Authors: Stanley Gordon West
Finally, only Dean and Rob and Scott remained on the bench.
“For Willow Creek, starting at the other guard, number 10, a 6' senior, Rob Johnson!”
She smiled. Darling, clean-cut Rob, their bright all-American boy, happy, eager, surrounded by the safety and affection of his family and girlfriend. The senior, with a rocklike expression chiseled on his face, slapped hands with them at the bench and then joined his teammates on the court. They looked sharp, circled around Olaf in their Twilight Zone game shoes and their sparkling new uniforms.
“And the head coach for Willow Creek, Sam Pickett.”
Diana whistled and clapped loudly as Sam looked out at his team on the floor. She wanted to throw her arms around him and kiss him, there for the whole world to see.
The team hustled to the bench and huddled around Coach Pickett, who was down on one knee.
“All right, men. We know this team. We’ve seen everything they’ve got and it ain’t enough. Have fun and let’s put a trophy in our trophy case.”
Sam glanced at Diana and nodded.
“I’d like to go shopping in Bozeman next weekend, boys,” she said.
“Yeeaaahhhh!” they shouted.
Then they were out on the floor, poised, staring in fortune’s face with the hope and faith more common with the young.
From the opening whistle it became a war zone. She went through the
elation and anguish, the ebb and flow of the combat, a contest that had come down to the sweat, saliva, and blood of ten young athletes doing what they had been honed to do so well. She found the longings of her heart entangled with the boys’ gutty resolve and Sam’s deepest hopes, blended into one heartbeat in the teeming, roaring arena where it was decreed that only one team could win. She couldn’t help glancing at Sam, where the conflict was mirrored in the reflections of a human eye, etched in the lines of a human face. Like an aroused bear he prowled the sideline, shouted plays to the boys, and tried to influence the flight of the ball with body English.
Their rotating zone didn’t give the Falcons spit and five golden jerseys rushed to the defensive boards like firefighters rescuing their mothers. But the lurking smile on Diana’s face was the surprise Sam had for Coach Long and his arrogant twelve-man team. Sam called the play on the Broncs’ third possession. Tom and Curtis set a double pick at the side of the paint, shoulder to shoulder. Olaf quickly slid around it, leaving Craig Stone, the 6'4" veteran center, momentarily caught behind the barnyard fence. Olaf caught a high pass from Rob and canned a soft seven-footer over Curtis and Tom.
“Bury them!” Sam yelled. “Blow them away!”
Coach Long employed the same strategy he had used to beat them three times that year: rotating nine boys, keeping them fresh, wearing down Willow Creek so they could be dry-gulched in the fourth quarter. But tonight it was the first quarter Coach Long needed to be concerned about.
Tom and Curtis kept meeting together along the edge of the paint, and when Stone frantically fought his way through the double pick, Olaf slid the other way and stuffed the ball. Gary Harkin, the Falcon defending on Tom’s side, cheated all he could, but when he did, Olaf dropped the ball off to Tom and Tom knew where to put it. Stone and Harkin were consistently getting tangled in the double picks. Coach Long called time out with a minute left in the first quarter. Willow Creek 19, Twin Bridges 12.
“All right, you’ve got them confused,” Sam said. “Now, Rob, you join the picnic with Tom and Curtis. Pete, you’ve got to guard the bank. The others will be tangled in the traffic jam.” He smiled at his big center. “Olaf, clean out their refrigerator.”
“Where’s their refrigerator?” Dean asked and the boys swatted him gently and laughed.
The second quarter started like a street fight under the Twin Bridges basket. Rob set a triple screen with Tom and Curtis. Harkin and Stone scrambled to stay with Olaf as he slid around and between and behind his teammates. They bumped and grunted in teeth-jarring collisions. Olaf traveled, picked up two offensive fouls, and missed several shots, but in the scramble around the paint, he nailed fourteen points to the scoreboard, one a resounding alley-oop slam from Rob. And he made them pay with his free throw shooting when the frustrated Falcons hacked and battered him.
Near the end of the second quarter, Olaf came around a pick and went high with an alley-oop. When he stuffed the ball, Craig Stone fought his way through the picks and cut Olaf’s legs out from under him while he was in midair. He came down like a load of fence posts. All elbows and knees, the unprotected boy slammed his back and head solidly on the hardwood, his mouth guard flying out like unglued dentures. All spectators in the sports center were on their feet.
“Flagrant foul! Flagrant foul!” Diana shouted. “Throw the jerk out of the game!”
Sam rushed toward Olaf. Tom went for Craig Stone, and in the moment’s emotion, Diana hoped the bull rider would flatten him. Only Rob and Pete and a referee prevented Tom from taking the kid’s head off. Sam and Diana stooped beside Olaf, who was sitting on the floor, slightly dazed.
“How are you?” Sam asked.
“Angry,” he said, shaking his head lightly.
The referees sent both teams to their benches. When the smoke cleared, Olaf was awarded two free throws, making the first, missing the second. Still, Willow Creek got the ball because of the flagrant foul. Diana could sense the tension out on the court and wondered if Tom would be able to contain his wrath. That didn’t turn out to be the main problem, because at halftime, Tom could hardly hobble to the locker room. They were up 40 to 36.
Sam didn’t have to come up with anything inspirational. In fact, he fed off the boys’ fire and confidence. Olaf got up twice and started for the door when Sam had to tell him it wasn’t time yet.
“Tom can’t play anymore,” Diana whispered in Sam’s ear.
He looked at her. She shrugged.
“Okay,” Sam said. He stood in front of his team. “They’re all trying to crash the party under the basket. When the ball comes in to you, Olaf, pop it right back out. We’ve been delivering our packages on foot. Now let’s send them air mail. Rob and Pete, you ought to be open. When it’s there, take it.”
Sam looked at his gutsy forward.
“I have to take you out, Tom.”
The Willow Creek cowboy didn’t protest. Diana shared the anger and bitter disappointment in Tom’s unyielding eyes, knowing then to what extent the pain had invaded his heart, to what extent the pain invaded all of their hearts as they fought and scrambled with everything they could lay their hands on in their stores of courage and endurance.
“Dean takes Miller,” Sam said. “Rob, you play Tom’s position. Dean, you hound Miller wherever he is on the floor. Stay in his face, ride in his jock, stick to him like sweat. The rest of you stay in the zone.”
“If anyone can stick to him like sweat,” Pete said, “Dean can.”
“You got that right,” Rob said.
And he did. Dean never stopped running, causing the Twin Bridges boy to shove him away in frustration once—Dean missing the front end of the one-and-one. With Tom on the bench wearing Dean’s slightly-singed maroon cap, Twin Bridges pulled ahead. But Dean held Corky Miller, their best outside scorer, to one field goal, fouling him twice in the first few minutes of the third quarter.
“Get ’em, Dean!” Diana yelled.
They battled against nine other boys who were being rested and coming into the game fresh. In the absence of his powerful teammate, Olaf elevated his game and began hurting them inside, first going to his right, then to his left, eyes ablaze. On one lunge to the basket and a resounding stuff, he unintentionally caught Stone in the head with an elbow.
“Yeah!” she hollered, leaping up with a fist in the air, her scorebook skittering onto the hardwood. “Nail him!”
Coach Long had the paint clogged in the second half. Curtis and Dean kept loitering beside the paint and passing the ball high to Olaf. Rob and Pete began knocking blades out of the windmill with their outside shooting,
twos and threes winging resplendently overhead while the Falcons were preoccupied trying to bottle up Olaf.
Then, scaring the wits out of them, Olaf picked up two quick fouls and Sam had to take him out. With fire in his eyes, Tom threw his warmup jacket aside and charged onto the court. With Olaf’s inside threat parked at the curb and Tom hobbled, Twin Bridges could concentrate on Willow Creek’s two hot-handed guards. Showing their experience and maturity, the gifted Falcons went on a 12–3 run closing the third quarter.
Down by four, Sam didn’t know how far he could let them extend the lead before returning Olaf to the game. Olaf steamed on the bench, begging, promising he wouldn’t foul out. With Dean and Curtis on the floor, Willow Creek couldn’t match up with their well-coached opponents, and Twin Bridges exploited the Broncs’ weaknesses. Sam called time out. They were down seven with just under four minutes. He could wait no longer.
Sam took Olaf by the shoulders. “You’re going in the game.
Stay
in there.”
Sam turned to the boys, who were guzzling water and toweling their dripping bodies.
“Get the ball to Olaf if it’s there. Tight zone. Make them shoot from the pasture. No foolish fouls! Olaf, watch for the long outlet when you get a rebound. I think you can catch them asleep, if it’s there, run!”
It was there. Miller missed a fifteen-footer over Curtis and Olaf snatched the rebound. He fired a strike down the floor. Rob caught it on one bounce and put the quarter in the jukebox.
Curtis picked up his fourth foul, but Harkin only hit one free throw. Later, Pete lofted a flawless alley-oop for Olaf. Olaf went up and hammered it through the rim, bringing a thundering roar from the crowd. But when he came back down, he landed on Stone’s foot and turned an ankle. He grabbed his foot and his face was lined with pain. The referee stopped the game. Olaf struggled to his feet as Sam and Diana met him on the floor.
“How is it?” Sam asked.
“I must play,” the wincing boy said, tenderly stepping on his right foot. Diana examined the ankle.
“It’s going to swell,” she said. “To the bench I am not coming,” Olaf said, and he hobbled away from the startled coaches and referee.
The official signaled Twin Bridges’ ball out and the game resumed. Down by four, Olaf slapped Stone’s turnaround off course. Rob picked it out of the air and hit Pete streaking down the floor, catching the Falcons flat-footed. Pete went high and deposited the ball gracefully with a finger roll. Corky Miller arrived too late and was whistled for the foul.
“In their face!” Diana hollered, “In their face!”
Pete went through his ritual on the line, and Sam could see that he was talking to himself. Then he rattled home the free throw with thirty-seven seconds left. They were down by one. Sam called time out. While Diana taped Olaf’s ankle in a stopgap manner over his sock, Sam yelled fiercely over the crowd noise.
“We go into our zone press. If they get it across midcourt, go man-for man and get on them tight. They’ll try to burn the clock, so if we don’t get a steal in the first ten or twelve seconds, foul!”
The cheerleaders had the crowd roaring.
“Go, Broncs, go! Go, Broncs, go! Go, Broncs, go!”
The arena shook. All spectators were standing. Twin Bridges fought through the trapping press and got the ball into the front court. Willow Creek picked them up all over the floor, hawking the ball. Corky Miller looked one way and then passed the other, a tendency Pete had picked up on. Pete gambled, left his man, and slashed into the passing lane, picking off the ball. He sprinted downcourt with Miller and Neely in desperate pursuit. With the grace of a gazelle, he went high and made sure. A soft bank off the glass that cranked the scoreboard to read
WILLOW CREEK
74,
TWIN BRIDGES
73. Twenty-six seconds.
The stands shook with elation, but the Falcons came winging swiftly, cutting, setting picks, weaving around the Broncs’ barricades. With eight seconds on the clock, Travis Neely faked a shot. Rob and Pete lunged toward him, leaving Corky Miller open. Neely bounced the ball to his teammate, and the stocky senior guard poised to shoot. Olaf hobbled out at him. Miller dished it off to Stone who was momentarily alone under the basket. With Tom coming on desperately, Stone went up sure-handedly and canned the layup.
Twin Bridges 75, Willow Creek 74.
With the team momentarily stunned, Tom had the presence of mind to shout at the official.
“Time out! Time out!”
The clock stopped with three seconds.
Stone shook a fist in Olaf’s face and grinned with the dragon’s smile. The Willow Creek fans fell deathly silent, crushed under the foot of a fate they could never seem to escape, refugees in a high-fenced compound along the border where they could see into the land of victors but would never have the proper credentials to be admitted. Their last hope was gone.
The boys staggered to the bench. There were no more chances, no more challenges. Their dream had three seconds to live. The team slumped on the bench, devastated. He went down on one knee in front of them, a furnace of anger roaring inside of him.
“
Listen
to me!
Listen
to me!”
He shook Tom by the shoulders, swatted Rob on the thigh.
“Damnit, listen to me! It’s not
over!
Are you going to lie down and quit? You going to give up? Fight it, fight it, don’t quit!”
Pete crouched on his knees in front of them and pounded the floor, shouting.
“Listen to him, damnit, listen to Coach! If there’s one chance in a million, we’ve got to go for it!”
They came out of their slouching surrender and looked to their coach, daring to entertain hope for the infinity of three seconds.
“All right,” Sam said with a measure of calm. “We’ll run that out-of-bounds pick play we’ve practiced. Remember? Rob you take it out. We can only pray that they’ll try to hassle you.”
The buzzer blared.
“Pete, don’t set the pick until the ref gives Rob the ball,” Sam said.
“Don’t
let the kid see you.”
The referee came to the bench. “Bring ’em out, Coach.”