Little Brother of War (8 page)

The other players nodded their heads in agreement.

The singing ended. We had to switch gears. Time to man up! We did our warm-up exercises to loosen up.

By game time the stands were full of people. There must've been five hundred people there. Maybe more. I scanned the crowd until I found Dad, Mom, and Aunt Issi. I waved to them happily. Then I noticed Jennifer and her mother sitting nearby. No boyfriend this time. Jennifer waved sweetly. I gave her a quick wave before turning back to the field.

To win this year's World Series of Stickball we had to beat a team called Tushka Neshoba. Wolf Warriors. They were famous far and
wide in the world of stickball. They were also last year's champions. We had our work cut out for us.

As the game began, Charley told me he was saving me for the second half. He said I was his secret weapon. I knew he was just saying that so I wouldn't feel bad. He was really worried about me getting hurt some more. And worried about what my parents would say if I did.

At the end of the first half we were down by two points. The score was five to three, a low-scoring game for us. Our defense had prevented Tushka Neshoba from scoring several times. All were close calls. But the other team's defense had also prevented us from making several points. They were worthy opponents. It was hard staying on the sidelines when all I wanted was to be out there in the thick of it.

Surprisingly, Charley really did put me in when the second half began.

“I want to use your smaller size to our advantage,” he said. “It's time to razzle-dazzle them with the play you've been practicing.”

“Absolutely!” I responded with great enthusiasm.

“This may be hard to pull off because of your injuries,” Charley offered. “Are you sure you're up to it?”

“I'll pull this off if it's the last thing I ever do,” I said as I ran onto the field with the other players.

It was obvious to the Tushka Neshoba players that I was injured. My bandages announced that fact loud and clear. A few of them tried to take advantage of that by attempting to hit me on those very spots. But Chester and the others on my team were right there. After a few well-placed, painful tackles, the other team laid off me.

Then it came my time to perform. There was a thick cluster of players circling the ball on the ground. Our sticks clattered together as each of us tried in vain to capture the towa.
My smaller size allowed me to squeeze in between the larger players.

Finally I grabbed the ball between the two nets of my sticks. But instead of turning to run with the ball, I simply rolled backward away from the cluster of players. As my back hit the ground I flung the ball through the air toward the other team's goalpost. One of our players had been standing by. He caught the ball with his sticks. Immediately he flipped the ball to an Oka Homma player waiting near the goal. He caught it and hit the post. The play happened so fast that the opposing players hardly knew what hit them.

Our supporters in the crowd went wild. They were screaming “Oka Homma! Oka Homma!” over and over.

That play was just enough to throw the other team off guard a little. So during the next play of the ball, we pulled the old fake-out routine. To my surprise, that worked, too. The score was all tied up, five to five.

Charley called me to the sidelines and put someone else in for me. When I reached the
area where he was standing, he pointed to my bandages. Both had been torn loose. My injuries had started to bleed a little.

“You've done your part tonight,” he said. “You get to watch the rest of the game from here.”

“But—!”

“No buts about it,” Charley said. “Remember our deal. Now get those injuries taken care of.”

I knew he was right. I got fresh bandages and put them on. I stayed on the sidelines and watched our team play the rest of the game. Mom, Dad, and Issi joined me during the last few minutes. It was great having them there. Miraculously, Oka Homma did win the game and the championship!

The families of all the players streamed onto the field to congratulate us. I stood in the line of Oka Homma's thirty players in the middle of the field. The opposing team moved down the line, shaking our hands. Then our team supporters moved down the line, and we shook their hands.

I was so happy we'd won. But at the same time, I was a little disappointed I wasn't on the playing field at the end. Dad said I had nothing to be down about. I was the smallest and youngest player on a proud winning team. And I had made a real contribution to the victory.

I knew Dad was right. I knew Charley had been right to take me out when he did. But I was still a little disappointed.

I took it easy for a week or so after the game so my injuries could heal. The following Saturday, Charley paid me a surprise visit. He came into the living room and we sat down to talk. Mom said she'd make us some lemonade.

“This is for you,” he said after Mom had left the room. He handed me a large envelope. I opened it. Inside was an eight-by-ten photo taken after we'd won the championship game. The entire team stood near the scoreboard. In front of us on the ground was the championship trophy.

“Thanks,” I said. “This is great.”

“I know you're still a little down because you didn't get to finish out the game,” Charley said.

“I know I shouldn't be, but I am,” I admitted.

“Well, maybe the news I have will cheer you up.”

“Oh yeah. What news?” I asked.

“As the best Mississippi Choctaw stickball team, we've been challenged to an intertribal match with the Oklahoma Choctaws,” he said.

“Really?” I asked. “I didn't know the Oklahoma Choctaws played stickball. Actually, I never really thought about it before.”

“Our western cousins' culture has been coming back strong the past few years,” Charley said. “Stickball is part of that revival.” He paused as Mom brought us two glasses of lemonade. She went back to the kitchen.

“And here's another thing you might not know,” he went on. “To some tribes, the ancient game of stickball was also known as the Little Brother of War.”

“Little Brother of War? Why was it called that?” I asked.

“Because the game was sometimes played to settle conflicts between communities or tribes instead of going to war,” Charley explained. “The game took the place of war. Those matches were played on huge fields, sometimes with hundreds of players. These were very rough, very serious events.”

“Little Brother of War.” I thought about it for a moment. “That's a more impressive name than stickball.”

“So the best team among the Oklahoma Choctaws has invited us to their rez for the competition,” Charley continued. “It'll be held Labor Day weekend as part of their annual festival. We'll play five games. The best three out of the five takes the title.”

He pulled a letter out of his back pocket and handed it to me. “Here's a copy of the invitation letter with the dates and location,” Charley said. “Talk to your parents and let me know. We need you for those games.”

He finished his lemonade and stood to leave. Mom came in to say good-bye.

“I don't know where it came from,” Charley said to Mom before heading out the door, “but stickball is in Randy's bloodline. One of his ancestors must've been a great player.”

After he left, I gave Mom the invitation letter to read. She had already said she didn't know if she wanted me to play stickball anymore. She felt it was too easy to get seriously hurt. I knew I had to work on Dad. I hoped he'd be more agreeable to it. Things had really changed in the last few months!

That evening at dinner I showed the letter to Dad. I sat quietly as he read it out loud. Then I told Mom and Dad about stickball's other name, Little Brother of War.

“In my dream of Jack, he kept calling me ‘little brother,'” I said. “He told me to find another path instead of war. Don't you see? This is that path!”

It took another hour of pleading, whining, and convincing, but I finally wore them down. They said I could go to Oklahoma! I was way
beyond excited! This would be my first trip without my parents!

I spent the month of August getting ready for the trip and the upcoming game. Mom helped me gather the camping gear I'd need. We'd be staying at the campground near their old tribal headquarters in the town of Tushkahoma, Oklahoma. Wait. I recognized those words. They were both Choctaw words!

On the Thursday before the Labor Day weekend, the team headed out. We had three full-sized vans filled with players and our gear. Only twenty of our players could go because some of them had to work or take care of family.

The 550-mile trip took about twelve hours with stops for gas and food. We arrived at the campground the same night. The schedule called for us to play five games in three days. The first game would be Friday night and the final game would be Sunday night. That would give us time to drive back home on Monday, which was the Labor Day holiday.

Friday afternoon was the opening of their annual Choctaw Nation Labor Day Festival. Our team was introduced to the crowd that had gathered. Everyone was very nice and welcoming. It was our first chance to see the other team. They didn't look so tough. They even had a kid on their team who looked to be about my age.

It wasn't until late that afternoon that our “secret weapon” arrived from back home. A car carrying a Choctaw medicine man, drummer, and singer pulled into the campground. They'd come from Mississippi to support our team.

Charley had explained a little about traditional Choctaw stickball teams. He said they were always helped by this type of “supernatural” support. They would chant, drum, and sing from the sidelines. He figured it wouldn't hurt to have a little of this kind of help for this competition.

At seven o'clock we all went to the stickball field. It was a great field for stickball because it wasn't also used for football. Nothing but
stickball was played there. It was a large field of smooth, mowed grass with goalposts at either end.

When the first game began, our sideline supporters started doing their thing. The singer sang Choctaw songs of encouragement. The medicine man spoke ancient Choctaw words to bring us power. The drummer beat his drum faster or slower depending on the speed of the game.

The Oklahoma Choctaws had their own team of sideline supporters doing the same thing on the other side of the field. It all made the event sort of unreal. Or maybe it was very real, for a hundred years ago!

We lost the first game by three points. That was kind of a shock. We weren't worried about it, though. We were playing on their turf with their referees. They had the upper hand. The first game was a learning experience. Back at camp after the game we discussed what we'd learned about our opponents.

Our sideline support team said their supporters had cursed our side of the field
before the game. That's what made us lose, they said. Of course, I had no experience with this kind of thing. It sounded a little wild to me.

The medicine man suggested we ask to change sides of the field. That should make a big difference. He said he and his support team would have to give it all they had. Tomorrow's two games would go better for sure, he told us. I crossed my fingers.

Saturday's first game started at two o'clock in the afternoon. The sun was shining and the wind was calm. The two stickball teams began their fight on the field. The two support teams also began their unseen fight.

Suddenly a wind came up from the east, blowing across the field into the faces of the Mississippi players. Then a competing wind came out of the west. It blew into the faces of the Oklahoma players.

The two winds collided in the middle of the field. A whirlwind of dust was stirred up and began making circles on the field. The players stopped in their tracks to watch
the strange event. I couldn't believe what I was seeing.

The players of each team backed toward their own side of the field. We all wanted to give whatever it was plenty of room.

The whirlwind first twisted one way, then the other. It looked like it was fighting with itself. Suddenly it exploded and disappeared. All was silent for a while. Nothing moved. “What just happened?” I wondered.

We were all pretty shaken up by the ordeal. Charley walked toward the center of the ball field. The other team's captain did too. They talked quietly for a few minutes. Then Charley came back to us.

“We've decided to send our sideline support teams home,” he said. “Their powers are creating too much chaos. Frankly, I really hadn't taken it seriously until now.”

Charley explained the situation to our medicine man. The old man nodded his head. He, the drummer, and the singer packed up their things. The Oklahoma group did
the same. From that point on, we were on our own.

When the sun went down Saturday evening, the Oklahoma Choctaws had won two games and we'd won one. At least we knew they were beatable. And we knew we had to win both of Sunday's games.