Authors: Stanley Gordon West
Sam gathered the boys in the locker room after they’d warmed up. Diana and Scott sat with them along the two benches and Sam stood at the far end. Ever since he’d returned from the mall with the girls, Sam had an uneasy feeling. The normally transparent boys seemed secretive in the motel room while they watched basketball videos that After-noon. Their stories of horseplay didn’t satisfy him in explaining the marks on Tom’s neck, Pete’s swollen knuckles, and Curtis’s puffed lip. Were those knuckleheads wrestling or playing football or something? He couldn’t believe they were seriously fighting each other.
Standing in the locker room, he paused and looked into each expectant face shining up at him. They were in fate’s hands tonight. They had no control over the other game. If Twin Bridges lost, their chance to challenge would be lost and their season would be over. But they did have a say in
their
game. They had to win to have any hope of playing Monday night. He cleared his throat.
“Men, we’re here to fight the dragon tonight. Together. But the dragon is not Manhattan Christian—a bunch of hardworking boys just like you with families and girlfriends and pet dogs, doing their best to win for their moms and their school and their town. The dragon you face is the voice in your hearts that whispers, ‘You’re losers.’ The dragon you face tonight is the fear in your guts that tells you to quit, to give up. It is the softness in your spirits that tempts you to surrender your dreams, to lie down and accept defeat politely. Those are the dragons that will rear their ugly heads tonight, the beasts who beguile us to be something less than we can be.”
Sam paused and scanned their faces, faces longing for something he hoped he could give them.
“We’re not going out tonight to beat those other boys.”
“We’re not?” Dean squeaked.
“No,” Sam said. “We’re going out to play better than we ever have before,
to play beyond our physical limitations, to play above our God-given talent, to play harder and higher and longer than we ever have before. We’re going out there to live not as life
is
but as it
should be!
If we each do this, every
one
of us, then it won’t matter if we win the game, because we will have defeated the dragons. But I can promise you, men, that if we play that way, we
will
win the game.–
“Yeeaaahhh!” they leaped to their feet and shouted. Then they huddled, with their hands held high and knotted together in the center.
“Win! Win! Win! Win! Win!” they chanted.
“Okay, let’s go!” Sam shouted and followed the little herd out to the court.
He paced beside the bench while the boys took their final warm-ups. He tried to enjoy the ride, this nerve-tingling, gut-twisting ride. The cavernous building was filling with fans from Churchill, Gardiner, Twin Bridges, and Willow Creek. These small towns could never do better than partially fill the large arena, though a few fans from the Butte area who loved basketball usually added to the gate. It seemed that not many had noticed the unfamiliar contestant among the perennial favorites in the Saturday night games. In past tournaments, his boys had been shipped out by this point, and the only way a basketball player from Willow Creek could get in here Saturday night would be to buy a ticket.
He scanned the Willow Creek section behind their bench and was astonished at the numbers, finding among the throng the few familiar faithful who had been there all along. He remembered the midnight practice almost three months ago when there were only ten. Denise Cutter sat at the balcony rail above the temporary bleachers in her wheelchair, Andrew and Sally Cutter in seats beside her.
The horn sounded and the boys quickly gathered at the bench. He noted their animated faces, infused with resolve and hope.
“Give all you’ve got every minute you’re on the floor. And remember,
they can only put five players on the floor at a time,
” the boys chorused with him.
Most of the spectators were standing as the ref tossed the ball high and two Christian defenders raced into the paint in front of their basket, anticipating Willow Creek’s favorite play.
Well coached, but sorry.
Olaf tipped the ball to his right where Rob waited. The Broncs hustled into the front court and, as Sam anticipated, the Eagles took them man-for man, with Curtis’s man sagging off and double-teaming Olaf. Tom, with his knee tightly wrapped, sucked his man with him as he crossed the paint and put his nose in the ear of Dorn, who was guarding Olaf. Olaf slid high and swung around the double pick. Rob alley-ooped the ball toward the basket. Olaf went up, caught the ball in midair, and hammered it down through the net like a cannon ball. An auspicious beginning, a bell-ringer that sent a thunderous message to every heart in the arena, bringing the Willow Creek crowd to its feet cheering and leaving most Manhattan Christian followers with the wits scared out of them.
Sam settled on the bench and smiled and the boys went on playing with discipline, intelligence, and dogged determination. They did it the way Sam diagramed it; they did it the way Sam taught them; they did it the way Sam dreamed it.
G
EORGE
S
TONEBREAKER WALKED
in through the back door of the Hub Bar in Belgrade and settled on a stool. He was done drinking with those assholes in Three Forks. Some smart ass always brought up the accident with Tom’s horse. Most of the people in the place were clustered as close as they could get to a radio. He needed a beer but the damn bartender had his ear glued like the rest.
“…Gustafson comes out on the high post …. Dykstra and Dorn stay withhim …. Strong gets the ball to Stonebreaker… back to Strong …. Strongcomes around Stonebreaker’s pick …. Stonebreaker slides free …. Stronggets him the ball …. Oh! Stonebreaker goes up and banks it home…. Willow Creek is up by four …. beautiful pick-and-roll…”
It seemed George just couldn’t get away from it.
“Hey,” George said. “How about some service.”
The rotund bartender reluctantly moved down the bar.
“What can I do you?” he said.
“Well, for openers, will you shut off that damn radio.”
“Hell, no. Those Willow Creek boys are tough nuts.”
“Shit, they’re just lucky. They’ll lose, you’ll see.”
“What are you drinking?” the big, balding bartender said.
“Give me a Hamm’s.”
“ … Wow, Gustafson jams the ball …. This kid gets better every time Isee him… Volk brings the ball up… over to Van Dyke… back to Volk… oohhh! Johnson steals the ball… quickly upcourt… over to Jenkins… back out to Strong… in to Stonebreaker …. He fakes a pass to the big centerand takes it to the boards himself …. Count it …. Christian is befuddled …. When they cover Gustafson, Stonebreaker kills them inside… when they patch the hole in that screen door, Willow Creek comes in the attic window …. Dykstra tries a three… it comes off…. Stonebreaker rebounds ….”
George moved down the bar with his beer, a little closer to the radio. A rancher sat beside him, smoking a cigar.
“ … Christian goes back into their zone, trying desperately to stop the Willow Creek attack …. Strong takes the three… it’s good …. these Willow Creek guards are tearing hinges off Christian’s barn door …. Volk gets the ball into Dorn …. Dorn makes a nice move around Gustafson and goes up …. Holy cow… Stonebreaker came over and rejected that shot …. Jenkins grabs the loose ball ….”
George turned to the rancher. “That’s my boy, Stonebreaker.”
The rancher turned and regarded George. “No kidding?”
“Yep, that’s him, hell of a ball player.”
“You must be damn proud,” the rancher said.
“ … Dorn just can’t stop this Gustafson kid …. Johnson comes across midcourt… over to Jenkins… back to Johnson… Strong gives him a screen …. Johnson takes the shot from downtown… it comes off…. Holycow, Stonebreaker goes up and tips it in…”
Another man sat on George’s other side. Looked like a business man or lawyer or something. Suit and tie, polished shoes.
“ … Jenkins in the corner… he’s all alone… takes the shot… makes it …. This kid’s only a sophomore but he’s hurting Christian with that shot from that corner …. They better send damage control out on that kid …. Trouble is, that leaves Dorn alone on Gustafson …. Volk misses from out in front …. Stonebreaker sweeps the boards ….”
George turned to the guy in the suit.
“That’s my boy, Stonebreaker, hell of a player.”
“No kidding.” The man was impressed. Then he frowned. “Why aren’t you at the game?”
“Oh, well, I had to—”
“Hell, what’s the matter with you? If I had a kid like that I’d be in the front row.”
George finished his beer and went out the back door.
B
Y THE MIDDLE
of the fourth quarter Tom could hardly run the floor and Sam replaced him with Dean. The Willow Creek fans never sat down through the fourth quarter, sustaining a constant chant and roaring approval every time their boys scored. Diana iced Tom’s knee on the bench, and his teammates iced the victory on the court with their unrelenting defense and free-throw shooting. When the buzzer sounded, Sam glanced quickly at the scoreboard.
MANHATTAN CHRISTIAN 63, WILLOW CREEK 75
.
He picked Diana off the floor. “I hope Mervin Painter bet the farm!” he shouted.
“We have to pull for Twin Bridges now!” she shouted back.
After shaking hands with the Christian players and wading through the exuberant fans, the boys passed the Twin Bridges team coming from the locker room. Craig Stone caught Olaf by the arm as they passed.
“You try that alley-oop shit on me and I’ll have your balls!”
Olaf pulled his arm away and hurried past.
“What did he say?” Tom asked, hobbling behind.
“He is afraid with his balls I am going to alley-oop,” Olaf said.
“He’s afraid we’re going to Helena, because he knows we’ll beat them,” Tom said, putting as little weight as possible on his tender knee.
After showering, they watched the Twin Bridges–Gardiner game. For more than a half it was nerve-wracking, with Gardiner out in front and the Willow Creek team and fans pulling vociferously for Twin Bridges. Finally, in the fourth quarter, Twin Bridges pulled ahead and won by four. The Willow Creek bunch exploded with joy. They weren’t dead after all. They would play the challenge game with Gardiner on Monday night and the winner would go on to the Divisionals in Helena.
They ate at a McDonald’s, at Dean’s insistence, and with Andrew Wainwright escorting them, Denise and Sally Cutter joined the gang. Andrew
sat across from Sam and Diana in a booth and beamed with effervescent priase.
“ … and that deal with Curtis, great, just great. What a surprise. How long have you been plotting that?”
“Oh, Curtis kind of did that on his own,” Sam said, talking with his mouth stuffed with a Big Mac. “He’s been practicing that shot for months without my knowing. I figured, unguarded, he could hit a few of them.”
“Brilliant,” Andrew said. “When they have to cover all five of us, we’ve got ’em.”
Someone raised his voice behind Sam, angry words, shouting. Cold sweat broke out on Sam’s forehead, panic gripped him. He turned. A man scolded a boy who’d dumped a shake and fries onto the floor. Realizing where he was, the man calmed down and a McDonald’s employee came to his aid.
It’s all right, it’s all right, let it go.
“Are you okay?” Andrew said. “You look a little peaked.”
“Yeah… I’m still recovering from all this. I kept catching myself cheering for Twin Bridges and thinking I’d gone nuts.”
Andrew laughed and Diana regarded him with concern in her face.
The journey home was one of exultations and exhaustion and agonizing anticipation. Halfway home, Sam glanced in the rearview mirror and saw the entire bus was sound asleep, all except Diana, who had one hand on his shoulder. She leaned close from behind him.
“I’ll leave the light on at home for you,” she said, and Sam felt the world was friendly and tomorrow would be bright.
W
HEN THEY HAD
satiated their long-restrained appetites for each other, Sam and Diana snuggled naked under a down quilt.
“I have a strange daydream that pops into my head every so often,” Sam said.
“Tell me.”
“I’ve never told anyone.”
She kissed his forehead.
“It’s a secret longing to stand in a great congregation of people, thousands of people, tens of thousands of people, singing a great hymn together with such force and beauty that it shakes the earth and makes me weep.”
They lay quietly for a minute.
She whispered, “Whenever I’ve revealed my inner feelings to someone I’ve always had them thrown back in my face or used against me in some destructive way.”
“So have I, usually in ridicule.”
“Can I trust you?” Diana said.
“Yes.”
She brushed her lips softly along his shoulder.
“Sometimes I have a deep yearning to go home, an ache, just to go home, but I have no idea where that is. I know it isn’t my parents’ home in San Diego and it isn’t this little farmhouse. I don’t think it’s anywhere I’ve ever been before. It’s like I know it exists, but I don’t know where, and I’m on my way but afraid I’ll never find it. Do you ever feel that way?”
“Yes.”
They were quiet under the spell of the fluttering candlelight.
“Sometimes,” he said, “when I’m inside you, or when I’m snuggled against your breasts, I feel I’m home.”
“Like now?”
“Yeah.”
S
AM NOTICED THE
kitchen clock nudging one o’clock as he shuffled through the house. In a pleasant state of exhaustion he snapped off the light and fumbled off his clothes, feeling his way toward his cold, Dianaless bed. He always hated to get up and go into the cold night after they’d made love.
He heard rapping. It came from the back. Sam stopped in the doorway of his room, his pants down around his ankles and about to be kicked off. He listened. A moment passed. Then the rapping again. No one ever came through the back door. Sam pulled his pants up and zipped the fly, feeling on the floor for his shirt with his bare feet. He snapped on the kitchen light and pulled on his shirt. With growing trepidation, he went to the back door, at the last moment imagining George Stonebreaker standing on the other side with a shotgun.