Blind Your Ponies (71 page)

“They’ll try to foul quickly when we have the ball,” Sam told them. “Take care of the ball. Make the free throws and they can never catch us.”

The buzzer summoned them.

“Whatever happens, I am damn glad I got to be your coach.” “I’m damn glad I got to be here!” Pete exclaimed.

They shouted and broke the huddle. Diana squeezed Sam’s arm as the boys made their way to the court. With forty-nine seconds to go, the ref blew his whistle and Seely-Swan came pell-mell upcourt. They moved the ball to one side and then across court to the open man. Pete lunged to block Boyd’s shot. The ball bounced high and came off, but Peter was whistled for the foul.

It was his fifth. He was out of the game with forty-one seconds remaining on the clock!

The outhouse had tipped over.

The fans were on their feet, jabbering and pointing like witnesses at the scene of an accident. Pete strode to the bench under a resounding acknowledgement of praise. His face carried the anguish of a young, exhausted soldier with a leg shot off, fiercely willing to give the other to stay at the front with his brothers.

“I blew it!” he said and flopped onto the bench with his head in his hands. “I
blew
it!”

Sam knelt beside him and shouted above the deafening noise, “You got us here! You did everything possible and we’re going to win it!”

Sam stood and patted his inconsolable guard on the back. Dean, beside Pete on the bench, handed him one of the caps. Glancing at Curtis and Dean to see which ear they had theirs cocked over, Peter pulled his on. Sam shrugged his shoulders at the referee who looked to the Willow Creek coach as if they might have a kid hiding under the bench.

The tenacious Boyd toed the line. The three Willow Creek defenders crouched along the paint. The kid took a deep breath and bounced the ball once. A riptide of noise broke over his head. He tossed up the shot. It hit the rim, caromed around, and fell in.

Willow Creek 63, Seely-Swan 61.

The referee delivered the ball and the stumpy guard gathered himself again. The distracting uproar continued. With a fierce intensity carved in his face, Boyd bounced the ball and flicked it into the air. Perfect. Seely-Swan was down one, 63 to 62 with forty-one ticks on the clock.

Rob grabbed the ball, stepped out of bounds, and lofted the ball to Olaf. The Blackhawks swarmed, trying desperately to tip the ball without fouling. Keeping the ball high, Olaf managed to fire it to Tom, who was immediately surrounded and trapped. Staggering, the bull rider lobbed the ball back to Olaf, who hadn’t made it over the center line. Unable to get the ball to either of his well-covered teammates, Olaf tossed it into the front court
before the allotted ten seconds was up, keeping the clock running. Thomas and McHenry frantically dashed after the unattended ball. Sam glanced up at the clock.

Twenty-nine seconds… twenty-eight…

S
COTT HAD TEARS
streaming down his cheeks, watching his friends battling out on the floor and aching because he couldn’t go out there and fight with them. He wished God had given him the ability to run and jump and shoot a basketball. He wiped the tears from his face and realized that this was probably as close as he’d ever come to winning anything, and that he’d probably end up like Hazel Brown.

With a chance to take the lead, Seely-Swan hurried the ball into the front court. The Willow Creek boys guarded the paint. Out in front, Thomas ripped the ball over to Boyd. Rob came out and covered him. Boyd gunned it back to Thomas. Rob chased, but as Thomas anticipated that the Willow Creek player would come all the way to him, he tried to bounce pass the ball back to his wide-open teammate. Rob darted into the passing lane and batted the ball downcourt. The three players broke for the loose ball and Scott’s heart leaped in his chest. With Rob’s great quickness he scooped up the bouncing ball, dribbled twice on the way to the basket, and with two wild Seely-Swan boys a stride behind him, flew to the rim and laid in a beautiful finger roll.

Willow Creek 65, Seely-Swan 62. Twenty-one seconds.

Everyone on the bench was going crazy. The field house shook. Scott tried to shout Rob’s name but nothing would come out of his throat.

R
OB, GASPING FOR
air, hurried downcourt to join his teammates at the leaking dike. Sam raised both fists and shouted at the three of them.

“Blind your ponies!”

With their faces grim and their confidence shaken, the Seely-Swan athletes raced into the front court. Frantically they moved the ball around the fragmented zone while the Willow Creek boys harassed them like three jailers trying to guard five doors. Rob chased the ball while Olaf and Tom tried to protect the basket. Thomas whipped the ball to Cooper, who was wide open about twelve feet out on the side. The wide-eyed forward took his shot,
but Olaf leaped out at him and got a piece of the ball, sending it sideways into the key. The spectators roared as Boyd recovered the ball.

fifteen seconds!

Dean, Curtis and Peter were on all fours in front of the bench, paralyzed. Grandma and Axel clung to each other and Diana held her head.

Forced to go for three, Boyd snapped the ball to Thomas behind the three-point line. Their shooter took his shot. The air in the field house stilled for the rotating leather sphere. No one moved, not in the stands, not on the floor, hearts on tiptoe. All eyes followed the ball’s arc toward the basket. It hit the side of the rim, went up on the backboard, and came off the opposite side where McHenry grabbed the rebound.

Nine seconds!

The desperate forward almost put back the easy layup but caught himself in time. He bounced it out to Boyd beyond the three-point line, but Rob was in his face, arms up, shouting. Desperately Boyd dribbled away and fired it to Cooper, who had dashed out beyond the three-point line. He turned to shoot, but Olaf, realizing the paint no longer mattered, had followed Cooper out. Olaf’s gigantic wingspan loomed in Cooper’s face. The gutsy Black-hawk senior faked the shot, getting Olaf off his feet, and dribbled around him. Wide open, Cooper took his shot in a blink, his instincts and hundreds of hours of practice guiding the ball. It was a beautiful shot that stopped hearts and knocked the breath out of the crowd. Swish!

The field house shuddered. The overhead scoreboard flashed
WILLOW CREEK 65, SEELY-SWAN
64!

Was it a mistake? In that torturous instant Sam had missed it, along with most of the spectators. Cooper had stepped on the threepoint line. Olaf had done just enough to change his shot. It was a two!

Neither team had a timeout. Three seconds. Tom grabbed the ball and stepped out of bounds. Quickly he lobbed a high pass to Olaf and before they could foul him, Olaf tipped the ball into the unoccupied front court as if to a Willow Creek ghost. Sam watched the digital lights above him telegraph their victory as the desperate Seely-Swan athletes frenetically chased the elusive ball.

Three… two… one… !

The horn sounded, barely audible above the crescendo in the field house. But Sam could see the scoreboard clock blink out four zeros and he knew the page had been written and the book closed.

Willow Creek 65, Seely-Swan 64.

Holy cow! It was over, they had won, they were champions!

The three Willow Creek boys held each other up in the paint, hardly able to stand. The stunned Seely-Swan boys held their heads, some kneeled, some lay prostrate, like the wild dogs of Africa. Sam leaped and bounced and bounded across the floor.

He reached the three boys before anyone else and wrapped his arms around their sweat-soaked bodies.

“Son of a bitch! We didn’t give ’em the calf!” Tom exclaimed.

Then they were submerged in the flow of enraptured fans that came to them like a great surf.

Several people tried to hoist Tom to their shoulders, but he happily fended them off, clinging to his teammates. Others tried to lift Olaf above the turmoil, but he managed to keep his ground, hanging onto Sam. Then Pete fought his way through, with Dean and Curtis. Sam hugged Dean and shouted in his ear, “Your free throw beat them!” A newborn pride danced in the youngster’s magnified eyes. Shouting to each other in the chaotic revelry, the six of them embraced Sam and lifted him onto their shoulders. Spontaneously the swarming fans parted and the boys marched around the court, bearing him aloft.

Sam could feel the earth shaking while the mass of humanity stood cheering, like a great choir singing. Tears came with a shuddering release, an outpouring of the failures and unfulfilled dreams of a lifetime, and the thunderous tumult became a trancelike soundlessness; time stood still. The boys bore him on their shoulders the length and breadth of the court as the Montanans cast their bouquets of admiration and praise. Then, in the midst of his euphoric spell, Sam spotted the parrot, loose, barnstorming over the crowd. He burst out laughing, breaking the bubble of his rapture.

When they finished the course, the boys, drained of all energy, set him down. Immediately Mervin Painter and Axel manhandled Olaf up onto their thick shoulders. Amos Flowers and the stranger in the gray suit hoisted Tom into the electric atmosphere, and the crowd quickly lifted the rest of the Broncs overhead. John English and Ray Collins took Dean. Hazel Brown and Truly Osborn shouldered Scott. They paraded the boys around the floor and the hundreds on the court joined in the promenade. Sam caught sight of Andrew in wilted suit pants and vest, his shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbow. He fought his way through the jubilant mass and grabbed Andrew by the arm. When Andrew saw Sam, he shouted into the pandemonium, “It’s a miracle, an honest-to-God miracle!”

“She came back!” Sam yelled. “She came back!”

“I know! I know!” Andrew hollered. “And we’ll take that trophy home for good!”

“No,
she
was in Willow Creek today,
she
came back!”

“Who?”

“Sarah! Tall, slim, large eyes, about the right age, she rode the bicycle and asked all about it!”

“Oh God, are you sure?”

“Yes!”

“Where—where is she?” Andrew shouted, sheltering Denise in his arms.

“She went to Missoula, said she went to school there.”

“Yes, yes, that’s right—”

“She said she was coming back to Willow Creek on her way through!” Sam shouted as the processional with the team had nearly circled the court.

“Oh, my God, I can’t believe it!” Andrew said with joy flowering in his face.

C
LAIRE
P
AINTER
S
TOOD
in the stands, watching Mervin and the others celebrating, smiling and clapping her hands at the spontaneous festivities. Land sakes, she never thought she’d live to see the day. In the swarming throng, she spotted Mavis Powers and almost didn’t recognize her. Mavis didn’t have rollers in her peach-colored hair. Then Claire spotted Miss Murphy and Mr. Pickett, those two she had always hoped would fall in love. They were arm in arm, with shining, happy faces, turning to music no one else seemed to hear.

In the raucous rejoicing, Axel found them and gave each of them a bear hug, lifting first Sam and then Miss Murphy off the floor. When he put her down, Miss Murphy went up on tiptoe and gently kissed Axel.

I
T WAS TEN
minutes before the officials, pleading over the loudspeaker, restored some kind of order. The Willow Creek bunch gathered around the team at their bench as the tournament ushers managed to clear a portion of the floor. Dean stood behind his sister’s wheelchair and Tripod nestled in her lap. Amos Flowers stood beside Sally Cutter. The crowd
applauded when the third-and second-place trophies were awarded, recognizing how far Rocky Boy and Seely-Swan had come. But when they called the Willow Creek team forward to receive the championship trophy, the deep rumble came through human voices as though down through time from creation’s first oceans and storms and earth’s upheavals, deafening, unimaginable.

Sam and Diana remained at the bench. The boys—all in their caps but Dean—hesitated, gesturing for them to follow. Sam waved them on. It was their trophy. They had not only run until their lungs burned, until their legs gave out under them, and given their sweat and blisters and blood, but they had faced the dragons and won.

Rob and Tom turned and held the golden prize high. With an armload of gold-and-blue nylon jackets he appeared to pull out of thin air, Andrew Wainwright met them as they came back toward the bench. He handed them out to the boys, whose surprise and delight lit up their faces. Across the back in blue letters was stitched montana state champions 1991. Then, below a large golden basketball, the words: willow creek, montana.

There were jackets for Scott and Diana and Sam, and for the cheerleaders. On the front, over the heart, their names were embroidered. Not their proper names, but Dutch Boy, Sancho, Forget Me Not. When they had all pulled them on, there were several left. He handed one to Elizabeth Chapman. Her eyes lit up. Andrew handed a jacket to Axel, one to Hazel. Then, a jacket remained, a small one.

Andrew walked over and stooped in front of Denise Cutter’s wheelchair. He held up the jacket. Over the heart denise was stitched in gold, and Sam loved Andrew Wainwright. With her brother’s charmed cap on her golden locks, her joy and excitement fought their way through facial expressions and guttural sounds she could not command. Dean helped her get into the bright, satiny jacket. It fit perfectly. Even Hazel’s fit, and on the front over the heart it read:
HAZEL BROWN, JV’S
.

Then the team and their loyal partisans moved reluctantly across the floor and out of the arena, through the cheering crowd.

In the locker room they were encompassed by a numbing serenity, moving slowly in the embrace of an inner peace that seemed to touch them all. Tom and Olaf loitered in the steaming shower as though they never wanted to come out. With his body drained and trembling, Sam sat quietly and allowed a satisfied smile to ease onto his face.

“Now my father I will be telling the basketball I am playing.” Olaf gingerly pulled a sock over his tender ankle. “One hundred percent excellent we are doing.”