Blind Your Ponies (57 page)

At the quarter Willow Creek led, 16 to 13, and Sam pulled Tom, who was limping.

“You’re playing tough,” Sam told them. “Dean, go after the ball out front. I know how hard it is out there, go one minute more.”

They milked every second they could on the bench, until the referee came and ordered them back onto the court.

During the second quarter, the Ennis coach used several substitutes, undoubtedly hoping that by the fourth quarter he would have run the Willow Creek boys into the barn floor. They pressed all over the court, but the Broncs kept their heads. Field goals had become scarce on both ends and turnovers more prevalent than usual. While Dean harassed on defense, showing them something about running, Tom rested his knee on the bench, wearing Dean’s cap. Though they often faked Dean out or caught him
going the wrong way, he kept recovering, coming back, annoying, pestering, hounding, wreaking havoc in his unpredictable way. Neither side knew where he’d be next, and Sam couldn’t get over how the Cutter boy would never stop running though much of his energy was misspent. Ennis’s leader, Lance Hubbard, a six-foot senior guard, hit two outside shots just before the half to draw them even at 31. The teams shuffled to the locker rooms.

Sam could see the exhaustion in their faces, and he, Diana, and Scott tried to pump life back into them with fruit juices, dry towels, ice bags, and inspirational words. Olaf and Tom lay prostrate on the benches, Tom with a towel over his face. Sam couldn’t ask them to give more than they already had and he noted that Peter seemed the least tired, the most energized.

“All right, Tom, move across the paint and set up on the high post, Olaf on the same side low post, we’ll clear the right side of the floor and let Pete go one-on-one with Perkins. If any of you can’t go another minute, give me a wave. While you’re in there, spend every nickel you’ve got.”

“I don’t have any money with me,” Dean said.

“He means play tough,” Rob said, as if he gently explaining to a little brother.

They cleared the right side and Pete blew by John Perkins for a layup. Next time downcourt, Pete repeated the sleight of hand, but this time the defense slid quickly to cut him off. He lofted a pass to Olaf and Olaf cannonballed it with a resounding two-handed slam.

“Blow them away!” Sam shouted. “Blow them away!”

It became a standoff. Ennis couldn’t handle the Norwegian hammer and Willow Creek couldn’t match the Mustang’s rotation of fresh players. Like the wild dogs of Africa, they came at them again and again. Both teams were weathering a searing drought in which baskets were as hard to come by as rain. With three minutes left in the game and the score Willow Creek 45, Ennis 42, Sam called time out.

Diana reminded them of what they already knew: Olaf, Rob, and Dean had four fouls.

“Tom, can you go with your knee?” Diana asked the sweating senior.

“What knee?” he said. Then the bull rider glared at the dripping faces of his teammates and said, “Let’s not give ’em the calf.”

Though Ennis ran at them with everything it had left, the Willow Creek
boys refused to give in. They swept the boards on defense and did some running of their own. Olaf pitched a long pass to Pete, who had dashed behind the faltering Ennis defense for a layin. Rob missed a three-point attempt but Tom went up and tipped it in. Ennis had the ball, down by three, with twenty-four seconds.

The three-point attempt Hubbard got was a bad one, over Rob’s outstretched arm, and when it came off the rim, Olaf caught it. When they swatted at him, the ref whistled a one-and-one. Five seconds on the clock.

With a three-point lead, Olaf gasped for air at the line. Willow Creek had used all of their time outs. In a prayerful pose in front of the bench, Sam couldn’t draw a breath. If he made the front end of the one-and-one, Ennis was dead. Olaf took a deep breath, rolled the ball in his hands, and heaved it with a leaden arm toward the basket. The ball hit the front of the rim, bounced up and tapped the backboard, came down on the side of the rim.

“Yeah!” Sam shouted, leaping and pumping a fist.

The shot ignited an outburst from everyone on the Willow Creek side, filling the empty spaces in the arena with the rumble of a long-pent-up jubilation. Sam grabbed Diana and twirled her around. The team gave Olaf high fives. The referee restored order and gave Olaf the ball at the line for his second shot.

“Don’t foul!” Sam shouted. “Don’t foul! Don’t foul!”

Olaf lifted his second shot, an air ball. Mustang ball out of bounds with five seconds on the scoreboard. Ennis ran the ball up the floor with sudden death in their eyes. Lance Hubbard hurled a desperate three-point shot into the fated atmosphere. It caromed high off the rim and the buzzer blew. Diana dashed toward the boys. Sam shook a fist in the air and leaped off the floor.

Hazel lumbered onto the floor with Tripod under arm in the happy chaos. She and Sam exchanged a glance. After shaking hands with the disconsolate Ennis players, they huddled up, shouted “Team!” and came off the floor together. They had eight hours to reload.

The locker room was electric, though their bodies dragged and their feet ached.

“Where do you want to have lunch?”

“McDonald’s,” Dean said.

“Yeah, McDonald’s!” they all yelled, though Sam knew most of them would prefer someplace else. He kept his amazement to himself and they had a happy lunch at McDonald’s with Dean, who gleefully collected the promotional gimmicks.

It seemed there was barely time to blink. Diana had the team in bed to try for a couple hours nap when Sam’s phone rang. He picked it up while stretched out on his bed.

“Mr. Pickett?”

“Yes.”

He couldn’t place the voice immediately.

“Grandma Chapman here. I just talked to Hazel. Way to go, Coach, we’re not out of this shindig yet. Is Pete around?”

“Ah, yes … but I think he’s sleeping.”

“Oh …” She fell silent.

“Hold on a minute, I’ll go see.”

Sam laid the phone on the bed and hustled next door. Pete was lying on the bed watching television, college basketball.

“Your grandma is on the phone.”

Pete leaped up and followed him to the phone.

“Hi, Grandma, how are you?”

“I’m cookin’. I hear you were wonderful this morning.”

“We won. I called you last night.”

“I didn’t want to get out of bed.”

“Are you getting better?”

“Yes, I’m feeling much better. I’ll be here waiting for you when you come home.”

“Won’t you be here for the game tonight?” Pete said.

“No, I think I better stay home with Parrot and save up my energy for Monday. You listen to me, Sweetheart, I’ve seen you playing tonight and you’re going to win.”

“It might be too late, Grandma.”

“Listen to me, Seely-Swan will take care of Twin Bridges and then Twin Bridges will be staring you in the face again, and come Monday you’re going to pull the plug in their oil pan and I’ll be there to see it, you hear me?”

“Yeah, I hear you,” he said, feeling her enthusiasm rekindling his confidence.

“I’ll be pulling for you tonight, Sweetheart, I know you’ll bring tears to my eyes.”

“Thanks, Grandma. Cuss at Parrot for me.”

Peter hung up.

“How is she?” Mr. Pickett asked.

“Oh, she’s fine. She won’t be coming tonight, she wants to rest up so she can watch us bash Twin Bridges on Monday night.”

“You have some kind of grandma.”

“I know.”

“That was a fine thing you did for Denise at the game,” Coach Pickett said. “It took a lot of guts.”

“It takes a lot more for her just to get out of bed in the morning.”

“You’re right,” Coach said. “Get some rest.”

“T
HERE’S NO WAY
I can tell you how proud I am of you, and Miss Murphy feels the same way,” Sam told the team, gathered in his room prior to leaving for the sports center. “The college teams that make it to the Sweet Sixteen and the Final Four in the NCAA tournament have two full days to rest between games, but they’re wimps compared to you boys. You’re about to play your third game in less than twenty-four hours, which makes you a lot tougher than the college boys. I’m a lucky man to be your coach.”

Sam glanced at Diana. She smiled nervously. No one spoke. Then Rob glanced up. “Go, Seely-Swan.”

“Ya, Seely-Swan,” Olaf said. “Twin Bridges I am wanting.”

“Kick ass, Seely-Swan!” Tom shouted.

“Seely-Swan! Seely-Swan! Seely-Swan!” they yelled in unison.

When they were all on their feet and about to leave, Diana stood by the door.

“If Seely-Swan was smart, they’d lose tonight,” she said and smiled. “They’ll go to State either way. We can’t challenge
them.
But if they win, they’re going to have to play us at State, and there’s no way they can beat us again.”

The room exploded with shouts and cheers. He followed them into the corridor. He didn’t feel they were looking past Alberton. They had taken care of that in their minds and were so confident that it was appropriate to talk about the Seely-Swan–Twin Bridges game. He knew that they each faced the prospect of defeat, of the possible dead end that loomed only a few hours away, the devastating loss that would snatch away their companionship forever.

B
Y GAME TIME
Grandma had enlisted half of the hospital in the cause of her sterling grandson and his teammates. The lame and infirm and terminally ill found it extremely appropriate to identify with Willow Creek’s fortunes, and by late afternoon, the place was buzzing with hope.

Joe Page, a lanky, Pinocchio-nosed male nurse, had scrounged a good radio from one of the maintenance men and rigged it up beside Grandma’s bed. The only broadcast of the game was coming out of a station in Missoula, bringing the game to its Alberton and Seely-Swan neighborhoods. But that was halfway across Montana, and Joe warned Grandma that they might not be able to bring it in.

“We need an aerial,” he said and scurried out of her room.

Shortly before game time, he attached a wire to the radio and was stringing it up to the curtain rod that divided the room. Grandma tinkered with the dial and through static and a jumble of music and voices caught something that sounded like a game.

“It’ll probably fade in and out,” Joe said.

Grandma hushed as a voice came through the hodgepodge.

“… Johnson brings the ball up, snaps a pass to Strong…. Strong dribbles to the side and back out …”

“That’s it! That’s it!” Grandma yelled.

“… the ball goes in to Stonebreaker…. Stonebreaker lobs a high pass to Gustafson, the big center turns and shoots…. it’s short, comes off to Hackett…. Hackett over to Potter and the Panthers go on the attack. Potter over to Kury, in to Dupree …”

The voice faded back into the storm of interference washing over the hospital.

“Fiddlesticks!” she said.

Joe worked on the aerial, unbending a coat hanger and attaching it to the wire. Helen Berry leaned from her bed next to Grandma, trying to pick out a word or two from the crackling radio. Nurses on their rounds began sticking their heads in the door for word. The game came in and out, always fading just as the announcer was giving the score.

“… and Jenkins gives it back to Strong … he drives up the middle, dishes off to Gustafson…. oooohhhh man! The big center jams the ball and the Willow Creek Broncs are coming back …”

“We must be behind,” Grandma said, feeling her stomach lurch.

“Does that make it any better?” Joe asked as he adjusted the makeshift antenna.

“No, it’s fading,” Grandma said. Her ear was an inch from the speaker.

Other patients in wheelchairs, on crutches or walkers, in hospital gowns and personal robes and slippers peeked into the room, turning their ears at the crackling radio.

“… Potter gets it inside to Dupree…. Dupree goes up with it, it’s blocked…. There’s a foul, let’s see … foul called on Gustafson … two shots. That’s the second personal on the big center and …”

“Rats!” Grandma said.

Joe worked feverishly on the aerial, and other patients shuffled, rolled, and limped into the double room, patients from drug rehab, maternity, and some from post-op with draining wounds. They reflected Grandma’s emotions as if she wielded a baton, directing them in the excruciating notes and exhilarating beats of pulling for this unlikely basketball team. Only
occasionally they’d catch a score, and most of the time they had to guess what was transpiring two hundred and twenty-four miles northwest in Helena.

“… Dupree makes the second free throw … Alberton 27, Willow Creek 22 …”

“There,” Grandma shouted, “it’s better when you’re holding on to it.”

Joe held onto the tangle of wire and coat hangers.

“… Johnson dribbles to the right, stops … over to Strong, four seconds…. Strong lobs the ball high to Gustafson, he drops it off to Stonebreaker who’s open in the …”

They kept getting tidbits of information. The announcer’s voice would come in for ten to twenty seconds and then melt away into the Montana night for a minute or two. Nurses were hanging around the doorway, maintenance personnel, interns, and finally a few doctors crowded around in the hallway. Willow Creek had fans that night far beyond its notion of local neighborhoods, neighborhoods of the spirit and of the heart.

“… and Jenkins gets the ball over to Johnson, oooohhh … he misses the wide-open lay-up and Farr rebounds the ball. Here comes Alberton the other way…. Farr gets it to Kury, Kury pulls up and shoots a three … count it! Alberton 46, Willow Creek …”

“Shucks!” Grandma shouted, “everyone hold hands.”

Joe took the hand of a chemotherapy patient, a man in his forties with no hair on his head, to begin the human chain. The man took the hand of a heavy woman next to him in a wheelchair who had just lost a leg to diabetes, and so on around the room, forming an aerial out of human yearning.

“… and the Broncs rebound … Gustafson swoops it off the boards, over to Strong … up quickly to Johnson, he holds it … they’re setting it up, over to Strong … on the side to Cutter … Cutter back to … a whistle … Cutter’s called for shuffling his feet and the Broncs turn it….”