| |
I’m writing from a dusty-floored gym.
It’s still dark outside, a little past five in the morning. 30 minutes from now, the rest of the crew will arrive. Ten guys, ages 20-something to 40-something. By then, I’ll have push-broomed the floor, but it’ll still be slick, especially along the sidelines where the air ducts leak. Last week, James slipped over there and sort of did the splits.
Nobody warms up much outside of me and Big Vic. Vic’s a 6’5 Frenchman who went to high school in Paris, Arkansas, as a foreign exchange student. I met Vic six years ago via email. He reached out in response to an Arkansas Democrat-Gazette feature I’d written about this same morning basketball group.
Since then, we’ve seen players come and go. Sometimes, all it takes is one morning, one hour-long session of full-court basketball, for guys to realize this isn’t for them. Others, like me and Vic, have stuck it out through twisted ankles, pulled hamstrings, and too many other small injuries to count.
Up until recently, we played three days a week. We’re down to two now, which has made things easier on “The Commissioner.”
That’s what the guys call me because I'm the one who sends out the group text. I'm in charge of making sure we have enough players. After dropping to two days a week, I’ve had more guys wanting to play than I’ve had spots available.
We only need ten. Two teams of five. Nobody gets up at four in the morning to stand around on the sideline. There’s a waiting list now, a thoroughly engineered system for who’s got dibs on the next open spot.
If all of this sounds ridiculous, it probably is. Get ten guys together and turn them loose with an orange ball, two hoops, and their pride on the line — what else would you expect?
It’s not much different than it was twenty-five years ago when we were boys playing pickup games at recess. We’re older now, sure, but boys never really grow up.
A few weeks back, we almost had a fight. Nothing serious. Some disagreement over a foul that turned into a shoving match. A few cross words. A couple sideways glances between guys who weren’t involved. The moment passed and the game ensued.
It was beautiful. Ridiculous? Yes, that too, but beautiful all the same. It’s magic. That’s what basketball is — what it can be — even when the bright lights, the fans and pep bands are stripped away.
It’s this strange, frenetic dance we do, the ten of us together, jumping, spinning, sprinting until the final point is scored and the gym goes quiet once more.
Like it is now, like it’s been all night and into the morning, waiting for us to arrive.
| Books authored by Eli Cranor |
Broiler
Buy the Book
Commissions earned
The troubles of two desperate families—one white, one Mexican American—converge rest in the ruthless underworld of an Arkansas chicken processing plant in this new thriller from the award-winning author of DON’T KNOW TOUGH.
Gabriela Menchaca and Edwin Saucedo are hardworking, undocumented employees at the Detmer Foods chicken plant in Springdale, Arkansas, just a stone’s throw away from the trailer park where they’ve lived together for seven years. While dealing with personal tragedies of their own, the young couple endures the brutal, dehumanizing conditions at the plant in exchange for barebones pay.
When the plant manager, Luke Jackson, fires Edwin to set an example for the rest of the workers—and to show the higher-ups that he’s ready for a major promotion—Edwin is determined to get revenge on Luke and his wife, Mimi, a new mother who stays at home with her six-month-old son. Edwin’s impulsive action sets in motion a devastating chain of events that illuminates the deeply entrenched power dynamics between those who revel at the top and those who toil at the bottom.
From the nationally bestselling and Edgar Award–winning author of Don’t Know Tough and Ozark Dogs comes another edge-of-your-seat noir thriller that exposes the dark, bloody heart of life on the margins in the American South and the bleak underside of a bygone American Dream. |
Don't Know Tough
Buy the Book
Commissions earned
In Denton, Arkansas, the fate of the high school football team rests on the shoulders of Billy Lowe, a volatile but talented running back. Billy comes from an extremely troubled home: a trailer park where he is terrorized by his mother’s abusive boyfriend. Billy takes out his anger on the field, but when his savagery crosses a line, he faces suspension.
Without Billy Lowe, the Denton Pirates can kiss their playoff bid goodbye. But the head coach, Trent Powers, who just moved from California with his wife and two children for this job, has more than just his paycheck riding on Billy’s bad behavior. As a born-again Christian, Trent feels a divine calling to save Billy—save him from his circumstances, and save his soul.
Then Billy’s abuser is found murdered in the Lowe family trailer, and all evidence points toward Billy. Now nothing can stop an explosive chain of violence that could tear the whole town apart on the eve of the playoffs. |
Ozark Dogs
Buy the Book
Commissions earned
In this Southern thriller, two families grapple with the aftermath of a murder in their small Arkansas town.
After his son is convicted of capital murder, Vietnam War veteran Jeremiah Fitzjurls takes over the care of his granddaughter, Joanna, raising her with as much warmth as can be found in an Ozark junkyard outfitted to be an armory. He teaches her how to shoot and fight, but there is not enough training in the world to protect her when the dreaded Ledfords, notorious meth dealers and fanatical white supremacists, come to collect on Joanna as payment for a long-overdue blood debt.
Headed by rancorous patriarch Bunn and smooth-talking, erudite Evail, the Ledfords have never forgotten what the Fitzjurls family did to them, and they will not be satisfied until they have taken an eye for an eye. As they seek revenge, and as Jeremiah desperately searches for his granddaughter, their narratives collide in this immersive story about family and how far some will go to honor, defend—or in some cases, destroy it. |
| Previous columns: |
• Writing From: My office with an icepack on my lap
• Writing from the Waffle House
• Writing from: Two-years into this "author" gig
• Writing from: Trut grit county
• Writing from: The rafters in the basement
• Writing from: A land of dripping noses and all-night coughs
• Writing from: Another Dimension
• Writing from Fearrington Village, North Carolina
• Writing from My daughter’s basketball game
• Writing from My thirty sixth year
• Writing from Forrest City, Arkansas
• Writing from Nap Time
• Writing from Winter Park, Colorado
• Writing from the end of the year
• Writing from First United Methodist Church
• Writing from the end of the first semester
• Writing from the cusp of another visit
• Writing from a Razorback Game
• Writing From: The End
• Writing from Oyster Island
• Writing from Jayne Lemons
• Writing from Bed
• Writing from Witherspoon Hall
• Writing From: Coco
• Writing from the Beach
• Writing From: Crooked Creek
• Writing from a Nursing Home
• Writing from a Firework Tent
• Writing from a Boat
• Writing from the Stars
• Writing from the Pool
• Writing from the Kitchen
• Writing from Summer
• Writing from Kindergarten
• Writing from Mom
• Writing from a Plane
• Writing from Home
|
• My second novel’s publication
• A New Marriage Milestone
• An Invitation to the Party
• Writing from a Thunderstorm
• Writing from a Soundbooth
• Writing from “Jazz Beach"
• Writing from the Sabbath
• Writing from somewhere between Little Rock and Russellville
• Writing from my back deck
• Writing from the morning of my thirty-fifth year
• Writing on the day of the college football National Championship
• Writing from the space between breaths
• Writing from 2022
• Writing from the glow of a plastic Christmas tree
• Writing on a rollercoaster of triumph and disaster
• Writing from the drop-off line at my daughter’s elementary school
• Writing with Thanksgiving on my mind
• Writing from the crowd before the start of a Shovels & Rope show
• Writing from the depths of a post-book-festival hangover
• Writing from the Ron Robinson Theatre
• Writing to you on Halloween Eve
• Writing from my bed on a Saturday morning
• Writing from my office with two darts clenched in my left hand
• Writing from the shade of my favorite tree
• Writing from my desk on a Tuesday morning
• Writing from a pirate ship
• Writing from the airport
• Writing from the hospital
• I'm writing from the water
• Writing from my wife's Honda Pilot
• Writing from my office |
|
