BIG BEN

 Certain things you don’t forget. It’s been twenty-five years, but I remember every detail of that phone call from Ben’s sister, Letty. It was raining that early morning in Los Angeles, unusual for July. I knew right away that this had to be bad. Letty and I hadn’t spoken in years. And now she was calling me from Chicago at six thirty in the morning my time in Los Angeles.

 Of course, the call had to be about Ben and given the hour and Ben’s recent history; I suspected the worst. Letty’s voice sounded more than weary – every word a struggle to express. She told me, in a little more than a whisper, that Ben was dead. He had died last night of a drug overdose. She offered no specifics and I asked for none. Letty said that funeral information would be forthcoming. I told her that I was terribly sorry. I wanted to say more, but I couldn’t. The call took only a few minutes.

 Ben, Big Ben Marcus, was dead. I let it sink in as I watched the rain, heavier now, puddle and stream down Coldwater Canyon, spilling around the houses below. Inexplicably, for a second or two, I considered the possibility of landslides. My god, Ben is dead. I’ll be fifty-nine next month – so Ben will never see sixty.

 I had known Ben Marcus since we were both students in the third grade at Leander Stone Elementary School on Chicago’s north side. If it’s possible to be a superstar at eight years old, Ben was it. For starters, he was a head taller than anyone in our class and by far the best athlete. Even way back then, Ben was the leader, the guy all of us boys looked to for direction.

 I’m Ira Ross, Ben’s life-long buddy. If you grew up in Chicago during the years right after World War II to the early sixties, there’s a good chance that you know Ben’s name. In our small world, I think it would be fair to say that Big Ben was a basketball legend. I, Ira I-Man Ross, played a supporting role.

 By the time he started Nicholas Senn High School, every one in our neighborhood, most adults included, had heard about Big Ben. And he was big – over six feet tall by the time he and I got to Senn. Ben was already playing with established high school players when he wasn’t yet a teenager. Not just participating, but also starring in those games. Every high school coach in the city and suburbs tried to recruit Ben. In those days, kids in our Rogers Park neighborhood automatically enrolled at Senn, but despite all the aggressive offers, that’s where Ben and I ended up. The year was 1954. Dwight Eisenhower was president, From Here to Eternity won best picture at the Academy Awards. We all now had to say “under God” when we recited the Pledge of Allegiance. Much to our parents’ relief every kid was being vaccinated against polio. The perpetually disappointed Cubs went 64 and 90. The city did not have a National Basketball Association team. And my dad was worried that the Dow Jones was dangerously overpriced at 382.

 The gods had been generous to Ben Marcus. He was not only an extraordinary athlete; he was also intelligent and was, highest praise among our contemporaries, a good guy. Superstar that he was. Ben Marcus was modest and polite. It was clear that he would have preferred not to be the center of attention. When we played pick up basketball games in the alley behind my apartment building on Oakley Avenue, Ben would always choose the worst athletes, the klutzes, for his team. Ben was easily the most popular boy in the neighborhood.

 The Senn basketball team compiled a mediocre record of nine wins and twelve losses the year before Ben and I arrived there. In our first season, as freshmen, Senn went sixteen and five and won our league championship. Ben averaged twenty-two points a game along with seven rebounds and four assists. My contribution as the team’s point guard was to distribute the ball to my teammates. Mostly under Ben’s tutoring, I became a skilled ball handler and a dogged defender. I wasn’t a great shooter, but I contributed seven assists and two steals a game.

 The next three years were perhaps the happiest of my life. I won’t bore you with a mass of statistics. I’ll simply report that as seniors Big Ben and the I-Man lead Senn High School to the city championship where we defeated a multi-talented DuSable team, the first of Chicago’s great black basketball dynasties. Big Ben Marcus, now a solid six foot five inches, was selected first team All-City and second team All-State. And I, then a wiry five foot nine inches, (I never got any taller) made first team All Conference. This was my highest athletic achievement; although, winning my tennis club doubles championship at age forty-seven with my pal Jack Tabbush comes close.

 Big Ben went on to star at the University of Kansas where as a senior he was named to several all-American teams. I played freshman basketball at the University of Illinois, Urbana/Champaign, but that was as far as I got as a basketball player. For me, those triumphant high school years were special and remain with me to this day.

 All those memories flooded my mind like the rain overflowing the canyon outside my window. Time and memories. Time and memories. Big Ben. I guess that if you didn’t know the history, you’d figure that Ben’s nickname was given to him because he was a big guy. Well, partly. But mostly that sobriquet was based on the famous clock tower in London. You know – Big Ben. In those golden high school days, every time Ben scored a basket, all the Senn fans in the stands would strike the hand bells they carried. The resultant sound produced, meant to be a rough replication of the famous clock’s bells, made quite a clatter and became a cherished Senn ritual. I still have one of those bells on my desk that I use as a paperweight.

 During that terrible day, I received at least a dozen phone calls from old friends who had heard the news about Ben’s death. After awhile, I stopped answering the calls and let them go into my voicemail. What could I tell anyone?

I had no answers myself. In a way, it was a relief to fill this work day with mundane activities. Driving my kids to school, attending a script meeting with the other writers (I write for films and television), another meeting in the late afternoon with my agent. Maybe, if I was busy, I would forget that Ben Marcus was no longer among us.

 Before I left with the kids, I talked to my wife, Barbara. She asked me, “Ira, do they know if this was a suicide?”

 “I don’t know. I suppose it doesn’t matter. He’s dead.”

“Yes he is. And I know how much you loved him – how much all of us loved him.”

 Then Barbara started to weep softly. She repeated, “We all loved him.”

She suppressed the tears momentarily and asked me “Are you going to be okay?”

 “I’ll be fine, honey. I’m just having a hard time getting my arms around this.”

 During the following days, I tried to make some sense of the senseless. Why did this happen? How did my Ben come to this sad end? Could I have done more?

No answers.

 After high school, I had seen less of Ben. He was tearing up the courts at the University of Kansas while I was getting on with my life at the University of Illinois. But we talked regularly on the phone and we spent time together during summer vacations. After both of us graduated, I decided to move to Los Angeles. I had worked on the U of I newspaper and had one of my short stories published in a small literary magazine. My goal was to land a writing job in the movie business.

 Ben received several offers from NBA teams but Ben, always an excellent student, opted to attend medical school in Chicago at the University of Illinois College of Medicine.

 Over the next decade, Ben and I didn’t see much of each other. Ben’s studies consumed almost all of his time and I was busy, two thousand miles away in Los Angeles trying to be a writer. We kept in touch, but our lives were headed in different directions. I did attend Ben’s and Bonnie’s wedding at the Drake Hotel in Chicago. Dr. Benjamin Marcus was then in his second year of his anesthesiology residency at the University of Chicago School of Medicine. Ben and I talked a little about our plans for the future. I remember that it felt like old times – like nothing between us had changed. But, of course, our lives had diverged.

  It was the very end of the wedding dinner. Most of the guests had left. A few dancers slowly stumbled around the dance floor, probably a little drunk. The band signaled that they were about to call it a night. Ben and I were the only ones at our table. We had removed our tuxedo jackets and bow ties, unbuttoned our tight collars. Our almost burned-out cigars lay like smoldering Lego Logs in a smelly ashtray. Ben smiled at me. “So now I-Man, we’re all grown up.”

 “I guess so. Ben do you ever think of the old days? I mean when we were kids?”

 “Sometimes. Those were good times.”

 “The best. You remember when we beat DuSable? You went for thirty-two. They just couldn’t stop you.”

 “It was a hellava night.”

 “I can still hear those bells. Big Ben scores – Clang! Big Ben scores – Clang! What a racket. You could hardly hear the ref’s whistle.”

 “That was a long time ago.”

 “I know, but tonight it’s on my mind.”

 “We were lucky Ira. High school was four great years. In some ways – maybe the best time of my life. But, you know, life moves on my friend. I haven’t even picked up a basketball in four, five years.”

 “And now you’re a doctor.”

 “Yeah, and now a married man.”

 “So what now?”

 “Well, first I’ve got two more years of my residency and then I gotta start to make a living.”

 “Kids?”

 “Bonnie’s talking about at least three.”

 “I’m trying to picture you with three little ones.”

 “Me too. Enough about my plans. How about you? I hear that you’re writing for that TV detective show that everybody watches.”

 “Yeah, we’ve been getting good ratings. It’s kind of wild working on the show.”

 “I’m proud of you, Ira.”

 “And me of you big fella.”

 “Now, we’re both getting sentimental. Anyway, you haven’t told me anything about your love life. So?”

 “I’ve been seeing a girl for about six months. I think a good fit. We’ll see how it goes.”

 “Sounds serious.”

 “Could be.”

 “Imagine us in a few years. Family, kids, mortgage, two cars, even a dog. Ira, the truth is that’s pretty much all I ever wanted. I’m not saying that all that glory – the bells – all that stuff wasn’t great. I’ll never forget all of it, but as somebody said, it’s just a game. There are more important things.”

 “Benny, you’re not only an MD, you’re a philosopher.”

 The music had stopped. The last band member was picking up his drums. No dancers. Ben and I were among only a handful of those still lingering. Ben yawned.

“I think it’s time to call it a night, pal. Bonnie’s waiting for me. I’ve missed you man. I hope I see you soon.

 But he didn’t. In the next almost thirty years, I actually saw my old friend six times. Four of those were visits I made to Chicago – the last for my mom’s funeral. Ben came out to Los Angeles twice – once for a family vacation. The last time I spent time with Ben was when he was in Los Angeles on his own for a medical symposium. That was over five years ago. He kidded me about my expanding waistline and I gave him a hard time regarding his retreating hairline. It was then that he confided to me that he had been having serious back and knee problems. He told me that the pain had become constant and debilitating – so much so, that he was considering surgery. When, a few months later, after Ben had that operation; I was relieved when he told me that the operation had been successful.

 We stayed in touch. Talked on the phone once or twice a month. If anything in his life was amiss, Ben didn’t mention it and I didn’t pick up on any problem. I was busy with my own complicated life and I suppose that I assumed that my old friend was doing just fine.

 It turns out that was not the case. The first that I heard that there might be trouble in Ben’s life was when my dad asked me during a phone call if I had spoken lately to Ben. “Sure I talked to him maybe two weeks ago.”

 “Did he seem okay to you?”

 “What do you mean?”

 “Well, Sheila Melman, you remember her? Larry Melman’s sister. She works in Ben’s office. Has for years. Anyway, she’s bought a car insurance policy from me. She told me that Ben had a big blow out with his medical partners and that they forced him to leave the practice.”

 “No, I didn’t know anything about that.”

 “Anyway, it might be a good idea if you talked to him.”

 I called Ben that night and left a message. When I didn’t hear back from him the next day, which was unusual for Ben who had a reputation of promptly returning calls, I phoned again and left another message. Two days later, Ben phoned me.

 “Sorry Ira that I didn’t get back to you sooner. It’s been kind of crazy here.”

 “That’s what I hear. Benny, what’s going on?”

 “Well, you probably heard that I had a disagreement with my partners.”

“What I heard is that you left the practice. That’s a pretty big disagreement. What happened?”

 “It’s a long story.”

 “I’m a good listener.”

 “I’m not a great talker.”

 “Come on Benny. It’s me, Ira, and I’m concerned about you.”

 There was a long pause. “I fucked up, Ira.”

 “How?”

 Ben’s voice cracked before he answered. “I’ve got a problem, Ira.”

 “If you do, there’s always a solution.”

 “I wish it was that easy.”

 “Ben, what is this all about?”

 Here again, there was silence – longer. Then finally, Ben, very quietly told me.

 “Ira, I have a drug problem.”

 “What do you mean?”

 Ben’s reply was a scream so aberrant for my old friend that it shocked and frightened me.

 “I’m a god damn addict, Ira. I can’t get through one day without loads of big-time painkillers. It’s ruining my life.”

 I didn’t know what to say. This couldn’t be. Not Ben. He was too smart, too sound, too cool. This was Big Ben, the role model. This was all wrong. I said the only thing that came to mind. “I love you, man. How can I help?”

 “Ira, you’re the best and I love you for wanting to help, but the truth is that a whole bunch of people have tried to help me and I’ve let them down every time.”

 In the next few months, I learned more about pain-reducing drugs than I suppose most medical professionals acquire during their training. Oxycontin, Heroin and Fentanyl in particular. Those three I discovered had become Ben’s drugs of choice. Fentanyl, marked the most dangerous extent of his drug addiction. I did not get most of this information directly from Ben. He was short on revealing the specifics of his drug use, but clear in chronicling the devastation of their effect on his life. Most of the details I gained from his former partners and particularly from his wife, Bonnie. I well recall our difficult phone conversation, the last one before that terrible morning when I learned that Ben had died.

 “Please Ira, I know you mean well, but you’re talking about the Ben you knew long ago. This is not Ben now.”

 “It’s a medical problem, Bonnie. If we can get him off the Fentanyl . . . “

 Bonnie, trying to suppress her anger cut me off. “You think we haven’t tried? Two rehabs. Fifty thousand dollars. We tried. Down the drain, Ira.”

 “I’m so sorry Bonnie. I didn’t know.”

 “I’m sorry too, Ira. I’m sorry for everyone. For my kids. For me – even for Ben. Maybe, mostly for Ben – even though he’s ruining all of our lives.”

 “What now?”

 “I honestly don’t know. I guess you’ve heard that he’s lost his medical license.”

 “I heard something, but I wasn’t sure.”

 “It’s true. You know, you don’t just pick up Fentanyl at the corner drug store. It’s a powerful, dangerous drug. It’s closely regulated. Ben’s a doctor, Ira. He stole it. That’s right – like a thief.”

 “Jesus!”

 “So he can’t practice medicine. And you might as well know. He screwed around with records. That’s a felony. He could go to prison.”

 “I don’t know what to say.”

 “Ben sits around and stares at the wall all day. He cries a lot. We all do.”

 “Is Ben getting help? I mean therapy and legal help. That kind of stuff?

 “We’re all doing what we can. But all of that costs money and we don’t have much left. Ben isn’t making anything. He hasn’t in a long time. If it wasn’t for money we get from our families, we wouldn’t have anything.”

 “I can help.”

 “I appreciate the good thought, Ira. But the truth is money isn’t the real answer. Only Ben can fix Ben. Our best hope is this shrink who specializes in Ben’s kind of problem. His name is Sol Rosenfeld. Ben has been seeing him now for two months. I don’t think that I’m fooling myself when I say that Rosenfeld is actually helping. He remembers Big Ben from the old days. So he’s charging us half his regular fee.”

 “That’s good. Gives some hope.”

 “I’m almost afraid to think it, but yeah, I’m hopeful.”

 I was too because over the following weeks I talked regularly to Ben and Bonnie and I got the impression that Ben, with Rosenfeld’s therapy, was getting a little better. He appeared less depressed. He even talked about his plans for the future. He told me that Bonnie and his children were again doing things together. Simple things like watching television or going to the local pizza joint. Regular everyday stuff that his addiction had made impossible. Ben was cautious about his life getting back on track, but he told me that he definitely felt better about his chances. He said that, if he successfully completed his rehabilitation program, the tentative criminal charges against him could be dropped and that his suspended medical license might in time be restored. He was, of course, apprehensive, but Bonnie informed me that she recognized at least a smidgen of the old Ben in his recent attitude. I felt the duality of that hope and anxiety in my last conversation that I was ever to have with Ben. “You sound a lot better.”

 “I’m not there yet, but I feel better. Like I’ve got a decent chance.”

 “You think that Rosenfeld has helped?”

 “No question. He’s been a big help. But he’s made it clear that, after all is said and done, I’m the only one who can beat this thing. He tells me that I’m lucky to have my family and friends like you on my side. And believe me, I know it. I can’t tell you how important that support is to me. Thank God for all of you. But Ira – I’m scared, really scared – more scared than I’ve been in my entire life.”

 “Benny, you’ve always been a winner and you’re gonna be a winner now. I know it in my heart.”

 I was wrong. I don’t know why just four days later Ben fatally overdosed. I’ll never know. I don’t know if Ben committed suicide or if his death was a tragic accident. Ben left no note. I talked to Bonnie. I talked to Letty. I even talked to Sol Rosenfeld. What happened to hope? Was that hope real or a delusion all of us created? No answers. Not then. And not today.

 The Weinstein & Piser Funeral Home in the North Shore suburb of Wilmette was overflowing with mourners. Over five hundred spilled out of the main chapel and into the hallway. They had all known Big Ben a little or a lot. I saw men and women that I had known when they were boys and girls. Many others that were strangers to me. The rabbi, who had not known Ben, spoke of Ben’s love of his family and of his popularity and modesty. I felt that he could have been describing anyone. Neither Bonnie, Letty nor Ben’s parents spoke to the crowd. The Marcuses had asked me to “say something” about Ben. I worked hard on a speech that would capture my true feelings about my old friend. Ultimately, I gave up – probably because my thoughts about Ben were so muddled. As I looked out at the assemblage, I thought – they want to understand. They need me, Ben’s old friend, to explain the life and premature death of this hero – this golden boy. Who better than the I-Man to make sense of the senseless. My very brief eulogy must have disappointed.

 “If you’re seeking answers, I don’t have any. All that I can tell you for sure is that I loved Ben Marcus. Who didn’t? If you knew him, you loved him. Kind, smart, handsome, good and the finest basketball player ever to come out of our neighborhood. The gods had given him every gift and then they snatched them all away. I don’t get it. I don’t think that I ever will.

 The best that I can do is to keep him in my heart. That picture is indelible. There he is flying down the court so fast, so strong in complete control. No one can stop him. He leaps amazingly high. He scores. The crown roars. Then the cacophonous celebration of all those bells. That’s how I will always remember “Big Ben.”

 Twenty-five years later, I still do.