Authors: Stanley Gordon West
Noxon’s tallest seemed to be about 6'3" and they were a clean-cut-looking bunch of boys.
“They look awful tough to me,” Hazel said.
Why did she always sit with her pessimistic friend? She knew Hazel wanted to win as badly as any of them, but Hazel harped on the negative as though she wanted to beat disappointment to the punch. The Willow Creek boys shot around and Peter scanned the crowd for her. She stood and pulled off her brown fedora, waving it in the air. He spotted her and his face brightened. She pulled on her hat and wiggled her fingers down her cheeks, their sign language that his play would bring tears to her eyes. Satisfied, he went back to the business of zeroing in his shooting eye. He joked that as long as she sat next to Hazel Brown he could always locate her in the ever-increasing crowds.
The buzzer called the teams to their benches. Grandma felt a lump in her throat and her heart increased its beat. She strained her voice when they
introduced her grandson, and before she could catch her breath, the teams were circled for the opening jump. The referee tossed the ball. The Noxon center didn’t bother to jump, and Olaf tipped the ball to Peter. Grandma inched to the edge of her seat as her grandson brought Willow Creek up the floor into the Divisionals, into the emotional roller coaster of high school tournament basketball.
With the Noxon boys swarming around him, Olaf missed his first shot. The Red Devils sprinted upcourt with the ball, looking eager to show their stuff. They ran wide open, full throttle, almost a blur. They ran so well it was scary. Grandma was breathless just watching. They were a gambling team, often throwing a pass the length of the court, and though several went awry or were intercepted by the Broncs, just as many resulted in easy layups. Plain and simple, they were catching the Willow Creek boys a half step behind.
“We’ll never keep up with this bunch,” Hazel said. “We’ll have tire tracks on our backsides.”
Grandma hated to admit it, but the Broncs seemed tight and somewhat overwhelmed. Pete missed his first three shots, and the shorter Noxon boys were snatching rebounds, catching the Willow Creek boys flatfooted. Grandma bit her lip and clung to Tripod. She figured the Red Devils were well named, a team from hell that hounded and hustled and never stopped running.
At the end of the first quarter Noxon was on top, 19 to 13. The Broncs caught their breaths on the bench and tried to regroup. Mr. Pickett knelt in front of them, talking excitedly, scribbling on his clipboard.
“Come on, Broncs!” Grandma yelled. “You can do it!”
The three cheerleaders fired up the Willow Creek followers, but the second quarter was more of the same. Rob and Pete were hesitant with their shots, and more preoccupied with getting back on defense ahead of the Noxon riptide.
“They’re gettin’ away with murder on Olaf,” Hazel said.
Tom tipped in one of Pete’s missed shots and Curtis dove headlong into the seats to save a ball from going out of bounds. Both teams went at each other furiously. A sinking feeling grew in Grandma’s chest.
“I knew I should have brought Parrot,” she said.
Noxon rotated substitutes and they kept running. The Broncs were being overrun, and only Pete and Rob seemed able to keep up.
“I knew it was too good to be true,” Hazel said. “Who are we trying to kid? This is the big leagues.”
“It’s too good not to be true,” Grandma said.
She huffed and hoped and stewed on and off her seat. She flinched when Peter fell to the floor hard in a rebound attempt, groaned when Tom missed a free throw, winced when Curtis dropped a pass.
“It’s not fair,” Hazel said. “They’re using twelve boys against our five.”
“Mr. Pickett will figure something out.”
“Huh, he’ll have to suit us up,” Hazel said. “I’d sure like a crack at those pantywaists.”
Just before the half, one of the quick Noxon athletes came out tight on Pete. He crossdribbled and left the boy guarding his shadow as her sweetheart banged home the layup. Grandma leaped to her feet, almost catapulting Tripod out of her jacket.
“Attaboy, Peter, attaboy!”
When the halftime buzzer wailed, she was feeling somewhat better. Willow Creek 33, Noxon 41. Hazel went for popcorn and Diet Pepsi with the other girls. Grandma stayed to catch her breath in the stands and felt a little dizzy, as though she’d been running the court with the boys.
The Red Devils had been out shooting for a while and only one minute remained on the halftime clock when the Broncs trotted onto the floor. They shot a few layups until the buzzer summoned them to the bench.
“Look! Look at that!” Grandma shouted, elbowing Hazel and almost dumping her popcorn. “I told you Mr. Pickett would figure something out.”
“What? What?”
“Dean! He’s starting Dean instead of Curtis.”
She was right. In the third quarter, Dean ran the floor with the Red Devils, both directions, slapping at the ball, knocking passes out of bounds, harassing, unrelenting. He looked as if on fast forward, never where he was supposed to be, and that disrupted the Noxon offense more than it did the Willow Creek defense. He didn’t have the skills of the Noxon boys, but he had the lungs.
“Look at Dean, look at him!” Grandma shouted. “Mr. Pickett must have told him to skin that kid.”
“He can’t keep that up for long,” Hazel said.
Dean became a nuisance, a pest, and though Noxon was up by ten, his disruptive play and constant ragging was taking the fun out of their party. He stuck to one of their best players like a migraine. Coach Pickett rotated Tom and Curtis and Olaf, giving them a rest on the bench, but Dean never stopped running.
“That Cutter kid is a maniac,” Hazel said. “Look at him.”
The Willow Creek crowd sprang to its feet when a Noxon boy lobbed the ball to the far end of the court. Dean and a Red Devil raced after it. Dean, with his knobby legs thrashing, beat the Noxon kid, snagged the ball, and hurled it back upcourt to Olaf. Olaf charged the unguarded basket and cannonaded the ball through the net.
“You betcha!” Axel roared.
Pete started upcourt, ducked back, and intercepted Noxon’s inbounds pass. Only the boy who passed it in stood between Pete and the basket. He cross-dribbled twice and blew by him for the layup. Grandma knocked the popcorn out of Hazel’s hand as she leaped to her feet, and the Noxon coach called time out.
“Attaboy! See that! See that!” Grandma shouted. “They’re afraid of him with that fancy dribble. He faked that poor kid out of his manhood.”
Willow Creek crept back to within five, thanks to Dean’s freewheeling intimidation and Olaf’s growing dominance in the paint.
“That Cutter kid is sand in their carburetor!” Grandma shouted. “Look at him. All twelve of them can’t wear him down.”
Dean gave his teammates the opportunity to hone in on the Noxon basket, and Rob and Pete began tearing out the bull’s-eye with shimmering swishes. They pulled even at 55 late in the fourth quarter, and Grandma thought she was going to die. Even Hazel was starting to believe again. Dean fouled out with two minutes to go and it seemed that everyone in the building, except for the Noxon fans, stood and applauded the flinty, rockribbed freshman. He had derailed Noxon’s run-and-gun express with his bulldogged endurance. Olaf got a tip-in when Pete missed from the side and Willow Creek went up by one. Grandma clutched Hazel’s arm and
hardly dared to watch. With a burst of slashing grace, her grandson stole a Noxon pass and the Broncs went into their four-corner stall. Noxon narrowly missed stealing the ball when Rob found Tom alone in the corner. The over-playing defense anticipated him going back out with it, but Tom put it on the floor and took it to the backboard, stunning the Noxon faithful and putting Willow Creek up by three. The hometown fans were on their feet roaring, and Grandma nearly crushed Tripod when she hugged Hazel. A gutty Noxon boy raced upcourt and heaved the ball as the Willow Creekians counted down the final seconds off the clock.
“Four! Three! Two! One!
Yeeaaahhh!
”
Noxon’s desperate three-point heave sailed harmlessly into the bleachers. The buzzer embraced Grandma with the shuddering arms of joy, and the scoreboard was as pretty as a Christmas tree. She read it out loud.
“Noxon 58, Willow Creek 61!”
Grandma threw an elbow into Hazel. “Well, Miss Pessimism, what do you think
now
?”
“I think we’re in the sweet sixteen and I damn near wet my pants.”
Grandma sat, catching her breath for a minute, and watched the world spin around her. When the din gradually dropped away and the crowd slowly filed out of the glimmering gymnasium, Grandma saw Pete kneeling and talking to Denise Cutter. Dean, with his face aglow and dripping with sweat under that grubby cap, stood behind her, holding on to her chair like a sentinel, the unlikely monkey wrench in Noxon’s hope for glory.
Back at the Colonial Inn, a festive mood overflowed from the team’s quarters. They occupied four rooms along one corridor, with Mr. Pickett having his own for the three-night stay and Miss Murphy bunking with the cheerleaders. The boys laughed and bantered loudly while getting ready for a victory dinner at Andrew Wainwright’s expense.
“Stay and eat with us,” Pete told Grandma.
“Thanks, sweetheart, but we have to get on the road. Mavis has to get back and Hazel doesn’t like to drive after dark.”
“Are you all right?” Pete regarded her with a worried look.
“I’m cookin’.”
“You look a little pale.”
“It’s what you boys put us through before you decide to win.”
“Will you be back tomorrow night?” Pete asked.
“Will the sun rise?”
“It’s the seven o’clock game.”
She ran her hand through his long hair.
“I like your pretty locks. When they fly around out on the floor they make you look like you’re going faster.”
“I am.”
Happiness glowed effervescently on his face.
“Hi, Grandma,” Dean said as he and Curtis blew by.
“Did you see Dean out there today?” Pete asked.
“Did I. What did Mr. Pickett put in his tank?”
“We gave him a new name, the Duracell Boy.”
“He’s riding an invisible horse, that’s why he’s so bow-legged,” Tom said from the bed where he sat buffing his boots with a motel towel.
“Good game, Tom,” she said. “How’s the knee?”
“Feels great.”
“I’ve got to go, the girls are waiting,” she said to Pete. “You have fun tonight.”
“We’re going to the other games, see the competition.”
“You were jim-dandy out there today, Grandson. I’ll see you tomorrow when you crush Seely-Swan.”
She squeezed his arm.
“See you tomorrow,” he said, and she hurried down the corridor.
H
AZEL DROPPED
M
AVIS
and Mildred off in front of the post office. She throttled the grumbling Caprice up Main toward Grandma’s house. It was after six and a murky dusk slid over the land.
“If you weren’t a dear friend I would never ask,” Grandma said from the back seat, “but could you drive me to Billings?”
“Billings!”
Hazel pulled over on the wrong side of the street in front of Grandma’s house and stopped. She turned the best she could to look at her friend.
“You mean right now?”
“Yes. I have to get to the hospital.”
“Oh, dear, what’s the matter?”
“I’m sick, I’m quite sick.”
“Shouldn’t we go to Bozeman? It’s much closer.”
“No, please, I want to go to Billings. They know what to do with me.”
“But that’s a hundred and eighty miles!”
“Will you, please?”
“Of course, of course. Do you want anything from the house?”
“No, just toss Tripod in the door. No sense draggin’ him along.”
Hazel picked up the tomcat and hefted her freight from the car. In a moment she was back, settling into the frazzled seat and slamming the door. She pulled out and rumbled a U-turn.
“What’s wrong with you, Elizabeth?”
“It’s a long story. I want to sleep now.”
Grandma curled up on the back seat, and Hazel headed out of town. She reached over the seat, and with a grunt or two, managed to pull a blanket over Grandma’s body.
“Thank you,” Grandma said weakly. “When you get to Billings Deaconess, have them call Doctor Gene Mack.”
“Gene Mack, the friend you go to visit?”
“He’s my doctor. He’ll know what to do.”
“Will you be all right till we get there?”
“I’ll be all right, but don’t dawdle.”
Hazel filled the tank in Three Forks and kept her foot to the pedal, streaking the hundred and eighty miles across southern Montana on Interstate 90. With the speedometer bouncing between seventy-five and eighty, she prayed that the old ’76 Caprice had one more run in it, and was horrified that her closest friend might be dying in the back seat.
A
NDREW
W
AINWRIGHT HAD
reserved a small banquet room at the Colonial Inn and filled the place with Willow Creekians. They feasted on a main course of prime rib and several varieties of pasta, at Diana’s request.
After they were stuffed and had enjoyed reliving the game for more than an hour, Andrew loaded the team, coaches, and cheerleaders into a Hertz van, and they returned to the sports center to watch the other four teams in the evening games. They arrived in time to see the second half of the first game, in which Alberton took out White Sulphur Springs by eight points. They ducked out of the second game at halftime where Twin Bridges, looking unbeatable, was pummeling Charlo. When he pulled up in front of the Colonial lobby, Andrew left the van running and turned around in his seat.
“All grownups out,” he said. “Anyone over twenty be gone.”
Sam and Diana hesitated. Then Sam opened the door and the two of them stepped out of the van, somewhat baffled.
“I know a place in town where they have the biggest sundaes, banana splits, and malted milks in Montana and a million video games.”
The kids cheered and Sam slid shut the van door. He and Diana stepped up onto the sidewalk at the entrance of the motel. Andrew hopped out of the van and hurried around to catch them.