What the Oracle Said

June 2015

When you wanted to know the true, real destiny of your son and his football future for the next year, there was no place to go but to the Oracle. We had all been to see her. The Oracle lived in the back of a broken-down old mallette by the Atlanta airport where the white people who lived there used to shop and , but over time, but they had all moved away and left the neighborhood behind for the Black people to live and shop in. Except for The Oracle who was one of a handful of white people who remained behind.

Her age? One day older than God Almighty.

Ok, maybe I exaggerate, but she was so old, that no one knew just how old she really was.

The store where she was located, or hell, maybe even lived, was next to a Family Dollar store, a sure sign of the degree of Blackness of the neighborhood. That Family Dollar kept no merchandise on the shelves. Anything you wanted to buy in there was locked away behind the counter to prevent theft, another sure sign of the Blackness of the neighborhood.

Her store’s name Football Haven, a corruption of heaven, since it was clear that the Oracle operated on a purely spiritual plane, along with God Almighty, who was her younger brother, as I said.

           Football Haven was open six days a week, not Sunday of course, during the hours of noon and six o’clock. That was when she would be there and she would read your son. Her readings were so well known that people were known to bring their boys from far and wide. It was good that Football Haven was close to the airport because people were known to fly in, take an Uber over to that neighborhood, pay the Uber to wait during the reading, (since Ubers did not usually go to that neighborhood without a guarantee of money), and go back to the airport to fly home—all within a few hours.

It was just known, that at some point, if your son was serious about the game, you had to visit her. But not alone. With both biological parents, if they walked the earth among the living. No one knew why that mattered, but before she would pronounce the year’s prediction on your son, one that often came true, she would not see the boy without the parents. If you tried to trick her with a stepfather or someone else, she would know and then there would be no reading. No one understood how she knew, but she did.

           The front part of Football Haven was a football gear store that one of the Oracle’s multiple descendants ran. After all, the Oracle did not charge to read your son and they had to make money in some way. So, all of the local teams in Northwestern GA got their gear from there, every year, and while there, players and parents alike made sure to wander to the back of the store to get a prediction from the Oracle, where she was situated. No doubt, staying in the back instead of the front ensured that people perused the entire store and that hopefuls bought something to patronize the family, which many were only too happy to do to get a happy word of encouragement from her.

           Rumor was, among us in the football motherhood, that the Oracle herself had been a football mother at one point, many years ago, like leather football helmet years ago. Her reputation grew when she had foretold the fates of the boys who formed the team that won UGA’s lone Championship in 1980. It was Hershel Walker’s mother who spread the word about her.

The Oracle knew all and saw all.

On the Tuesday after Superbowl Sunday, not Monday because people needed a day to recover, but Tuesday, Football Haven would open for seasonal business and remain open until Thanksgiving. Then the Oracle and her family went wherever they went, only to return just in time in early February, so young Georgia boys would be able to buy their gear in time for spring practice. That’s when football geared up in north Georgia. Not in the summer. That was a myth.

           I was there when the new family moved to our subdivision in Lanier that summer. Somehow, I don’t know how, they heard about the Oracle and went to Football Haven, daring to bring their fifteen-year-old son to see her. Lanier is not anywhere near the Oracle’s store, it’s about an hour and some away, but clearly, they wanted to see what the old lady would say about their boy.

In June, there were no lines to see her. The Oracle was present, as always, but most of the readings had already been given for the year and the boys were playing and practicing for the coming year.

Still, it was strange for this wayward family, a Black family at that, to step foot into the Haven and shop around, working their way to the back to obtain a reading. I glared at them, peering at them from through racks of shoulder pads, seeing the little knot of them come into the store.

What was I doing there, peering out at them through a bunch of bulky shoulder pads on a hotter than hot June afternoon? Why, of course I wanted to see what the Oracle would divine about this new boy. Was he a help or hinderance to my son’s football future? I had to know.

Yes, the shop was on the other side of town. Yes, my son’s gear had been purchased and dealt with months ago. Yes, my timing required some spying to figure out when they would be there, but there is nothing, nothing at all that I would not do for my son.

           “Hey there.” The Oracle’s son, or was he her grandson, said to them. Maybe her son. With his near bald head and large paunch, he looked as if he were from the leather football helmet days. “What may I help you with?”

           She. I mean her. The mother. Her straighter than straight bob was cut razor sharp, and she flipped it, had the complete nerve to flip it, when talking to the Oracle’s spawn. She clearly had no respect for what was about to transpire. The only reassurance of her as inadequate was that she was short. Fashion industries might call her petite, but she was short

           Her son was not. He seemed twice as tall as she was, with broad shoulders and huge hands that he had yet to grow into, not unlike a puppy.

           “Is this your son?”

           “Yes. This is Dae. We’re zoned for Lanier.” The mother spoke out. That was part of it. You had to say what team your boy was angling for.

           “And he hopes to play.” The Oracle’s son said, drawing out the words, probably because he was just as struck with this strange Black woman’s nerve as I was. This was not tennis or some other unimportant sport! This was the Lanier football team, often statewide champs, a conduit to the GA Bulldogs, Alabama Tide and so many other teams in the Southeast! One didn’t just come up to play on it.

           “Yes.” His mother said in a clipped, off and impatient tone. “They told us to come here to get gear.”

           “They?”

           “The Lanier Football coach. Mr. Morrison.”

           I clapped hand to my mouth. This woman had the nerve to speak the name of Mr. Clifford Morrison in her mouth. He was our coach now for the fifth season, after having served on a spate of Alabama teams, a stint in the NFL, and coached at several SEC teams before he deigned to come to Lanier and coach. We thanked God every day for Coach Clifford.

           “Did he give a letter, or?”

           The father, a handsome brown man of some late 30’s, opened a paper and gave it to the son, speaking in an accent that I could not place. Whatever it was, it wasn’t American.

           The son took the paper and lit up. “Right this way.”

           The boy must have passed muster because the Oracle’s son would not have started to pull forward all the gear he would need if he hadn’t. I noticed that the mother had a bit of a disgusted look that dawned on her face, but it went away as they were pulled to the back of the store with the gear the Oracle’s son gave them as the father’s arms filled with gear and the short mother carrying the shoulder pads. Dae carried nothing so that the Oracle could get a proper sense of him. All of him.

           I got a closer look at the boy as the little family passed me by. Dae had the look of a tight end, or left back, I bet. I continued my shopping from a distance, to get the rare opportunity for a June Oracle reading.

The last item pulled was always the helmet, an object that always required the assistance of the Oracle to help with.

“Mama.” The son called out. “We have a new young man here. Going to play for Clifford.”

           The Oracle emerged in the form of a small mop of curly snow-white hair with two inches of wrinkled forehead behind a wooden counter installed in the back. To her right was an old Singer sewing machine that was probably last used to great effect when Hershel and the boys were playing. Maybe the sewing machine helped her read in some kind way?

           “At this time of year?” The Oracle said, year with two syllables.

           “Yes ma’am.” The mother said, a look coming onto her face that I did not like. She was not respectful. I almost emerged from my hiding place to let her know a thing or two, but the Oracle spoke.

           “The boys are usually suited up by now, but Clifford must think something of him if he’s letting him come on the team now. This is his father and the mama?”

           Interesting that she said it like a question.

           “Yes. I’ll pull his helmet.” The son said and disappeared behind a curtain.

           “Let him come into the light.” The Oracle intoned.

           Without further clarification or asking, the parents and the boy obeyed. That’s what it was like when the Oracle read your boy. A spiritual thing.

           She did this, even though she couldn’t see her hand in front of her face. The Oracle was as blind as Stevie Wonder and Ray Charles put together.

           The Oracle’s breath came up through her old lips in a sharp intake, almost like a whistle. “Oh my.” I had never heard her exclaim like that over any boy, and certainly not my son.

           “Yes?” The mother said, in that irritating way she had.

           “My, my, my. This boy has been made for the sport. He’s a tight end, isn’t he?”

           “Yes ma’am.” The father said with the proper respect.

           “Yes he is. He’s ma-id for football, from the top of his head to the soles of his feet.”

           The son came forward with the helmet and put it on the boy. “Let it come to his earlobes, yes indeed.” The Oracle breathed hard.

           “Oh my, I just never thought….”

           “Never thought?” her son said

           Shut up, you ninny. My palms sweated. I had to hear what the Oracle was going to say about this boy. She had already said plenty, but as to his future…

           “This is the boy. I never thought. I never thought I would be blessed to see him. The one who will bring it back to us.”

           “The One mama?” her son spoke.

           “He’s…yes. The greatest. The Heisman, MVP awards, the greatest…he’s gone be the pride of Georgia for all time…Thank you God for letting me see him. Thank you Father.” Two small, scrawny wrinkled white arms rose from behind the counter in praise.

           My jaw dropped. A reading turned revival meeting? Truly unprecedented.

           The Oracle took in another loud breath, but then when it came back out, it shook like a baby’s rattle. Funny. But then she slumped over, landing on the floor with a thunk. Not so funny.

           “Mama?” the son’s voice cracked, but it was too late. Even I, from my hiding place, could see that the Oracle had breathed her last.

           And then, chaos.

           No one noticed me slipping out of the shop and getting into my Mercedes. I had news to spread.

The Good: We were going to get a national championship within the next decade and we could finally stop traipsing down to this rundown, redlined side of town.

The Bad: The death of the Oracle.

The Ugly: It wouldn’t be my boy who would lead us to the promised land of a national championship.

Still, as I turned my car on to I-285, I did not grieve or feel despair. It comforted me to know the Oracle was with her kid brother again and I would be the first mother to get to Coach Clifford. He would help me make sure my boy would be on that national championship team. Right next to Dae.

After all, what’s a mother for?