Blind Your Ponies (66 page)

“They’re all cheering for us,” Pete said.

Olaf wiped his dripping face. “Why are so many yelling for us?”

Tom gazed out at the thousands. “They’re not from Willow Creek.”

“They are in their hearts,” Diana said.

“Why are they pulling for us?” Rob asked

“Because you’re outnumbered,” Sam said. “Because you’re the underdog, because they want you to win for them.”

“Because they like us,” Dean said, and they all regarded the grinning fourteen-year-old. Tom rubbed his hand over Dean’s sweat-drenched head.

“Yeah, you’re right,” Tom said. “They like us.”

They had found their fire. Rob held up a fist and shouted. “We can take these guys!”

“Kill ’em on the boards!” Pete yelled.

“Listen up,” Sam said. “We’re going to gamble. When they’re working the ball for a shot, foul them, but do it before they’re in the act of shooting. No three-point plays, wrap them up, let’s see if they’ve done their homework.”

The first time Rocky Boy came racing downcourt, they snapped the ball to Robert Stands Alone. He squared up for his jump shot and Tom whacked him across the arms before he could shoot. The thin 6'1" forward missed the front end of a one-and-one and Olaf controlled the rebound. Time became the sixth man against them. Pete dribbled swiftly into the front court. He blew by his man with a cross dribble and Two Horse slid over to stop him. Pete tossed the ball high above the rim and Olaf rose to drive it home. They were down by seven.

It was like a home game; the roaring crowd belonged to Willow Creek. Rocky Boy came on the attack, still running as though they were behind. Walking Feather missed a three-point attempt but Two Horse grabbed the rebound and went back up with it. Olaf hammered the ball away but was whistled for a foul. The deceptively good Rocky Boy center made the first but missed the second. Rob went high and snatched the rebound. On a play they had practiced when the opposing center is shooting a free throw, Olaf sprinted downcourt on his stiff ankle, took the pass from Rob, and with only 5'11" Walking Feather to stop him, glided to the basket and stuffed it, rattling the foundations, bringing the crowd back into the game with both feet. Willow Creek was down, 68 to 62. Three minutes and eleven seconds. Rocky Boy called time out.

“You’ve got two fouls to use,” Sam shouted, looking at Olaf and Tom.

“Use them. They may try to stall before long. If they do, foul Stands Alone or Two Horse immediately.”

The running and gunning Rocky Boy athletes could shoot the ball from any angle, from anywhere on the floor, so long as they were
moving.
But when they stood still at the free-throw line with no one’s breath in their face, they faltered. The Northern Stars attempted a stall, but Willow Creek fouled quickly and Rocky Boy couldn’t unwrap the gifts at the charity line. When Tom grabbed the rebound of a missed free throw with fifty-two seconds remaining, Sam called time out.

Rocky Boy 71, Willow Creek 67.

“All right, all right!” Sam shouted. “Get the ball to Olaf. Olaf, watch for Tom backdoor, plenty of time, then go man-for-man. Cross them up.” Sam clapped his hands. “One more minute!”

The field house reverberated with the uproar as Willow Creek brought the ball into the front court. Rob got the ball high to Olaf and set a pick on Pete’s man. The dauntless Scandinavian held the ball over his head and faked a pass toward Tom. The Rocky Boy defense bit for a moment but as it shifted toward Tom and surrounded Olaf, Olaf spotted Dean alone on the weak side, completely unattended by the Northern Stars. Olaf bounced the ball behind him into Dean’s startled hands. With a reflex he had practiced a thousand times, the nearsighted boy flipped the ball up against the backboard and it banked in. The field house shook, Sam stood dumbfounded, Diana pounded his back, and the scoreboard blazed: rocky boy 71, willow creek 69.

“Yeah!” Sam shouted. “Bodacious!”

The Broncs picked them up man-for-man as the Northern Stars inbounded the ball. Seconds peeled off the scoreboard clock.
Thirty-one, thirty, twenty-nine, twenty-eight.
Little Dog fought to get free of Pete. The Broncs overplayed, gambled, stuck to them relentlessly.
Twenty-three, twenty-two.
Two Horse came out high and set a pick for Little Dog. The Rocky Boy guard squeezed past his teammate. Pete tried to cut behind. The guard ducked back, took a pass from Walking Feather, and flicked the prettiest shot Sam had ever seen, rotating like the earth itself, breaking Sam’s heart.

Rocky Boy 73, Willow Creek 69.

“Time out!” Sam called, “Time out!”

It was their last. The boys came to the bench, their faces drained, with little more to give and only eighteen seconds in which to give it.

“Okay, okay, clear the right side,” Sam said. “We’ll go one-on-one with Pete and Walking Feather. Pete, if you can’t get the layup, pull up and take the ten-footer. Rob, the minute they take it out, foul, you only have three. We should still have eight or nine seconds to work with. Let’s go, let’s do it!”

They caught their breath and dragged their spent bodies onto the court, uplifted by the sustained roar of the standing thousands. Tom attempted to camouflage his pain but Sam could see it in the way he moved. Willow Creek took the ball out and Rocky Boy pulled back, not wanting to risk fouling in the backcourt. Rob fired it to Pete and the Broncs shifted everything to the left side. Pete cross-dribbled several times until Walking Feather was back on his heels, guessing. Pete dashed by him. The surprising Two Horse moved quickly to cut Pete off. Instinctively, Pete lobbed the ball high to Olaf. Stands Alone and Little Dog were there to clog the paint. Hesitating only a second, Olaf lofted a push shot from the free-throw line as Stands Alone leaped to block it. Sam gasped until he saw the ball fall sweet and clean. A whistle. Olaf was fouled. One free throw. The clock stopped at nine seconds, 73 to 71.

The crowd hushed. With the Rocky Boy fans trying to distract him, Olaf took a deep breath and flipped the ball leadenly at the hoop. It hit the front rim, paused an instant, and with a will of its own, crawled over the iron and fell through.

The field house rocked. Down by one, 73–72, with nine ticks on the clock. When Stands Alone inbounded the ball to Walking Feather, Rob was there to foul him. Only one second had elapsed. The crowd stood roaring and Walking Feather readied himself at the line. Sam knelt at the bench; Diana held Scott’s and Curtis’s hands; Grandma Chapman muttered a prayer. As if the pressure were too much to bear, Rocky Boy’s senior guard flicked the ball without hesitation.

It swished.

Willow Creek 72, Rocky Boy 74.
Eight seconds.

Walking Feather again accepted the ball from the referee and tossed it quickly. It hit the backboard and glanced off the rim. Olaf snatched it. He found Rob on the side and both teams streaked into the front court.
Six seconds.
Rob pulled up his dribble and was open for a moment from sixteen feet. He squared up to shoot as two Northern Stars flew toward him. Then, at the last instant, surprising everyone in the arena, he fired a pass to Pete out beyond the threepoint line. Little Dog, having left Peter alone, was rushing frantically for Rob.

Three seconds.

Without hesitation, Peter dribbled once and lifted his shot, a continuous flow of rainbow and grace, of miracle and magic, a dimpled leather ball that carried the character and courage of the shooter as well as the breath and heartbeat of his teammates and thousands of followers, arcing perfectly on its long journey home.

Swish!

The buzzer pitchforked the Northern Stars in the chest and launched the majority of spectators into a frenzied ride over the moon.

Willow Creek 75, Rocky Boy 74.

They had bootstrapped themselves from eighteen down! They had endured without substitution. They had stopped the locomotive before it crushed them on the rails. They were going to play tomorrow night for the championship. Sam was lost in the swarm of exhausted boys and ecstatic fans. He found Dean in his sweat-smeared lenses and bear-hugged him off the floor.

“Great shot, Dean! Great shot!”

“I didn’t know what else to do!”

Amid the chaotic celebration and milling confusion on the court, Sam caught sight of Little Dog heading for the locker room. Sam shoved his way through the boisterous fans and grabbed the somber boy by the arm.

“You’re the best shot I ever saw!” Sam shouted.

Little Dog nodded and walked away.

Sheltered from the frenzy in the arena, the locker room became subdued, as though each of them realized they were in the very shadow of their elusive, long-sought-After quest. Tom and Olaf limped badly, using ice in an attempt to stave off the swelling and hoping they’d be ready for one last game. With the scorebook in hand, Sam sat in the locker room somewhat numb and emotionally exhausted while the boys showered and dressed. He glanced at the totals: Tom had scored sixteen, Olaf nineteen, Rob fifteen, Pete twenty-three, and Dean, with the biggest bucket of the night, had
two.
The tough little freshman had run with Rocky Boy stride for stride without substitution, never giving an inch.

There was a knock on the metal door. Sam gathered himself and opened it slowly. Amos stood in the hallway. A stranger in a dark gray suit stood off a pace, watching.

“Can I talk to you fer a minute?”

“Sure, sure,” Sam said, then stepped back. Amos nodded at the man and slid into the locker room. Sam closed the door. The moment the door latched Amos lit up like an excited kid.

“Ya did it, by God, ya did it!” Amos whacked Sam on the back. “Thought we was dead and buried six foot under there fer a spell.”

“Who’s the guy in the suit?”

“Oh… they nabbed me,” he said. “Have a warrant for my arrest.”

“When did they get you?”

“Just now, After the game. Musta been watching it the whole time.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Begged him ta let me stay till tomorra night. He’s a decent feller. Has two boys hisself. Sez he can catch me tomorrow as well as taday. He’s so riled up about the team hisself I didn’t have ta do much persuading. We’s going ta stay in a mo-tel tonight.”

“Will you be going to jail?”

“Don’t know. He’s real polite and everything. Sez there’s got ta be a trial, unless I give ’em the money. I figure they’d druther wheedle the money outta me than slap me in jail.”

“What did you tell them?”

“Thoughta giving it to ’em, but I seen how Tom stood battling out there on only one good leg and I sez, ‘What money?’” Amos looked for a place to spit. “Can I see Tom fer a minute?”

“Yes, he’s getting dressed.”

“Don’t want him knowing about this till the games is over.”

Sam turned to call him.

“Hey, boy,” Amos said, “that was a helluva game you played, nearly lost my liver I’s yelling so hard.”

Tom pulled on his Levi jacket and limped over to his peculiar friend.

“Thanks.”

“How’s that knee?” Amos asked.

“It’ll be ready. If it isn’t, I’ll play without it.” Tom grinned. “Have a favor ta ask ya,” Amos said. “Promise me ya’ll check with Mr. Pickett here ’fore ya sign any papers ta go in the service.”

Tom looked confused. “Yeah, sure, okay, I will. Will you be here tomorrow night?”

“Remember the blizzard?” Amos said.

“Yeah.”

“Thar ain’t nuthing that’d keep me from watching you pluck the feathers outta Seely-Swan and tote that trophy home, nuthing.”

Amos leaned awkwardly toward the strapping boy as though he were about to hug him. “You’re a helluva kid.” Then, clearing his throat, the fugitive slapped Tom on his shoulder. “I gotta git.”

“See you tomorrow,” Tom said.

“Tomorra,” Amos said.

He nodded at Sam and opened the door. The man in the gray suit was waiting as Amos stepped out and closed the door.

E
VERYONE WAS SETTLED
in bed, Tom on the living room sofa, when the banging nearly popped the screws out of Elizabeth Chapman’s front door hinges. In her NFL-monogrammed nightie and her furry
bearpaw slippers, Grandma worked her way toward the door, hoping the ruckus wouldn’t wake the boys. She snapped on the hall light, muttering to herself. “Hold your horses, I’m coming.”

When she unlocked the door and swung it open, she found the hammerhead shark planted on the porch, looking mean and drunk. She immediately tried to slam the door, but the brutish man stuck a large work boot in its path, stopping it halfway closed.

“I’m here to fetch Tom.”

“He’s sleeping. Come back tomorrow!”

“He’s coming home tonight. Can’t be sleep in’ all over town like some bum.”

Grandma pushed against the door but it wouldn’t budge. “Tom’s sleeping here tonight. He needs to rest his knee for the game tomorrow.”

George Stonebreaker slammed his fist against the door, knocking it wide open.

“Ain’t going to be
no game tomorrow.
I come to get my boy and I’m taking him home if I have to drag him by the throat.”

“Like you dragged his horse to death?” Grandma said.

The old scar curled across his upper lip, the ox of a man stomped into the house, and Grandma backpedaled, bumping into Tom. Garbed only in his Levis, Tom moved in front of Grandma and confronted his father with clenched fists.

“Get your clothes on. You’re com in’ home.”

“I’m not going home and there’s no way you can make me.”

“We’ll just have to see about that,” the man snarled. “You got a barn to paint before any more playing.”

Peter, in nothing but his undershorts, shouldered next to Tom, fists clenched. George hesitated for a moment, catching his balance.

“There’s
two
of us,” Pete said.

“Get out of the way, you little gelding, or I’ll break your back. This isn’t one of your chicken-shit basketball games.”

They squared off, Tom’s father brandishing a pair of anvillike fists. The boys moved back a step, crouching, into the darkened living room.

“Up your ass!” Parrot squawked, startling the inebriate.

“Who’s that?” he said with a slur, appearing confused.