The Five Percent

We were given one day off and it was back to practice. Roman Hoyt didn’t want any let-up. After a titanic battle against Puget Sound we were battered and bruised. There were blisters on the soles of our feet, contusions on calves and thighs, black and blue marks, hip pointers, sore and dislocated ribs, hyper-extended joints, twisted ankles, strained knees, loose teeth, pulled muscles, jammed fingers and cracked toenails. Our movements were tentative and compensating. If we had lost the game the pain and anguish would have been three or four times more agonizing.

I went to the far end of the gym and lowered myself to the floor with great effort to begin stretching. Alonzo Croft was heading my direction. He was looking better than most of us. He didn’t get much playing time and hadn’t sustained many injuries, though I detected a slight limp. When he noticed that I noticed the limp he accentuated it, taking his injury from an ankle sprain to a dislocated knee. He kept coming and he kept limping. He came down to the floor to join me in the self-inflicted agonies of stretching sore, cold hamstring muscle fibers.

Croft wasn’t the angry militant today. This was unusual for a guy who fancied himself an apostle of fury and discontent. Victory might have contributed to his lightened attitude, though it never had before. Something more was going on. Croft was wearing a manufactured expression. The veneer was already warping from the pressure of underlying forces. His face, the immovably dour object, had met an irresistible force. His facial muscles weren’t strong enough to contain the insurgent emotion. A smile broke through. It was a slight smile, one that might not even have been considered a smile on another person, maybe just a side effect of gas or indigestion.

We bent over our extended legs, trying to rehabilitate all that stiff muscle. “What’s going on in that big head of yours?” I said.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about?”

“You should be angry that you didn’t play more. You’re always angry about lack of playing time.”

When Croft didn’t reply I said, “Did you just win some lottery money?”
Croft shook his head and slid a little closer. Then he looked around.
“I want to keep this between us,” he said. “I’ve started a correspondence with Mr.

Louis Farrakhan, leader of the Nation of Islam.”
“I know who he is. I warned you to stay away.”
“I’ve sent him two letters and gotten two replies. I sent e-mails to his attention

through the Nation of Islam website and his responses came on sheets of paper sent by U.S. mail. The letters were typed. Most of the content was canned stuff, but there were also handwritten addendums from Minister Farrakhan himself. And I know he read my letters because he made specific references to some of the comments and questions I posed.”

“How do you know it was Farrakhan and not one of his sycophants?”

“The handwritten comments ended with his signature. It was unmistakable. He would never let someone else speak for him or use his signature in an unlawful or deceitful way. The Nation of Islam forbids all forms of duplicity. Minister Farrakhan is a great spiritual leader and would never deviate from his movement’s guiding principles.”

I grabbed hold of my basketball shoe with both hands and pulled, intensifying the stretch to my hamstrings. “What did Farrakhan say?”

“These are intensely personal exchanges. It would be inappropriate for me to disclose our private correspondence.”

“Then why are you telling me this?”

“You’re the only person willing to have the discussion,” Croft said. “I’ve broached the subject with the other guys and they don’t even hear me. Change the subject. It’s disgraceful. But you, the white guy, know more about the Nation of Islam than my black brothers. Some of them don’t even know who Louis Farrakhan is, or that the great Muhammad Ali is a Nation of Islam member.”

“I’m glad I could be here to dissuade you from making a terrible mistake.” “I’m edging closer to joining the Nation of Islam.”
“So Farrakhan has done a pretty good sales job on you.”
“I can tell you this without violating the privacy of our exchanges: Minister

Farrakhan says I’m asking all the right questions and that my motives are pure.”
“He picked all that up from two e-mails?”
“Minister Farrakhan is an insightful man. He’s been very encouraging.”
“Of course he’s encouraging. He wants more members. More members means

more contributions, more power, more fame, more luxury. That’s the way it is with the leaders of any religion or organization. Why should Farrakhan be any different? Why should he discourage you when he has something to gain from your membership?”

“You don’t fully understand the Nation of Islam.”
“I fully understand human motivations.”
“Why wouldn’t I want to join a movement dedicated to resurrecting the spiritual,

social and economic condition of the black men and women of America? Why wouldn’t I want to be part of something so noble?”

“Here’s one reason. Do you know the Nation of Islam is on the Southern Poverty Law Center’s list of active hate groups in the United States?”

“The Nation of Islam is misunderstood. If the Nation of Islam wasn’t a force for good it wouldn’t have a membership 20,000 strong and growing.”

I sniffed. “Twenty thousand is a pittance in a country of 300 million people.” “And growing,” he said.
“I wouldn’t base my decision on a couple of handwritten notes, regardless of

whether Farrakhan was really the author.”
“I’m not,” Croft said, a tinge of his normal agitation returning to his voice. “I’m

also reading the teachings of Mr. Elijah Muhammad, specifically his book titled Message to the Blackman in America.” Malcolm X is also in the mix. I’m in the middle of his classic book The End of White World Supremacy.”

“Last I heard Elijah Muhammad was fucking around with women and pissing off Malcolm X. That’s what caused their split. They hated each other by the end of their lives.”

“Falsehoods and embellishments. White people are determined to create phantom divisions between the black brotherhood to keep us divided and weak. But that’s not going to work anymore.”

“Better take that one up with Spike Lee. I saw the movie. X marked that spot pretty good.”

Croft rolled onto his back and tucked the knees into his chest to loosen his lower back.

“Minister Farrakhan said a man like me could become part of the Five Percent.” “What the hell is that?”
“The Nation of Islam teaches that world society is comprised of three categories.

There’s the 85 percent of the population who are the deaf, dumb and blind masses and

easily led in the wrong direction.” Croft sat up and added, “That’s where I would place you, JT. No offense intended. The 85 percent are manipulated by the 10 percent who are the rich, the people of means who enslave the masses through the skillful use of religious doctrine and mass media.”

“Have you had occasion yet to check on Louis Farrakhan’s bank account?”

Croft drove right over my question. “The third group is the Five Percent, the righteous teachers of the people of the world. The Five Percent know the truth about the manipulation of the 85 percent perpetrated by the 10 percent.”

“Let me guess, Mr. Farrakhan classifies himself in the Five Percent?
“Most assuredly.”
Basketballs started bouncing all around us, echoing through the gym and coming

at us in layers of sound.
“Do you realize that my real name is not even Croft. That’s probably some Brit

who bought and abused my ancestors. I might as well be Alonzo X.” “You have to stop living in the past, Zo. It’s not healthy. Let it go.” “That’s what all you white people say.”
“What do you want us to say?”

“That the black race was systematically denied knowledge of its history, language, culture and religion. That the entire American economy is based on white supremacy. That the black man and all people of color are being denied equal opportunity and equal justice.”

“Black is not a color. White is not a color. Our races are devoid of color.” “Semantics.”
I rolled onto my stomach and went into a yogic backbend called cobra.

“Tell you what, JT, if I do join there are going to be some changes.”
“Like what?”
“My behavior. The Nation of Islam teaches morality and personal decorum,

emphasizing modesty, mutual respect and discipline in dress and comportment. Men are chaste, women are virtuous. Members don’t eat pork, and they don’t drink alcohol, smoke tobacco or use drugs.”

“You were higher than a kite just last week. We all were. And you supplied the pot.”

Croft looked around to make sure the conversation was still private.

“Like I said, things would have to change – including my name. You might soon be addressing me as Rashid Kareem Jabali.”

@copyright/Mike Consol