Blind Your Ponies (11 page)

T
HAT AFTERNOON AFTER
five minutes of wind sprints, Sam gathered the boys at midcourt. Sweat dripped from their bodies and Olaf braced his hands on his knees, gasping.

“Men, last year we had an excuse not to succeed. We were outmanned and outgunned and we didn’t believe we could win so we coached and played with no expectations.”

Sam glanced at Rob and Tom.

“If we’re going to succeed this year, we can no longer simply pull on a uniform and play half assed. I’m asking each of you for a new level of
dedication, to give your very best every second, every minute, at practice as well as in games. I’m asking you to play hard until the final buzzer, knowing you’ve played your best, always.”

He glanced into their eyes and was overcome by the intensity he found; they appeared to take his challenge to heart.

“Besides regular practice, I will be holding voluntary sessions for whoever can make them, watching films and going over plays. The first one will be tonight at my house, seven-thirty to eight-thirty. Try to come if it doesn’t interfere with your homework or family life. No one will be penalized for missing.”

Sam cleared his throat. “Thank you for your hard work. I’m happy to announce that you all made the first cut.”

He paused as the boys shared amused glances.

“That means you’re all officially Willow Creek Broncs. It also means you’ll have to maintain your eligibility. In order to participate with the team, you have to be passing in every subject at each two-week grading interval. Poor grades can beat us as surely as Gardiner or Twin Bridges. So hit the books. As members of the team it means no tobacco—including chewing, Tom—no alcohol, and most importantly …” Sam looked kindly into Dean’s magnified eyes, “… no wild women. Got that Dean?”

The unassuming freshman, his cap cocked over one ear, gawked at the coach with the most confused expression Sam had ever seen.

“Yeah,” the boy said in his squeaking falsetto.

They laughed and Tom gently swatted his abbreviated teammate. Sam sensed that the hard-bodied country boy was strong for his age, probably working like a man on the ranch since he was old enough to see over the tailgate.

“You’re fast, Dean,” Sam said. “You’re going to help us a lot.”

The sturdy boy puffed up slightly. “Are we going to eat at McDonald’s?”

“Yes, when we travel.”

“Bodacious!” Dean said with a bright smile.

“Burger King,” Tom said. “Better burgers.”

Sam flinched. His heart skipped a beat. He glanced at Tom then looked back at Dean, fighting it off.

“Don’t you find it awfully hot wearing your cap when you practice?” Sam asked.

“It makes me run faster,” Dean said.

Sam paused, and the boy gave no indication that he was joking. “All right, then. Everyone have a good shower and a restful night … after ten laps around the gym.”

“Yeeehaaa!” Rob shouted and took off running.

The others followed with rekindled enthusiasm except for Tom, who trotted behind.

I
N THE MODEST
whitewashed locker room Peter shouted and bantered with the boys while they scrambled for the four showers and dressed. It was as though a large 0–93 were stenciled in bloody red on the wall and everyone averted his eyes.

“That was the toughest practice we’ve had in four years,” Rob shouted.

“That would just be a warmup at Highland,” Pete said.

“Who’s got a towel?” Tom hollered.

“I do,” Dean said.

Tom took one look at the tattered towel and hooted. “That’s not a towel, Dean, that’s a rag. That wouldn’t absorb snot.”

“I don’t think they’re going to get any easier,” Rob said. “Mr. Pickett has changed. He has a look in his eye.”

“It’s about time someone had a look in his eye around here,” Tom said. “We practice our balls off but never win.”

“You did good today,” Rob said and slapped Olaf on the back.

“Dying I am thinking,” Olaf said, drooping on a bench.

Tom pulled on his J. Chisholm boots and looked at Pete. “How big is the school you go to?”

“Around twenty-one hundred.”

“Kids?”
Tom said.

“No, ninja turtles.”

“Shit, that’s bigger than Three Forks,” Tom said.

“Would you have started on the varsity this year?” Rob said.

“I don’t know. When I go home after Christmas I’ll find out.”

“You can’t go home now, dude,” Tom said as he nudged Pete aside by the small mirror. “We need you, man.”

“You got that right,” Rob said.

The other boys chimed in.

Pete combed his hair and enjoyed the unexpected affection he felt from being wanted.

“You don’t have to look pretty,” Tom said. “Your girl’s in Minnesota.”

“Yeah, but I want to look nice for all the cows and sheep and horses I’ll meet walking home on Main Street.”

Tom laughed and slapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t forget to say howdy to the pigs.”

A
S ALWAYS
, S
AM
checked the gym before leaving, making sure the school was locked up. When he finished checking the boys’ locker room, he noticed a sliver of light draining from the girls’ locker room. He knocked on the door and asked if anyone was there. Hearing no response, Sam stepped in, reached for the light switch, and was struck dumb by a vision he couldn’t immediately comprehend. Diana stood, naked and with her eyes closed, toweling her wet hair.

For a moment he couldn’t move or speak, couldn’t take his eyes off her firm athletic body. She bent forward and vigorously dried her long, almond colored hair. Her body consumed him like fire, sucking the air out of him.

When she opened her eyes and saw him, she gasped. Their eyes met for a second. Then, she whipped the towel around her torso and Sam turned around.

“Oh, gosh, I’m sorry,” he said, gazing at the scuff-marked concrete floor. “I didn’t know anyone … I was just … I saw the light and … I’m really sorry.”

He darted out the door without another glance.

L
ATE THAT NIGHT
, after all the boys—except Tom—had come and gone, Sam tried to diagram plays on a notepad, but frustration plagued him in every attempt to concentrate. That accidental vision of Diana had so routed him from his path that he found himself addled and disoriented.

He’d been celibate in the five years following Amy’s murder, but after witnessing Diana he was hopelessly overcome. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t erase her from his energized mind. Her image was a like grass stain he couldn’t wash out.

The following night, after a tortuous practice, when he had lingered in his classroom an appropriate length of time, he made his way back to the gym to lock up. With rampaging anticipation, he had dreaded finding a seductive light beckoning from the girls’ locker room, terrified that she might be nakedly awaiting his return, yet at the same time, agonizing to catch another glimpse of her, a whiff of her soapy dampness. There had been no light.

Sam was running, puffing, and breaking a sweat, pushing himself past the Blue Willow Inn and onto the gravel road. Dawn blushed bleakly in the gray overcast. Awake early, he was driven from his bed by a new drive, desperate to change the direction of his life before it was too late.

Gasping and hurting, he fell back into a slow walk. The landscape came into focus with the arrival of daylight, and Sam told himself he was doing this for the team. But he knew he was lying. Somehow he suspected that this sudden drive to run harder and farther had something to do with Diana.

He crossed the old single-lane bridge over Jefferson River, where the turkey vultures nested west of town. Though the birds were rare in Montana, they chose the town of Willow Creek to haunt as though they were on to something. Sam checked his watch and turned back, hoping to go a little farther next morning. Halfway back he came upon Ray Collins, the unvarnished propane man and member of the school board, standing by his pickup with his yellow Lab. Wearing his dark green gabardine uniform and cap, he greeted Sam with more enthusiasm than usual.

“I hear the big Norwegian is going to play.”

After several minutes of exuberant speculation regarding the upcoming season, something that Sam tried to avoid early in the conversation, Ray explained that he was training his dog to stay away from livestock with a shock collar. His teddy-bearlike fat strained his uniform and his shirttail hung out the back.

“I run him near the cattle and horses. If he takes after ’em, I zing him with this doodad.” He displayed the remote-control transmitter he held in his hand.

“Watch.” He grabbed a stuffed canvas training dummy from the bed of his blue Chevy pickup. He wound up and heaved it as far as he could toward several white Simmental bulls that grazed on the far side of the
pasture. The dog sat at heel, every nerve and muscle straining, aching for Ray’s command.

“Fetch,” Ray said.

The Lab exploded from the road, leaped the barbed-wire fence, and sprinted across the browning pasture. When he noticed the massive animals, he veered toward them at a run. Ray called. “Poke! Come, Poke!”

The retriever didn’t heed his master’s voice until a second later when Ray pushed a button on the transmitter and shouted. “Poke! Come!”

The Lab instantly swerved from his course and dashed back toward the men. The Lab’s tongue hung from one side of its mouth like fresh liver and he sat obediently at Ray’s feet, panting. The collar had a round four-inch cylinder attached and two prongs that touched the Lab’s neck.

“I don’t want him messing with any animals. Could get himself shot.”

“What if the shock doesn’t turn him?” Sam said, wiping his forehead with his sleeve.

“Then you just turn this little doodad up.” Ray pointed at a small dial on the transmitter. “All the way up and it’ll just about knock him down.”

Ray sent the dog out again for the scented decoy. “So how come you stuck with the coaching job? The board wanted to give you a break.”

“I need something to do all winter. I thought it would be better this year.”

The Lab glanced at the massive bulls as he sniffed for the decoy, but he made no move toward them.

Ray squinted at Sam. “Do you really believe we’ll win a game this year?”

“I think we have a good chance to win a few.”

Poke came up to Ray and sat eagerly at heel with the canvas dummy in his mouth.

“Good dog, good dog,” Ray said.

“That really works,” Sam said. “Amazing.”

Thankful for the excuse to rest, Sam pushed off toward town for another day of school and practice. He would continue to duck any face-to-face encounter with Diana. After a shower, he gazed in his bathroom mirror to see if his run had diminished his stomach by any stretch of the imagination. Even then, all he could visualize was the white outline of a bikini on Diana’s flat belly.

O
PTIMISM SOARED AT
the Blue Willow. Word spread like weeds, and stories of the foreign exchange student’s abilities grew to outlandish heights. Rumor had it—amid doughnuts, coffee, and sticky sweet rolls—that he had played on an international all-star team in Europe and could dunk the ball with either hand. The few true witnesses to the unveiling of the Norwegian phenom spread their gospel efficiently until the burdens of hope and promise and potential victories were hefted on Olaf Gustafson’s young back.

Sam tried to simmer down these starry-eyed proclamations of Olaf’s talent whenever the opportunity arose, but for a handful of diehards, the fire was already lit. And for the first time in years, a growing number of townspeople were actually looking forward to the basketball season. But knowing better than to dismiss the hardened skepticism standing guard at the entrance to their hearts after years of emotional pain and disappointment, they were looking forward cautiously, daring only to allow hope onto the back porch in its muddy shoes.

One patriot who was trying to avoid being sucked into the anguish and punishment that loyalty to the Willow Creek basketball team exacted was the balding, barrel-chested St. Bernard who piloted the Blue Willow Inn. That night, Sam ate a late dinner alone, wavering between the hope that Diana would show up and fearing that she might. He also feared George Stonebreaker would show up; Sam stared at the Inn’s front window just to make sure. He imagined a terrifying scene over and over: Stonebreaker pulling a shotgun from out of a long coat and depopulating Willow Creek. Twice that day, at totally unexpected moments, he’d heard Amy’s voice.

Axel pulled up a chair and flopped his hands onto Sam’s table as if he were a fortune teller. A perpetual bead of perspiration glistened on his forehead above his pug nose. Sam had wanted to ask Axel how he got that disfigured ear and gruesome scar on his neck, but figured everyone had old wounds they wanted to forget, even the ones that didn’t show. In Axel’s warm, wide-set eyes, he revealed something like the vulnerability of a child who wanted to know once and for all if there was a Santa Claus. He leaned close and spoke confidentially, though there weren’t a half dozen people in the place.

“Are we going to
win
a game, Sam?”

Sam paused and considered an answer but Axel went on without him.

“I don’t think I can take anymore of this. I get too involved for my own good. Even when you’re down by twenty you get more and more pissed, what with the other fans yelling against your boys and the ref screwing them. Soon you’re pulling for little victories, you know what I mean, Sam? When the only thing you can cheer about is a good play, a shot made, a steal, something you can thumb your nose at the other team with because they’re beating the crap out of you and you start taking it personally.”

He wiped his glistening forehead with the back of his hand.

“Hell, when they’re ahead by thirty they keep calling for blood, wanting to run the score up like a goddamn feeding frenzy, trying to rip the flesh off your heart, and you start praying that the boys will hold it at thirty—”

“Or keep them from scoring a hundred,” Sam said, hearing Axel evoke the agony Sam thought was his alone.

“And they drop passes, kick the ball,” Axel said, “step out of bounds, try to dribble through two guys, and your heart just gets beat to hell. I decided during the summer that I wasn’t going to let myself get emotionally involved this year. I can’t take it anymore. But now with the Norwegian kid and all, I get to thinking maybe it’s our turn. Maybe old Willow Creek is going to kick some ass this year, and I feel myself getting sucked in again.”