This poignant, hilarious, and sometimes uncomfortable novel proves that even the most damaged of us can emerge victorious. Head Fake by Scott Gordon Book Tour
Synopsis (from Amazon):
Mikey makes everything a
joke, even the clinical depression he’s struggled with for years. After a run
of failed jobs, he becomes the unlikely basketball coach at a high school for
high-risk offenders who are experiencing mental illness. The position becomes
suddenly available after the team tried to strangle their last coach.
Every instinct tells Mikey
to get as far away from this school as possible. Coaching these kids, who have
been arrested for who-knows-what, would be difficult for a normie. For Mikey,
it could cause another breakdown and force him right back to living on the
street. But he knows that if he has any chance to make his twenty-sixth
birthday, he needs to keep this job, even if the school board wants him fired,
and the students would rather fight each other than play ball.
This poignant, hilarious,
and sometimes uncomfortable novel proves that even the most damaged of us can
emerge victorious.
Excerpt:
CHAPTER 1
Father
of the Year said that if I didn’t get this job, I was back out of the house and
living on the street…tomorrow. Based on my interviewing skills, my time indoors
was running out.
It
was almost three. I noticed a few tatted and pierced students sucking on smokes
and playing with their phones by four yellow buses parked in the school’s
drive. The buses looked like every other I’d seen, only three-quarters the
size. A driver was dozing in the front seat of one. The way he slept without a
care in the world, he just had to be the one quitting. I hesitated to rouse
him, but I wanted to know why he was leaving and if he had advice on how to
land this gig, so I rapped on his door.
His
eyes fluttered open, focusing on me as if I were a madman. He swung open the
door. “Can I help you?”
“You
the one quitting?” I asked, ascending the first step. I peered down the aisle,
which appeared to have twenty seats. The driver, a lanky dude, all knees and
elbows and pointy chin, nodded. By his feet sat a six-pack of Coke and a brown
paper bag with grease spots that smelled of tuna fish, which reminded me of
childhood lunches with my mother.
“About
to take my final run, quit two weeks ago, and they still haven’t found anybody
stupid enough to take the job.”
I
couldn’t win. “What’s bad about it?”
“Just
wait about thirty seconds and see for yourself.”
On
cue, the school’s doors opened, releasing fifty or more kids. As a group, these
kids looked rough, the kind of rough you would avoid by crossing the street.
Some headed toward the buses, others played grab ass, and most lit up smokes.
The mentally ill loved their cigarettes. The sticks gave their hands something
to do and the tobacco whipped their wandering thoughts in line—at least that’s
why I used to smoke. I don’t anymore ‘cause you gotta be kidding me at a buck a
loosie and eight a pack.
Suddenly
a six-foot girl with a red mohawk launched out of the school like a guided
missile. “Gonzalo!” she wailed. “You stole my phone!”
A
Mexican kid began bobbing and weaving through the crowd to avoid her.
“Give
me my phone! You know that’s the only phone I can speak to Darnell on!”
“Darnell’s
her dead brother,” said the driver.
Gonzalo
had some moves, faking left and darting right, but she homed in on him like
prey, flinging some poor rag doll of a girl out of her way.
I
didn’t want to look, to see this poor kid having a psychotic episode, but I
learned in the ward to keep my eye on people in the middle of a break—their
movements were unpredictable and dangerous.
“I’m
gonna beat your raggedy ass, Gonzalo!” she said, swinging her arms with the
abandon of one of those advertorial air dancers you see in front of car
dealerships, until she finally connected with the back of his head, knocking
him to the pavement. She leapt on him and patted him down. She yanked his
backpack off his shoulder and emptied it, but there was no phone. “He gonna
call any second.”
A
Black mountain, maybe six-six and three hundred-plus pounds, who looked like an
angry linebacker, bolted out of the building. He pushed his way toward the
fight, which escalated into the girl now banging Gonzalo’s head on the
pavement. The Mountain was fast for a big guy and snatched the girl off her
prey, putting her in a full nelson as she mule-kicked his shins. “I know he got
it!” she cried. “He got my special phone.”
As
Gonzalo stood and brushed himself off, I noticed he had 5150, which I knew to
be California code for “involuntary psychiatric commitment,” tattooed on the
side of his neck. He started putting notebooks, pens, and books back in his
backpack. “I’m outta here. That puta’s
off her meds,” he said to nobody.
“Gonzalo,
hold up!” issued a voice that started at the Mountain’s feet, taking sand and
gravel with it on its way up to his mouth.
The
bus driver turned to me, shrugged, rested his case.
“I
don’t got anything,” said Gonzalo, as he backed toward me, absently touching
his back pocket, which had a white phone peeking out of the top.
“Gonzalo,
stop. Now!” said the big man, still holding the struggling girl.
But
he kept moving, looking like he was thinking of bolting. The students watched
in silence and my heart tore in half for this girl—I would’ve killed to have a
phone I could call my mom on. I’d be dialing right now.
“Hey,
Gonzalo,” I called out, stepping off the bus. “She can talk to her dead brother
on that phone. You gotta take that into the equation.”
Both
the kid and the Mountain stopped and regarded me. “Who the hell are you?” they
asked in unison.
“New
driver, maybe, hopefully.”
“Office
is that way,” said the Mountain, thumbing over his shoulder to the door.
“You
the gym teacher or something?” I asked.
“Security.”
Gonzalo
slung his backpack over his shoulder, knocking the phone for me to clearly see
it—it wasn’t his. “Hey, playa, you a big Hello Kitty fan?” I called out.
Gonzalo
turned and mad dogged me. “What you say, cabrón?”
“You
gotta cat in an adorable red ribbon sticking out of your pocket.”
“Bring
the phone here now,” called out Mountain. “Now!”
The
gig was up, and Gonzalo moped his way to the big man. He handed the phone to
the girl, who burst into tears.
The
Mountain looked over to me. “Yo, you better get your narrow ass inside you want
that job.”
I
turned to the driver, who was finishing his Coke, then back to the girl sitting
on the ground talking on her phone.
“You
still want it?” asked the Mountain.
“I’m
going. I’m going.”
On
writing:
How did you
do research for your book?
I worked as a
Youth Advocate for juvenile offenders with mental illness for about seven
years, a profoundly rewarding experience. The experience left me with enough
material to write ten books.
In your book
you refer to the importance of laughter in the face of adversity.
Life can be incredibly hard, but it can also be
laugh-out-loud funny. It’s important to appreciate and remember the times that
made you laugh. You never know when they might come in handy.
Where do you
get inspiration for your stories?
I get inspiration for my stories from my life.
There are events in my life that stay with me long after they occurred. These
incidents serve as a starting point for what becomes a story. By the time I am
done writing the first draft, they usually have very little to do with the
actual event from my life. Stories take on a life of their own.
What advice
would you give budding writers?
Read everything that you can get your hands on.
And to go out and get into some trouble. You need to do both.
Your book is
set in Los Angeles. Have you ever been there?
My book is set three miles from where I’ve lived
for the last ten years. I love to walk. And I have walked the streets of my
novel many times. I know the parrots, the people, the b-ball courts, the
neighborhoods. It was incredibly fulfilling to write about this diverse
neighborhood.
If you could
put yourself as a character in your book, who would you be?
Mikey, the narrator. Mikey and I have a lot in
common—too much, really.
Do you have
another profession besides writing?
I have run a hotel, been a filmmaker, and am
presently working on a TV show called 5150
about a psychiatric hospital in South Central LA. It’s a project I’ve created
with Gil Bellows, who starred in the Shawshank
Redemption and Ally McBeal. I
wrote the pilot, which is being passed around the studios. Fingers crossed!
How long
have you been writing?
I’ve been writing for 30 years. Short stories,
plays, films, TV shows, to-do lists. Head
Fake is my first novel.
What is your
next project?
I am working on my next novel, The Legend of Adam Finkelstein, a
comedic story set in the 1980s about a filmmaker on a journey through India
where religion and myth collide.
What is the
last great book you’ve read?
Annie John by Jamaica Kincaid. I met Jamaica
when I was in my early twenties working as a doorman at the Royalton Hotel in
NYC. While carrying her bags, we spoke about writing. She was the first writer
I had met, and she spoke to me, a neophyte, as if my thoughts on writing were
important. I don’t recall what thoughts I shared with her. I shudder at the
thought. She was very gracious.
I knew she was a staff writer for The New
Yorker. I hadn’t yet read Annie John, her only novel at the time. As soon as I
got off work, I ran out and bought the book and devoured it in one sitting. It
blew me away, inspiring me to write my own coming-of-age novel, which I still
have in a cabinet in the back of my garage under some boxes of CD’s.
Recently, I wrote a pilot for a TV show, 5150,
about a psychiatric hospital in South Central LA. I decided the main character
would be obsessed with Jamaica’s writing. To brush up on Jamaica, I reread
Annie John and again fell in love with this rich coming-of-age story of a girl
growing up in Antigua.
What is a
favorite compliment you have received on your writing?
Chris Bachelder is one of my favorite writers.
To get the below blurb from him was incredible.
“Head Fake is an inspiring addition to the literature of sport,
the literature of long odds and underdogs, the literature of mental illness,
the literature of overbearing fathers. Scott Gordon writes with profound
candor, wit, and empathy about people on the edge, people who could just really
use a few wins.” —Chris Bachelder, author of four novels, including
National Book Award finalist, The
Throwback Special
In one
sentence, what was the road to publishing like?
As difficult as it was rewarding.
What is one
piece of advice you would give to an aspiring author?
Read.
Which
authors inspired you to write?
So many! Zadie Smith. Donna Tartt. Chris Bachelder. Jhumpa Lahiri.
Mathew Quick. Ross Raisin. Tobias Wolff. I recently read About a Boy by Nick
Hornby, which I immediately reread, not something I usually do. I’m definitely
inspired by Nick’s writing.
Nick explores large themes
like isolation, connection, depression, and suicidal ideation with humor, often
making you think, feel, and laugh simultaneously, which, if not careful, may
cause drowsiness and lead to a general feeling of compassion.
Nick is one of those writers
everybody likes. Highbrows, lowbrows, men, women, children, dogs, cats,
everybody. His characters are relatable, distinct, and laugh-out-loud funny,
his prose simple yet insightful. All qualities that I strive for in my writing.
What is
something you had to cut from your book that you wish you could have kept?
I cut the first chapter from Head Fake. The first chapter went deeper
into the main character’s present circumstances. Perhaps I may include it in a
future edition.
On
rituals:
Do you snack
while writing? Favorite snack?
Yes, I’m a snacker. And my snack of choice is
pretzels. Large, small, peanut-butter filled, mustard flavored. If it fits in
the pretzel family, I’ll eat it.
The moment I
knew I wanted to become an author:
In my twenties I read Ask the Dust by John Fante and thought, wait a second, I could do
that. It’s a gritty story about a young man who moves to LA to become a writer.
What is your
writing schedule?
I wake up promptly at 5 a.m. and hit the snooze,
which I do until my wife kicks me out of bed—usually around 5:30 a.m.. I write
until 8 a.m., when our dogs climb up my legs ready for a walk. That’s my
writing window.
Is there a
specific ritualistic thing you do during your writing time?
I drink a ridiculous amount of coffee.
Fun
stuff:
Favorite
travel spot?
Italy. My wife and I talk endlessly about moving to Florence where we
would spend our days walking the streets talking about history, architecture,
and Gucci bags.
Name a
quirky thing you like to do.
I like to drive to a neighborhood I know nothing
about, get out, and walk around and meet people.
If there is
one thing you want readers to remember about you, what would it be?
He can make you laugh and cry in the same
sentence.
What TV
series are you currently binge watching?
Peaky
Blinders.
What is your
favorite thing to do in Summer?
Barbecue with friends.
What is
something that made you laugh recently?
My wife constantly makes me laugh.
What is your
go-to breakfast item?
Eggs. They are also my dog's preferred breakfast
item.
What is the
oldest item of clothing you own?
I have a New York Giants championship
T-shirt—enough said.
Tell us
about your longest friendship.
I am still close with a group of high school
friends. The Old Mill crew.
What is the
strangest way you've become friends with someone?
My wife and I became friends with a couple in an
elephant sanctuary in Thailand.
Who was your
childhood celebrity crush?
Kristy McNichol
Guest Post:
Where
did the idea for Head Fake come from?
The idea for my novel, Head Fake, grew out of my time working as a Youth Advocate for
juvenile offenders with mental illness—a life-altering seven years. The county
needed males to work with the boys, some of whom were violent offenders. They
were so desperate that they recruited me, someone with no experience with
psychology, children, mental illness, or the prison system.
I was a short story writer who made his living
carrying bags at a local hotel. It was there that I met Susan, the Head
Psychiatrist for the county mental health center. She was picking up cousins
from out of town. After speaking in the driveway for fifteen minutes, she told
me she had an opening for a Youth Advocate, and how it was an incredibly
rewarding job. At first, I thought, nope.
There was no way I could help kids experiencing mental illness. Sure, I
suffered through the occasional bought of depression, but I knew nothing about
bipolar, schizophrenia, or suicidal ideation. These boys needed someone trained
in psychology to help them. What they didn’t need was a writer who could barely
pay his bills.
“What these boys need is a role model,” said
Susan. “Someone to show them that there is another way, one that won’t get them
arrested.” Then she stopped talking and bit her lip. “They need someone in
their corner who cares about them.”
I could
do that, I thought.
I could care about them.
My training consisted of shadowing some very
qualified Family and Youth Advocates with degrees in Adolescent Psychology,
Counseling, Child Development, Cognitive Process, and various other
important-sounding education. I majored in theater. After a week of training, I
picked up my first client, a fifteen-year-old boy with bipolar disorder and a
history of violence. Upon entering my old Nissan, he slammed the door and
glared at me. “I could make you disappear,” he threatened, holding my gaze. He
was clearly testing me. I knew if I showed any sign of fear, it would be
impossible to earn his trust. I clapped my hands together and proclaimed,
“Wonderful. I love magicians.” My response caught him off guard, and he cracked
a smile. I had found my way in. Humor. I knew that if I could make these kids
laugh, I could reach them.
I ended up with a full caseload and some of
the hardest cases in the county. Head
Fake is inspired by the courage of the kids I worked with, who taught me
much more about life than I ever could have taught them.
Author Bio:
Scott Gordon’s fiction has appeared in the Green Hills Literary Lantern (GHLL), Modern Times Magazine, Pennsylvania Literary
Journal, The Satirist, and Mobius
Magazine. In addition to writing fiction, he has written and directed films
and television series, including A
History of Black Achievement in America, Great American Authors, and more.
Originally from New Jersey, Scott lives in Los
Angeles with his wife, Samantha, and their two rescue pups, Mel Brooks and
Khaleesi Bee.
Website: https://scottgordonbooks.com/
Facebook: @ScottGordonBooks
Instagram: @scottgordonbooks
Author
Marketing Experts tags for social media:
Twitter: @Bookgal
Instagram: @therealbookgal
Amazon: https://amzn.to/3KJsjzE
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/212338254-head-fake
Praise:
“Head
Fake is inspiring, moving, and meaningful. It made me laugh all the way
through. A great story - a great piece of work.”
– Gil
Bellows, Actor and Emmy Award Winning Producer of the film, Temple Grandin
“Head
Fake is like a jab in the ribs, reminding us that even in our worst hour,
laughter and connection can be the flashlight in the dark, guiding us toward
healing and redemption.”
– Chris
Rock
“Scott Gordon weaves an absolutely brilliant
and authentic tale that set me on a roller coaster (the thrilling, yet
frightening, upside down kind) of emotions. It’s been ages since I’ve read a
story that can have me cackling one second, then bawling my eyeballs out the
next.”
– Eve
Porinchak, Bestselling Author of One Cut
“Head
Fake made me laugh and cry in equal measure—sometimes simultaneously. More
than an underdog sports story, this gut-wrenching and ultimately uplifting
novel will have you cheering in ways you never imagined.”
– Doug
Kurtz, Story Coach and Bestselling Author of
Mosquito.
"This is one of those books that you will
think about and wonder how it will end, and then when it does, you will miss
the characters as they will have found a place in your heart. A novel I won’t
soon forget."
–
Leslie A. Rasmussen, Award-winning author of After Happily Ever After and The
Stories We Cannot Tell
“An absorbing, uplifting tale of finding light
and self-worth in adversity’s darkest depths.”
– Kirkus Reviews
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