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What are the goals for the band? Being a new band, we just want to play as often as possible and as many different venues as possible to expand our fan base and allow as many people to hear us live as possible. We have such a unique sound live, mixing new and classic country and southern rock, and even a couple songs you'd never expect to hear from a country band, all done in our own way. I've had numerous people come up after shows expressing that they don't necessarily like country music, but loved how we played every song they heard.


Originally published in the December edition of GQ. Reprinted with the author's permission. Annotations from the author as told to Alex Belth appear throughout the story. Cleveland State University hired Kevin Mackey to coach men's basketball inthe summer I graduated.

No one gave a shit, me least of all. The team had gone 8-and; and Mackey was some no-name Boston College assistant. Besides, like a lot of CSU students, I was older, married and working for a living. We came to campus for classes, bolted coffee at the snack bar, and took the bus to the job. For us, that was college.

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There were no dorms, unless you counted the flophouses a block away on Prospect Avenue, where fraternity boys jeered at the working girls in their spike heels and buttcheek-high skirts. We did have two student newspapers, one for blacks, one for whites. The most active on-campus social group was the local branch of the American Nazis.

They wore brown shirts with swastika armbands while they ed up new members in the student center. Every year, on Rudolf Hess's birthday, The Cauldron— the white paper—ran their letters to the editor asking the Allies to release Hess from Spandau Prison. And it was the perfect setting for an Irish guttersnipe like Kevin Mackey—who'd made his bones recruiting hungry city kids no one else could find or would take—to begin his head coaching career. What he did his first three seasons at CSU was win sixty-four games. The few who showed up at my house—all corn-fed, small-town, blond-haired Big Ten pinhe—looked smug, too polite to laugh, when I told them that CSU was bound to win.

That day—March 14, —the rumpled-suited, fast-talking Mackey dealt Knight his first loss ever in an opening-round game and made me proud to be from CSU. Afterward—after the all-black Vikings outshot, out-rebounded, outhustled and outsmarted third-seeded Indiana; after the plump and shining Mackey shook the dour Knight's hand, raised both fists, and punched the sky; after my students went home—I drank myself full of beer, lit my victory t and cried for joy. On the evening of Friday the thirteenth, JulyKevin Mackey is passed out on a couch inside a crack house on Edmonton Avenue.

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His party started the night before as it always did, just him and a cooler of Lite iced down in the back seat of his Lincoln Town Car as he cruised the Cleveland ghettos, scouting summer-league games and getting drunk. Now, after nine hours at the crack house with his fast new friends, Mackey is unconscious. It isn't only the beer and the wine and the crack and the women. Mackey who says he faints during blood tests has two big venipunctures—needle pokes—in his upper thighs.

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Meanwhile, acting on a phone tip, the Cleveland Police Street Enforcement Unit has been staked out at the corner of Eddy Road and Edmonton for nearly five hours, and Sergeant Ray Gercar has a headache so piercing that two years later he will recall asking one of the women stumbling out of the two-story house at Edmonton if she has any aspirin. Gercar calls in the plates on the Lincoln at the curb: It's Mackey's. No reports of its having been stolen. Farther up Eddy Road, near St. Clair Avenue, a news crew from Channel 8 waits too.

They've got a camera on the scene, and their handsome young reporter, Martin Savidge, dispatched by the head of the station's "I-Team" after another mysterious phone tip. No one rings Mackey's wife, Kathy, and their three kids, at home in Shaker Heights, but somebody does phone Alma Massey, Mackey's longtime lover, to tell her that her boy's in deep shit. Massey, a heroin user and former prostitute whose police record dates back toknows where to find him. But rather than go directly into the house when she arrives, she instead pretends to slash the tires on Mackey's Town Car.

Gercar figures Massey's just playing it safe, trying to lure Mackey out. Maybe Massey smells cop. The crumbling house has been a known drug nest for some time, and Mackey, according to Gercar's sources, is a frequent patron. Finally, the coach wobbles out, pasty-faced, disheveled, in an aquamarine polo shirt, khaki pants and white sneakers, a blinking, fucked-up, forty-four-year-old leprechaun groping in the dark heart of Cleveland's Third World.

As he and Massey climb into the Lincoln, Mackey behind the wheel, it's p.

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They turn north up Eddy, inching toward St. The next thing Mackey knows, he's up against the side of his midnight-blue ride, hands on the roof, as Gercar arrests him. The Channel 8 camera is already close enough so that on the videotape you can hear Alma Massey say "Would you mind gettin' that out of my face? Mackey peers into the lens, deadpan, the skin slack on his chipmunk cheeks, jowls sagging, eyes lighting up as he struggles to outline a play in his mind.

At Sixth District headquarters, Mackey fakes two puffs into the Breathalyzer, reaches into his pocket and fires a hit of Binaca into his mouth, ruining any accurate breath analysis. Mackey holds an "I led two lives" press conference, a sullen, teary public confession with wife, son and brother beside him.

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His lawyer negotiates with the school for a medical leave of absence, but six days after the arrest—plenty of time for local and national media to gnaw the carrion from the bones of the beer-swilling, crack-addled white coach and his black junkie hooker galpal—CSU shitcans Mackey. Mackey does better in the Cleveland courts: Sentenced to ninety days treatment in lieu of conviction, he splits his time between the Turning Point in Cleveland and former NBA star John Lucas's Houston-based recovery program.

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After an additional few months in Houston, Mackey uses Lucas's connections to get back on the coaching trail. Mackey lives in a team sponsor's motel room, hauls in thirty grand a year, and drives a Hyundai Sonata owned by a local car dealer. Sober since the day after his arrest, Mackey works off another chunk of his debt to sports and society via exile to this hardwood Elba, where the penitents suffer poorly laundered uniforms, chubby cheerleaders in washed-out spandex, and all-night bus rides between road games.

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Spread from Albany, Georgia, to Saginaw, Michigan, the GBA is a touring hoops halfway house full of head cases, addicts and full-court lifers, guys whose dream of driving hard to the hole ended somewhere between the prison gym and a massage parlor. Fayetteville itself is pure GBA: Half the waffle houses, pawnshops, and strip malls in America are laid end to end here, crammed with soldiers, rednecks, and women with hulking, tortured hair. The old twinkle in Mackey's eyes has splintered into shards of blue and black.

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He's pale, blotchy, thinner than in the CSU days, back when he loved to tell writers that "the modern game of basketball is a game of short, fat, white coaches and big, black studs. What Mackey doesn't want to talk about, I quickly learn, is his wife and family, his relationship with Alma Massey and the mystery of who set him up with the police and the TV station.

Which omits all the why of Mackey's life, how he got to this 4,seat dung heap with its photo-montage tributes to Elvis and Alabama near the ticket window, a million miles from glory. Sure, but Kathy Mackey still lives in the house in Shaker, and the bank is foreclosing fast. According to Mackey's attorney, the money went to Alma Massey and her seven children.

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Officially, the Mackeys are still husband and wife. You'll get everything you need. She was called, and she put herself in jeopardy to come down and get me out of there and probably save my life, O. She didn't know anything.

The worst thing that ever happened to Alma Massey was to meet Kevin Mackey. It's not unfriendly, this game of keep-away, not without smiles on both sides. Savvy with reporters, Mackey needs his name in print, lest he be forgotten long before he gets another shot at the big money; there are plenty of younger coaches around with records just as good who've never been arrested on-camera after exiting a drug den. He also knows that I'm an addict too and a CSU grad, a native Clevelander undyingly grateful for every nanosecond of hometown sports glory. As his players gather, Mackey shuffles onto the court and runs a light practice for an hour or so, hands the players their paychecks—something you won't see Chuck Daly or Pat Riley do—and gives them some mild grief about the fact that they're 2-and-4 in games played the day after payday.

You don't need to be out spending that money the same night you get it. Everyone laughs except Stu Gray, a seven-year NBA journeyman backup center who's drawing half a million dollars from his last Knicks contract. Gray, the only white on the Flyers, smirks. Mackey suggests a Hardee's not far from the Civic Center when I ask him where we can go to have a bite and talk.

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We drive the yards or so to Hardee's. Mackey digs the white-on-white Caddy. At Hardee's, Mackey sticks to soda while I drink coffee—just two clean, sober men of the nineties, trapped in a frieze of fast-food orange, sparring over the details of his botched career. Mackey speed-raps from until 10, pausing only to visit the men's room to void the diet Coke.

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In the two ticks I once needed to chop and pop a brace of fat lines on a mirror, Mackey dashes off a thousand words, half of them variations of "fuck"; another couple hundred are the phrase "off the record," tossed into the mix at irregular intervals as his rasp waxes into white noise. The voice is all cracked Boston blacktop and broken glass, with an "ah-ah-ah" stutter he uses like a dribble as he darts from sentence to sentence.

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Asking Mackey a question is like passing the ball to a shooter with no conscience: Once he's got his hands on a thought, you'Il never see it again. To Mackey, coaching is war, a test of strength, smarts and guts, and may the most ruthless urban gangster win. The college game is a "fucking farce": Behind the scenes, millions of dollars flow from booster to assistant coach to player, everyone knows it, everyone's a pimp or a whore. Even Catholic high school coaching, where he began, demands outlaw recruiting.

That's what makes whipping the Hall of Fame guys, the coaches who get the All-State players and most of the acclaim, so sweet to Mackey. Like I could've done that years ago if someone had given me the chance. Who the fuck is Bobby Knight? You see me running off the court? I couldn't wait to go get fucked up. I couldn't wait to get to the fucking bar.

I resented there were coaches making more money than me, who had better players to work with than me, who had better cooperation from the university, better facilities. But that's just another excuse to medicate yourself.

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