Blind Your Ponies (58 page)

“Coach has taken Tom out,” Grandma said. “He’s got a bad knee from riding a Brahma last summer, bothers him when he plays a lot, but we need him in there.”

Grandma felt an overwhelming despair. Tom was out, Dean lost the ball, everything going against them, and she wasn’t there for Peter, even
if it meant to comfort him when they lost. She realized she was starting to sound like Hazel.

Doctor Mack wormed his way into the room.

“How are they doing?” he asked her.

“We don’t know, the radio only gives us scraps, the blasted announcer never gives the score or when he does—”

“… that’s the fourth foul on Hackett…. Gustafson at the line shooting two … He dribbles the ball, eyes the basket … puts up the shot, short…. He’ll get one more … looks like the big kid is tired…. This Willow Creekteam is going with only one substitute…. He eyes the basket, shoots …”

“Hell’s bells!” Grandma shouted, pounding her mattress with a fist.

“This feels like the intensive care waiting room,” Doctor Mack said, surveying the curious gathering. He twisted his way to the side of Grandma’s bed and took her hand, checking her pulse.

“That’s not fair. I’m a little riled right now.”

“You think you can go home tomorrow?” the doctor asked.

“I have to be home before my grandson gets back from Helena.”

She took his arm and pulled him closer.

“I hope this isn’t hurting anyone,” she whispered.

“On the contrary, it will do them a world of good, take their minds off themselves for a while.”

“… Gustafson shoots, comes off the front of the rim, oooohhh … Stone-breaker tips it in…. great move to the basket … This kid’s leg may be hurting but he is one tough cookie…. Willow Creek, on a 10–2 run, is up by seven as Kury brings …”

The room exploded with applause and cheering out of frail and wounded bodies, hoarse and hurting throats, hopeful and expectant faces, all of them seeming to yearn that there was a “winning” after all.

“… Cutter slaps the ball and it goes off a Panther…. Willow Creek’s ball …Johnson in to Strong, up to Jenkins … back to Strong … he wants to get the ball in to his big center…. The Alberton boys are jamming the middle…. Strong takes the three, count it! Willow Creek 64, Alber …”

“That’s my grandson!” Grandma shouted. “We must still be ahead. How much time, how much time?” She looked at her watch, trying to gauge the
game’s length. It should be close to over. The gentle voice came over the intercom.

“For those of you following the Willow Creek basketball game, Willow Creek is ahead, 65 to 55, with two minutes to go.”

Isolated chirps and bird songs could be heard up and down the hall from those constrained in their cages. She glanced around the room and regarded her merry compadres, holding hands in a chain of hope, a chain of people willing on six boys they’d never seen, willing on the blood cells, immune systems, and antibodies they’d never seen, daring to believe they all would win against greater numbers and impossible odds. She could see the team holding hands in their huddle and willing these people to win, willing that all those who were wounded and crippled, all those who were underdogs against the forces that crush them and sweep them away, would come out winners and triumph over the darkness of defeat.

“… and Potter tries a three-pointer … comes high off the rim and Johnson climbs a ladder for the rebound…. The Panthers foul him immediately but it’s too little too late…. Johnson’ll shoot a one-and-one…. This Alberton team has played their best, but the Willow Creek Broncs …”

“Yippeeeee!” Grandma shouted and her roomful of patients and hospital staff joined her in serendipitous celebration. They chattered and laughed and patted one another on the back for a job well done.

“… and with a minute to go, this one is over folks … the cat’s in the sack, the sack’s in the river…. Willow Creek will have to wait to see who wins the championship game to know …”

A sudden dread gripped Grandma. She’d almost forgotten.

“What’s the matter?” Doctor Mack asked.

“Oh my land, now we have to listen to the championship game. If Seely-Swan beats Twin Bridges, Willow Creek can challenge Twin Bridges Monday night.”

They all groaned. Then they set their faces and relinked their hands, ready to take their stand with Willow Creek through one more game as though their personal destiny was somehow mysteriously linked with this obscure little town and its uncelebrated team, as though if these out-manned, also-ran basketball players could win in the face of the inconceivable,
so could they.

In the locker room no one seemed to know how to act. Into the happiness of winning was blended the bittersweet knowledge that this still might have been their last game. They showered and dressed slowly.

Sam had no idea of what he ought to say so he struggled to tell them what he felt.

He waited by the locker room, hanging back with the slowest of the boys, putting off as long as possible suffering in the bleachers and helplessly watching while his pure and perfect dream was being torn to shreds at the sweaty hands of the Twin Bridges basketball team. Even with this wondrous season, Sam, in six years, had never beaten Twin Bridges.

Rob and Pete were ready to go out and join Miss Murphy and the cheerleaders. Sam figured every Willow Creek fan who had come would be compelled to remain for the championship game, unable to leave until the team’s destiny had been decided.

Sam was unnerved by the roar he could hear funneling out of the gymnasium. Olaf seemed to hang back, and finally, Tom, in his J. Chisholm diamondback boots, was ready to face the hand dealt him, forced to sit in the bleachers and watch. Sam slapped him on the back.

“You were awesome tonight, Tom.”

“Thanks.” The bull rider nodded and limped out of the locker room.

Olaf tied his shoes, then faced Sam.

“Something to you I am wanting to be saying,” Olaf said, looking down to Sam’s eyes.

“What is it, Olaf?”

“I am wanting you to know. All the students out to the ranch that are coming is not what is bringing me back to the basketball. I am coming back because you are saying life is trying and not being afraid to be the oaf. You say you cannot be a spectator to life. Coming back I am because you are right, I am thinking.”

“Thank you.” Sam said. “But ironically, now we have no choice. We have to go out and be just that, spectators, to see if our life on the hardwood is over.”

They walked into the arena at floor level behind the east basket. The atmosphere was electric with energy and noise, squeaking shoes and grunts and shouts under the canopy of a constant roar from the overcapacity crowd. Sam glanced out at the two teams going at each other on the court and thought how each of them had figured so prominently in shaping Willow Creek’s course.

He and Olaf wended their way up into the bleachers, receiving vociferous exclamations of praise from admirers. He saw the grim apprehension on the faces of the team and fans, who were perched like the Willow Creek vultures. He wedged in beside Diana. Olaf, right behind them, found room between Carter and Rob.

The twelve of them sat huddled together in the midst of a sheltering Willow Creek throng, as though their loyal fans could shield them from the killing arrow. All of them shouted and rooted for Seely-Swan in a game where neither team was able to forge ahead by more than a point or two. By the time the scoreboard clock showed less than a minute, all of them were weak from nervous exhaustion.

Seely-Swan went up by two with eighteen seconds to go, and all spectators in the arena were standing. Twin Bridges moved the ball upcourt quickly, snapped it around outside, and then Corky Miller bounced a beautiful pass in to Craig Stone. The Falcon center spun and banked the ball in as the buzzer went off. There had been a whistle. A foul. Craig Stone had one free throw with no time on the clock. The game was tied at 67.

The Willow Creek bunch unconsciously linked hands: Sam held Diana’s hand, unable to look at her; Carter took hold of Olaf’s and held Dean’s, the team and the cheerleaders clung to each other, as though they were about to be smashed on the rocks by an unavoidable tidal wave.

Craig Stone toed the line as the Seely-Swan crowd roared a frantic distraction, willing the ball to be sucked into the outer reaches of hell, willing the boy’s arm to turn to oak and catapult a brick five feet in front of him. The sports center vibrated, the bleachers shook. The Twin Bridges athlete, standing at the line alone, bounced the ball twice. He took it in his hands,
eyed the rim, and flipped the shot. It hit the back rim, bounced to the front, and rolled off. Tie game!

The three-minute overtime became an operating room for Willow Creek, watching a heart transplant in a mirror and realizing it was your bloody chest pried open and there was a good chance they wouldn’t get all the parts stitched back together. Twin Bridges went ahead on a layup by Harkin, and Seely-Swan tied it with two free throws by Thomas. With a minute gone, Stone dropped a short jump hook. Halfway through overtime, Boyd, Seely Swan’s stumpy guard, hit a three, putting the Blackhawks up by one.

The Willow Creek team leaped to their feet and cheered. From then on no one sat down. Neely missed a jumper for Twin Bridges and Seely-Swan grabbed the rebound. With a one-point lead and the ball, they went into a four-corner stall, but with thirty-four seconds to go, Corky Miller picked off a pass and raced the length of the court for a layup.

Twin Bridges 71, Seely-Swan 70.

A numbing dread seized Sam. Seely-Swan moved the ball and worked for a good shot with defenders hounding them.

Ten seconds.

Boyd penetrated into the paint but Stone cut him off.

Six seconds.

The bounce passed the ball to Cooper, who was open in the corner. Without hesitating, the senior forward lifted an arcing shot. It seemed to Sam that the ball was a time-lapse exposure, a series of still shots along its crescent course toward the basket; he could see it unmoving in the air, the seams, the full-grained leather, the Rawlings label. Then, as quickly, the world returned to full speed. The ball swished. The buzzer wailed. The scoreboard glared Seely-Swan 72, Twin Bridges 71. The Seely-Swan team mobbed the shooter, and the Willow Creek bunch mugged one another.

It was resurrection day!

The hometown throng rose into the air with such a tumult, it seemed people were in danger of bodily injury. They turned and engulfed their team, a great human huddle in the stands with layers and layers of rapturous supporters around them.

“We’ll never quit!” Pete shouted.

“Never quit!” the team yelled.

“Now Twin Bridges I will be playing,” Olaf said.

“We’ll be their undertaker!” Diana shouted.

They had been given another chance! They were back in it with both feet. Then Tom Stonebreaker, with his arms draped around several of them, shook the inner circle with his iron grasp and swept their faces with his rapacious gaze.

“I’ve played Twin Bridges for four years and never beat them and I’m not going to live the rest of my life with that brand on my ass!” They shouted their assent and made promises with their eyes.

When the officials had finally cleared the floor and some of the disappointed spectators had departed for their cars, the three teams gathered at the edge of the court. The Divisional Championship trophy was awarded to Seely-Swan, and most of those remaining in the arena cheered. Then the official announced that the second-and third-place trophies would be awarded after the Monday night challenge game. The Willow Creek delegation, which hadn’t dwindled by more than a body or two, roared as if they’d already won the game. When the noise subsided, Olaf looked across the floor at Craig Stone, who stood disgruntled with his wilted teammates. Olaf pointed at him with his scarecrow arm and finger and shouted loudly.

“Monday night the basketball we are playing!”

Craig Stone sneered and gave Olaf the finger. Sam was glad. If there was one thing missing in his Viking center, it was the killer instinct, to put a team away.

“He gave you the finger, Olaf,” Rob said. “Ya, I am seeing.” “That’s a huge sign of disrespect, Oaf,” Pete said.

Tom slapped Olaf on the back. “He’s laughing at you.”

“Give ’em the finger,” Dean said.

“On Monday night something for him I have,” Olaf stated defiantly, still staring across into the face of Craig Stone, and if the Twin Bridges veteran didn’t get the message, the Willow Creek boys did.

B
ACK AT THE
Colonial Inn, exhaustion kicked in, and the team dragged around like a convention of catatonics. They had pizza delivered
to the girls’ room, but they didn’t eat half of what they ordered. Some of them seemed too happy and too tired to eat. A meditative mood engulfed them as the past twenty-four hours sunk in. Sam gave the boys permission to swim in the motel pool, and Diana and he found themselves alone with a few uneaten pizzas.

Sam blushed, embarrassed that he had doubted it all when they lost on Friday, when it seemed so impossible. It was so easy to slip into skepticism and despair.

“Let’s see what they’re up to,” she said.

“No, let’s just sit here and breathe.”

“C’mon.”

She extended her hand and pulled him out of a stuffed chair.

They came into the tiled recreation room. Only the girls were swimming. Sam walked to the pool side.

“Where are the boys?” he asked Carter.

“Right there,” she said.

They crept up behind him and, with Diana’s help, picked him off the floor with shouts and cheers. Then, respectfully and lovingly, they tossed him into the water. Sam gasped as he came up for air, finding himself chest deep in the pool.

“That’s your victory dunk!” Pete shouted and everyone applauded.

Dean giggled and Curtis appeared somewhat shocked.

“It’s supposed to be Gatorade!” Sam said.

He flopped into the water and backstroked around, remembering in his other life he would have given up everything for this moment. And then, without warning, they grabbed Miss Murphy—who had conspired with them to get Sam to the pool—and chucked her screaming into the pool. When she came up sputtering, her long hair plastered to her face, Sam gently steadied her and laughed. She brushed her hair aside and laughed with him. She pointed an accusing finger at the girls and boys around the pool.