White Privilege

Every game felt like a symphony to eighteen-year-old Kelvin White. The chirp of athletic shoes on the parquet floor. The rhythmic drumming of a basketball pounding wood, building tension as he planned his approach to the hoop, surrounded by a cacophony of whistles, whoops and thunderous applause inside the Lower Merion High School Gymnasium outside Philadelphia where, in this orchestration, Kelvin was the conductor, leading the players down the court, directing the drive with a pass here, a pick there, finishing off with a cymbal-like crash on the basket.

The young black man's concert hall this evening was the Kobe Bryant Gymnasium named after the famous alumni. Bryant’s high school jersey, thirty-three, hung from the rafters under which Kelvin performed. Kelvin had dreams of seeing his own number sixty-four hanging right next to it. This night’s quarter final game against Chester would see that dream realized sooner than expected, not because of his Bryant-breaking record with 2,897 points, but something totally unforeseen.

This playoff game against Chester High School was as dramatic as any Beethoven opus. A fight broke out in the bleachers between a group of students and a bunch of Chester supporters. In the melee, a gang banger from across town pulled a gun from his waist band.

Shots rang out followed by bedlam. A tsunami of fear caused a stampede for the exits. More people were injured by falls than from gun fire. Three bullets found targets before the gun was wrestled away and the perpetrator beaten to within an inch of his life. A woman atop the far side bleachers was struck in the arm. A referee caught a slug in his hip. By the grace of God, no one died. Yet, what were the odds the final round fired from the .45 would strike a young team captain down?

Kelvin White lay beneath the basket unable to move, surrounded by teammates forming a protective barrier. An opposing player removed his jersey stopping blood loss from the gunshot wound in Kelvin’s spine. Kelvin felt no pain. He lay on the parquet floor paralyzed, trying to remain calm. His eye locked onto the single banner hanging from the rafter. A tear slipped down his cheek onto the floor.

“I ain’t going! You can’t make me!” Kelvin shouted. Nine months passed since the Lower Merion Mass Shooting. Kelvin White, the once promising athlete with scholarships and endorsement contracts in his future, is now a paraplegic living with his uncle in a West Philly row home. Thanks to a GoFundMe page, they remodeled the house for handicapped access with a ramp, safety bars in the bathroom, plus a pulley system for transferring from bed to his wheelchair. The living room was converted into Kelvin’s bedroom. The entrance was narrow, making it easier for Kelvin to brace himself, keeping his wheelchair from moving as Uncle Nate pushed from behind.

“Please, Kelvin, this is your night.” Nate Gorman, his maternal uncle cajoled. Nate stepped into a parental role after Kelvin’s mother was incarcerated for writing bad checks on her employer’s account. She was sentenced to five years at Lehigh Valley Woman’s Prison. Kelvin’s drive to succeed was to make sure his mother never had to steal again. He never knew his father. Nate never tried to fill that role. A more dedicated uncle you couldn’t find. “The school is honoring you.” Nate reminded.

“They’re pitying me.” Kelvin snapped. “I don’t need their pity.”

“Yes you do! You need their pity and charity! We’re barely staying afloat with all the medical bills and lawyer fees! How long do you think I’d keep this house if I missed a mortgage payment? My postal salary won’t cut this. That GoFundMe money provides you with care until the lawsuit is final. I’ll clean your ass every day until hell freezes over, least you can do is help see we don’t end up homeless.”

Kelvin let go of the doorway.

Norman offered a simple thank you, pushing Kelvin out to the awaiting chair lift and van.

They entered from a side door. Applause rolled like a wave through the gymnasium. The crowd couldn’t have been more enthusiastic. “All I Do is Win” by DJ Khaled blasted from speakers. Two dozen folding chairs aligned in rows on black carpet contained Kelvin’s coaches, teammates and teachers. A black drape three feet wide hung inches off the floor lit by a single spot. A video of Kelvin’s basketball play was nixed last minute, replaced with a high school photo. Kelvin, wearing an ear-to-ear grin.

Coach Martin Devers stood at the podium. He mentioned meeting Kelvin as a freshman recruited from Our Mother of Sorrows. Devers was blown away by Kelvin’s determination and drive. He told how Kelvin’s mother named him after the temperature measuring Kelvin Scale because of his inner fire—Kelvin's ability to go from absolute zero bringing energy and intensity to everything he does. He ended with, “…Kelvin White, number sixty-four is only the second number retired at Lower Merion, thank you for honoring our school with that privilege.”

The black drape pulled aside revealing a large maroon and white banner with the block numbers sixty-four, five feet high, crowned with the name “WHITE.” The DJ played Boys to Men’s torch song “The End of the Road.” The crowd listened solemnly. Kelvin watched his jersey followed by a spotlight ascend like a ghost. Tears filled his eyes. The new team captain saw the vibe was all wrong. He leapt from his chair to tell the DJ. His folding chair tilted, smacked the floor with a crack as loud as a gunshot. Kelvin shuddered at the sudden noise. The song changed to “Motown Philly.” Kelvin’s number took its spot next to Kobe’s banner. The crowd applauded. Kelvin’s mind was elsewhere. He reached to Nate. “Get me out of here.”

Nate leaned in. “What’s wrong?”

Kelvin shielded his face. “Take me home.” The evening was becoming a bitter reminder of what he once was and believed he would never be again, a champion. “Don’t ever bring me back here.”

Three months passed. Kelvin was showing the signs of an agoraphobic. He refused to leave the house, had to be coerced to bathe, spent his days watching television shows from the 70’s, reruns of reruns, like his days were beginning to feel. The house smelled like a nursing home. Nate had to change that. “Wake up, you’re going out today.” Nate opened the blinds letting in the sun.

Kelvin shielded his eyes. “I ain’t going. There’s a Sanford and Son marathon today.”

“You’re going outside, or the TV is going in the trash and Lamont can come and get it. Don’t test me on this.”

Kelvin peeked out from under his arms seeing his uncle’s angry face. He shook his head in surrender.

Uncle Nate pulled into a handicap space at Clark Park in West Philly. “Get yourself some exercise. I’m playing some bocce ball with my friends over there.” A group of men Nate’s age rolled balls across the grass. Kelvin watched them greet Nate with smiles, hugs and laughter.

“Looks like fun, why don’t you play?” The voice sounded like Morgan Freeman had eaten a stick of butter. Kelvin spun in his wheelchair. A lanky black man, in his seventies, wearing a fedora, sat on a checkered folding chair by a table-high block of stone. Several more stone blocks had men seated apart, all playing chess. “Unless you prefer a bigger challenge.” His hand gestured to chess pieces lined up ready for battle. “My opponent quit. He tired of losing. You ever get tired of losing?”

“No.” Kelvin spun his back to the man.

“I guess it’s hard to tire of losing if you’re too scared to get in the game in the first place.” The velvet voice mocked.

 “I never played chess before. Make it checkers, I’ll whip your skinny ass.” Kelvin retorted.

“I can teach you in no time.” The man assured.

Kelvin turned, wheeled over; the man made space. “Samuel Simutowe. Pleased to meet you…?”

“Kelvin White.”

“Okay, Mr. White. Let’s start you off with white pieces. White gets first move.” He spun the board placing white pieces in front of Kelvin. “The first thing you need to know is there are sixty-four squares on the chessboard.”

“Sixty-four?”

“You have a problem with that?”

"No." Other than it matched his jersey number.

“Good. Now, we each have sixteen chessmen lined up for battle. Your goal; capture my King while preventing me from capturing yours. Think you can do that?”

Kelvin answered. “Just show me how they move.”

In an hour, Kelvin learned the rudimentary aspects of the game enough to make him smile when he moved a bishop and said, “Check.”

Sam was in trouble. His hand went to his chin. He surveyed the battlefield. He lowered a finger onto his king deciding where to move.

Kelvin grew impatient. “C’mon.”

Pinching his black knight, he toppled Kelvin’s bishop. “Checkmate.”

With a swing of his arm, Kelvin scattered the pieces to the ground.

“Son, you’ve got to learn to lose better than that.”

“Don’t tell me about losing. I lost everything, old man.”

“You lost use of your legs, for that I’m sorry.”

Kelvin snapped. “I don’t need your pity.”

Sam pointed to his head “You didn’t lose this.” Then pointed to his heart. “But if you lost this, that’s completely on you.” There was silence. “So, rematch?”

Kelvin answered. “Fine.”

Nate approached the crowd gathered around his nephew. Peeking over a spectator’s shoulder he saw Kelvin declare, “Checkmate.” Murmurs of approval ricocheted throughout.

Nate stepped in. “Kelvin, what’s going on here?”

“This your son?” Sam asked.

“My nephew.” Nate extended a hand. “Nate Gorman.”

“Pleasure. Sam Simutowe, I just got my butt kicked.”

Kelvin smiled. Nate blinked. He hadn’t seen Kelvin smile in about a year.

“Your nephew here is a natural born chess player. I wouldn’t be surprised if he achieved an Elo rating of 2000. He sees the board three moves ahead. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“He was like that on the basketball cour…” Nate’s let his words drift into the ether. Kelvin winced. Nate changed the subject. “What do you mean Elo rating?”

Sam packed his chess pieces away. “It’s a rating system named after Hungarian physicist Arpad Elo, a chess master. A 2000 Elo qualifies Kelvin to join The Philadelphia Chess Club, one of the most prestigious in the country, opening him up to tournaments offering monetary awards.” Sam folded the board and shook hands with Kelvin. “Mr. White, it was a privilege.”

Kelvin backed away. “I think we’ll pass on tournaments. Unk, I want to go home.”

A familiar silence followed them to the van. Nate spoke first, “Kelvin I didn’t mean to dredge up…”

“Unk. I’m just tired. Tomorrow we can hear more of what Sam has to say.”

The next nine months Sam would prep Kelvin for The Philadelphia Chess Club qualifications. Kelvin played in local tournaments, five regional, traversing three states, totaling thirty-five high ranking players with an Elo above 1900. Kelvin pitted against opponents with high ratings to quickly advance his rank. He achieved an Elo score of 1800, 200 shy of the required ranking of 2000. His ranking, good enough to rate him a Class A player, procured a seat at the Invitational Chess Tournament in Atlantic City.

Nate, Kelvin and Sam made the hour-long ride to the beach resort. First stop, the tournament pairings board. Pairings were chosen randomly from the pool of qualifying players. Sam ran a finger down the list groaning. “Fuck. Sinclair Beaumont. What are the odds?”

Nate asked. “Who’s he?”

“A chess master with an Elo rating of 2100.” He turned to Kelvin. “Who happens to be president of The Philadelphia Chess Club.”

“Let’s kick some ass!” Kelvin’s smile received no reaction from Sam, who knew the odds were stacked against him.

Kelvin sat at the tournament table. Entering the room, Sinclair Beaumont; a tall, balding thirty-year-old, with a hawkish nose tilted as if sniffing the air before him. He sat across from Kelvin like a marionette lowering into a chair. His accent; old money Philadelphian. Without looking at Kelvin, he spoke. “I understand you’re the West Philadelphian wunderkind.”

Kelvin reached a hand out. It was ignored. “Let’s acknowledge we’re both gentleman. Let’s not forget this is more or less a duel to the death, for I am going to kill any chance that a flash in the pan, street bred amateur has of joining our prestigious club.”

Beaumont gestured to the official holding pieces determining who goes first. “After you, Mr. White.” Kelvin blindly selected a black chess piece.

Beaumont said, “Looks like I shoot first.”

The game: a best of five, each player manages a clock. Color designation’s selected after each game. Kelvin lost the first match in the blink of an eye. Once more, he selected black. Game two was closer. Kelvin lasted a bit longer after losing his queen. He went down two games to nothing. An ocean wind slammed a back door against a wall with a bang. Kelvin shuddered. The noise was the gunshot sound all over again. He froze, paralyzed in fear.

Beaumont leaned back. “Perhaps you’d like to forfeit?”

Nate leaned down, “You want go home?”

Sam whispered. “There’s no shame in a withdrawal, it happens all the time.”

Kelvin steadied his breathing. "Sam, I got this."

For a third time, Kelvin selected black, the advantage of first move going to Beaumont. Kelvin, despite the disadvantage of moving second, eked out two wins stunning Beaumont, changing momentum. Beaumont turned to the arbiter requesting a break to use the restroom. An unusual request but not unheard of.

Beaumont returned. Kelvin noticed white flecks in the corner of his flared nostrils. Beaumont made moves in rapid succession. Kelvin, like in basketball, tried controlling the clock but each one of the tie breaking games ended in stalemate. The frustration of tie after tie affected them both. After a third stalemate, Sinclair spoke ominously, “Armageddon Game.”

Sam explained. “In an Armageddon Game the player with the white pieces, is privileged a full extra minute of time to make his move. Should the game end in another stalemate, the “black” player is automatically declared the winner.”

Kelvin accepted. He drew white. Beaumont smiled, “It appears the privilege is yours.”

If Beaumont expected Kelvin to use the extra time allotted to slow the game, he was mistaken. Kelvin reversed strategy. His moves were quick, precise and ruthless. It was Beaumont who stumbled trying to keep pace and control his clock.

Kelvin used a blitz mentality. Once again, Beaumont took his queen, a crippling blow by all appearances. It wasn’t so much “lost” as it was sacrificed, a play matching one of the most daring moves in chess history known as “The Immortal Game.” In 1851 Anderssen playing Kieseritzky sacrificed his queen delivering a decisive checkmate a few moves later.

Two moves later, Kelvin stated, “Checkmate.”

Sinclair’s arm swept his pieces off the table. “I’ll get to your application when I get to it.” He left in a huff.

“Sam, he’s got to learn to lose better than that.”

The forty-five minute ride home was filled with tales of the day’s events. Dropping Sam off, Kelvin handed him the trophy, “Sam, you have this. It’s as much yours as it is mine.” Kelvin explained it be easier for Sam to bring to the park and show off. Sam could use it to recruit more kids into the game of chess. Sam thanked Kelvin. Nate and Kelvin headed for home.

Nate asked, “Kelvin why’d you give the trophy away?”

“I dunno. It's really not the trophy I was chasing, was it?” His mind drifted as they rolled through West Philly neighborhoods. The van drove along Girard Avenue, trolley tracks caught its wheels a few times shaking the van and Kelvin from his thoughts. He noticed they were heading out of West Philly. “Hey, where we going?”

“I want to watch a basketball game with my nephew. Is that too much to ask?” Heading towards Lower Merion, Kelvin protested the whole ride there.

The wheelchair lowered; Kelvin felt he was descending into a mind shaft. “Stop.” The electric whine halted. “I don’t want to do this.”

Nate paused. “You just won acceptance into the Philadelphia Chess Club on a move no one had seen in over a hundred years. Inside that gymnasium your name hangs from the rafters, next to Kobe Bryant’s for Chrisesakes!”

“What’s your point?”

“My point is, you can do anything if you put your mind to it! You can be great at chess; you can be great at…”

Kelvin interrupted, “…at basketball?”

“Within reason, Kelvin. I was going to say, ‘At life’. Now c’mon.”

Kelvin disembarked, wheeling himself toward the building where he left his dreams. Nate closed the van, catching up to Kelvin at the gym door. “Let me get that for you.” Nate opened the door. Kelvin froze.

On the parquet floor a game was in progress. There was no chirp of sneakers against the smooth floor. This sound was different. Rubber skidding, banging of metal, the drum-like dribble of a ball, a group of players calling for it.

Kelvin watched ten men in wheelchairs scramble like a boardwalk bumper cars, up and down the court at surprising speed, starting, stopping, passing back and forth and shooting for the basket. A sign read “Wheelchair Basketball, Saturday Nite.”

Kelvin watched a player loop under the net, toss the ball backwards one-handed for a score. It wasn't the orchestrated elegance of his high school days; it was more like navigating a heavy metal mosh pit. Within its chaotic rhythm, Kelvin felt a familiar beat. He looked up at his jersey banner hanging next to Kobe’s.

Nate stepped next to Kelvin. “They have a national league.”

Kelvin looked at Nate speechless.

“What is it they say in chess?” Nate grinned. “Your move.”