somehow it felt as though we had just arrived.

“What did you think?” Mama asked.

“It was one of the most exciting things I’ve ever seen. Can we come again?” I asked.

“We’ll keep our eyes open, and if they do this again next year, we’ll come,” Mama assured me.

The next day, we went to Grandma Murphy’s house for Sunday dinner. When we arrived, Uncle Glenn’s van was in the driveway. I could hear the lawn mower and smell freshly cut grass. He was out cutting the field on Grandma’s Sears and Roebuck riding lawn mower.

When he stopped for an iced tea break, I asked if I could give it a try.

“Make sure the mower is in N—for neutral. Put your foot on the brake and keep it pressed. Turn the key to start the engine. Twist this lever clockwise to engage the blades. Put the mower in D—for drive. Now keep both hands on the steering wheel and release the brake. And for God’s sake, if you need to stop, push the brake pedal,” Uncle Glenn instructed.

Five minutes later, I was cutting strips through the field.

Mrs. Allen saw me and waved. She hurried into her house, returned with her Polaroid camera, and snapped a picture of me.

Around noon, Grandma stood on the back porch and called toward the field, “Y’all come eat. Dinner’s on the table.”

As we sat around the dining room table, the conversation turned to Jai Alai.

“Grandma, would you pass the fried chicken, please?” Mama asked.

As Grandma handed her the platter, she looked straight past Mama at me.

“Dennis, what did you think? Did you have a good time?”

I beamed, my eyebrows lifting high enough to wrinkle my forehead.

“Yes, ma’am! It was one of the coolest things I’ve ever seen—I got to see Bolivar play, and the ball moved so fast I could barely keep up, and it made this sound when it hit the wall, and the announcer talked so fast!”

“Mama, can you pass the mashed potatoes?” Uncle Glenn asked.

“Gaynell, what did he say? He’s talking so fast that I can’t understand him,” Grandma said to Mama.

“Dennis, slow down so Grandma can understand what you’re saying,” Mama said with a smile.

“Yes, ma’am. I had the best time. I can’t wait to go again. I just wish next time I could play a trifecta.”

“Dennis, do you want some cabbage? How about a piece of cornbread?” Mama asked as she helped fill my plate.

“Y’all save room for dessert,” Grandma announced. “I made a sour cream pound cake, and we’ve got fresh strawberries that Mrs. Easters brought over to go with it.”

“Grandma, it looks like Dennis likes Jai Alai as much as we do,” Uncle Glenn said.

Grandma looked at me, shook her head, and smiled.

“My God, you’ve gone Jai Alai crazy, too.”