Little Brother of War (7 page)

On the last day of school, Principal Gilroy called me into his office. Coach Boles was there too. They were looking at my report cards for the year.

“It looks like you managed to improve your grades this year,” Mr. Gilroy said. “Your parents must be pleased. And I guess that means you'll be able to get involved in sports here at the high school next year. ”

“I guess you didn't hear,” I said. “I'm on a men's stickball team. I'm playing toli now. That's my sport. We play with no pads, no helmets, and no cleats. Football is for wimps!”

The two men just looked at each other in disbelief.

“You should consider adding stickball to the school's list of sports,” I continued. “I think
toli is the national sport of the Mississippi Choctaw Nation. This
is
the
Choctaw
Central High School, after all.”

The principal and the coach were very disappointed. They almost reminded me of a couple of teenagers who didn't get their way. Mr. Gilroy dismissed me from his office just as the final school bell rang. I was glad to be out of there. On to summer!

The month of June was filled with stickball practices. Of course, most of the men had day jobs so we practiced at night. That was better anyway.

People said summers in Mississippi were so hot you could fry an egg on the sidewalk. I didn't know if that was true, but it was hot. And humid. So humid you could cut the air with a knife. That's the other thing people said about Mississippi.

At the beginning of July, Charley got the game schedule for the Choctaw Fair tournament known as the World Series of Stickball. He showed me this year's list of
teams. Twelve Choctaw communities would be competing for the championship.

The Choctaw Fair took place in the middle of July each year. The first set of tournament games would be held the weekend before. The finals would take place during the fair. All games were played on the Choctaw Central High School football field.

In our first match, we'd face a team called Tushka Homma, which means “Red Warrior.” So it would be Red Water against Red Warrior.

Game time arrived Saturday at eight p.m. The games were held at night for the same reason our practices were held at night. Heat and humidity.

Mom and Aunt Issi came to the stadium to watch and cheer on our team. Dad had to work the late shift at the store. That was disappointing, but no big deal. There would be other games.

I walked onto the field with my teammates. We were all wearing our brand-new uniforms. Red T-shirts and black gym shorts. Each
player had a number printed on the front and back. Above the number was our team name: Oka Homma.

The large electric scoreboard at the end of the field was lit up and ready to go. It was usually used for the high school's football games. Now it would mark off four quarters for stickball and keep track of our scores.

Mom called to me from the stands and I waved. Only a few spectators were on hand to watch. This wasn't as important a game as the ones during the Choctaw Fair.

Then all the Oka Homma players gathered in a tight bunch on our side of the field. We held our sticks above our heads.

“Who are we?” Charley called from the middle of the group.

“Oka Homma!” we all called back.

“Who's gonna win this game?” Charley asked loudly.

“Oka Homma!” we screamed as loud as we could.

Then we rattled our sticks together. The clack, clack, clack of the sticks rang out across the field.

We were pumped up and ready to play! As the youngest and smallest player, I knew I wouldn't be playing during much of our first game. Charley needed the strongest and fastest players out there. I was backup.

Only ten of our thirty players were out on the field at any one time. The rest watched from the sidelines and waited their turn. But no one waited long. Running up and down the field was tiring. So Charley substituted players often. That kept the players fresh.

A referee blew the whistle and the game began! Our opponents played hard and fast. The towa moved quickly back and forth across the field. Our team scored, and then the other team scored. By halftime we were tied four to four.

Charley let me play a few times during the second half. I was grateful. I held my own ground and didn't embarrass the team once.

We squeaked by to win our first tournament game by one point, nine to eight! What a rush! I was exhausted and exhilarated at the same time.

After the game, Charley pulled us all together. “Great game, guys!” he said. “Now we move on to the next round. The schedule says we'll be playing again this Thursday night at eight o'clock. We'll do one more practice at the community center Tuesday night to get ready. See you then.”

At home I found out Dad had to work the late shift again Thursday night. He wouldn't see that game either.

“Are you ever going to take time off to watch me play?” I asked him.

“I don't have control over my work schedule, son,” He answered. “I'll try to get off Thursday night. But if you make it to the championship game Saturday night, I'll call in sick if I have to. I'll be there.”

Dad couldn't get off work Thursday night after all. But Mom and Aunt Issi were there. It was great to have some of my family there
to cheer for us. A lot more people showed up to watch this one. Jennifer and her new boyfriend even showed up.

This time we were up against a team called the War Hawks. They had a reputation for playing dirty. Charley was a little worried.

Things went badly for us the first half of the game. At halftime we were down by three points. Two of our best players were hurt and couldn't play.

“This team is a lot tougher than I thought,” Charley said at our halftime huddle. “We need to use a different strategy with them.”

He checked a clipboard where he kept play notes. Then he smiled.

“Let's try the old fake-out play until we catch up,” he said. “Randy, remind us how that goes.”

“Well, we use this play when the ball is on the ground and we're circling it with our sticks,” I said. “If one of our players gets hold of the ball, the next player to the right of him pretends he got the ball too. Both players
clasp their sticks together like they have the towa.”

“That's right,” Charley said. “Keep going.”

“Both players run toward the goal like they're going to score,” I continued. “A few of the other team's players will go after each of our players. Their attention will be split. The other team will eventually figure out who really has the ball. But for a little while they won't know for sure. It could give us enough time to move past them to score.”

“Very good,” Charley said. “Now let's go win this thing!”

We put our sticks up together in the middle of the team cluster and screamed “Oka Homma” as loud as we could.

The fake-out play worked just well enough for us to catch up with the War Hawks. By the beginning of the last quarter we were tied eight to eight. The score didn't change until there were only two minutes left in the game.

Charley decided to use the fake-out play one more time to see if we could break the
tie. He told me to try to get into position to be the one to fake it. When our fastest runner grasped the ball between his sticks, I was just to the right of him. We both turned away from the cluster. Then we both headed toward the other team's goalpost.

But a War Hawk player decided it was time to pull one of the dirty plays they were famous for. He ran up beside me and used his sticks to trip me. I went flying sideways for a split second. Then I hit the ground. Hard. One shoulder and one knee skidded across the grass.

As I lay on the ground in pain, I watched as my brother player scored the point just before the final buzzer sounded. We won! We'd be playing in the championship game!

Charley ran over to help me get up. Right behind him were my mother and aunt. They must've run like lightning to get from the stands so fast.

“I'm all right,” I said as I stood up. I looked down at my knee. It was bloody and scraped. My shoulder wasn't as bad.

“We need to get that looked at immediately,” Mom said with a worried tone of voice. She took me by the arm. “I think that's enough stickball for a while.”

I pulled away from her.

“I don't care if I'm on crutches,” I blurted out. “I'm not going to miss the championship game. I've worked too hard.”

I hobbled off toward the sidelines where I knew Charley kept a first aid kit. Charley followed. My shoulder and knee hurt a lot, but I wasn't going to let it show.

Aunt Issi pulled my mother aside and said something to her. I couldn't hear what she said, but I'm pretty sure she was helping to make my case.

“Randy, you're a minor,” Charley said. “If one of your parents says you can't play, then I have to do what they say. It's going to be up to you to get your mom to agree.”

This was just great, I thought. First Dad didn't want me to play. Now my mother was the problem. What was I going to do?

When we got home, Dad was there. I'd have to convince him to somehow override Mom on this. I laid out my case to Dad like a lawyer talking to a judge. I hoped he would be on my side since he'd played sports.

He and Mom went into the kitchen while I got cleaned up and ready for bed. Their voices got louder and louder until all went quiet. Finally Dad came into my room.

“Your mother is going to let you play,” he said. Boy, was I relieved.

“On one condition,” he continued.

“What?” I asked.

“You have to win the championship!” Dad smiled real big.

“Woo-hoo!” I hollered.

“And have those wounds bandaged all through the game,” he added as he pointed
his finger at me. “Both your mother and I will be there to make sure everything is going smoothly. If you get hurt again, we'll pull you out immediately. Got that?”

“Got it,” I said. “Thanks, Dad. This really means a lot.”

Dad and I talked some more about the game we'd just won and about stickball in general. I couldn't think of a time when we had connected so well.

Saturday came. My uniform had been washed. My cuts and scrapes were tightly bandaged. We drove to the stickball field at around six o'clock. We wanted to get some Choctaw food at the fair and see some of the other activities there.

Charley wanted us on the field an hour early so we could get psyched up for the game. At nine o'clock I walked on the field carrying my sticks. The rest of the team was gathering.

To my surprise, Mr. Gilroy and Coach Boles were there talking to Charley. The two men turned toward me as I approached.

“These two gentlemen have something to tell you,” said Charley.

“Randy, I am so impressed with your performance on this team,” Principal Gilroy said. “Coach Boles and I have been giving serious thought to your suggestion about teaching stickball at the high school.”

“That's awesome,” I said.”

“We have to present the idea to the school board and get their approval,” Coach Boles added. “But we wanted you to know that we heard you. Good luck with tonight's game. We'll be watching from the stands.”

They headed for their seats. My team headed for a huddle.

“We've made it to the championship game,” Charley said. “I'm proud of all of you, no matter how this game ends.”

Out of the corner of my eye I saw a half dozen people headed toward us. They were dressed in traditional Choctaw clothes. One of the men carried a drum.

“To help us get prepared tonight,” Charley said, “I've asked some traditional Choctaw
singers to put us in a Choctaw state of mind. They'll sing a couple of songs for us. And while we're playing on the field, they'll stay on the sidelines to give us strength.”

The singers stepped in close to us and began their songs. I didn't know what the words meant, but they sounded good. The music felt good too.

“As they sing, I'd like to give any of you guys a chance to say a few words about what you're feeling. That is, if you want to.”

Charley stepped back to see if anyone on the team would come forward. Chester, one of the players, stepped up.

“I've felt a stronger connection to stickball than to any other sport I've ever tried,” he said.

“Wow,” I thought. “He took the words right out of my mouth.”

“Stickball is part of who we are,” he continued. “It's part of our tribal identity. I'm glad I'm playing with you guys. Oka Homma!”

Everyone shouted in unison, “Oka Homma!”

Finally I decided to speak. “I've come to realize that playing stickball is more than just a game. It's like . . . it makes me want to learn more about my culture. It makes me want to learn more about who I am.”