Authors: Stanley Gordon West
“How did you get this far?”
The boys glanced at one another.
“We never forgot our balls,” Tom said without smiling.
“Yeah,” Dean said with his screeching voice, “we never forgot ’em.”
The somewhat baffled student led them through large doors into the yawning hollow.
“Wow,”
Dean said, “this is
big.
”
Under the arcing dome of the field house, the boys swept the cavernous space with their gaze.
“fifty-two thousand square feet,” Greg informed them.
They shuffled toward the court like astronauts who had just landed on one of Jupiter’s moons. The lights weren’t on, but daylight filtered through the frosted glass windows just under the dome, giving the arena a shadowy, phantasmal ambiance, as though it were in a perpetual twilight. Permanent seats swept up on two sides from a balcony rail about fifteen feet high. In front of the balcony, wooden bleachers cascaded down to the edge of the floor and large bleachers were set up the width of the court behind both baskets.
“Seats eight thousand,” Greg informed them, with a touch of pride in his voice.
The hardwood court was nestled in a basin of seats that would soon become a mass of humanity.
“This is
big,
” Dean kept repeating as the gawking boys walked to the edge of the floor.
They had played in several large gyms, but this was another level: there were no walls, no popcorn machines, the backboards seemed to be suspended in midair, and the rims were like Saturn’s rings drifting through empty space.
“Are we really going to play here?” Dean said.
“It looks a lot different from down here,” Rob said.
The other boys stood silent, as though reality were slowly sinking in. The awesome, overwhelming, tooth-rattling fact was that in a little over ten hours they would be stepping out on that court and playing basketball in front of a whole lot of people. Sam wondered if the mystery that brought them to the State Tournament would bring them this far only to lose, or if simply
getting this far
was the triumph, the victory, and what happened from here on didn’t matter.
“Let’s change and get on the court,” Sam said.
It was time to drain some of the awe out of it.
“Follow me,” Greg said. He led them into a concrete hallway under the permanent stands. The boys changed into their practice grubs in the spacious concrete locker room where they could leave their uniforms and bags for that night’s game. Diana and Olaf went to find the trainer to go over proper taping procedures for the ankle.
After some free throws on the now illuminated court, they ran offensive patterns for a while with Sam, Axel and Scott providing light-hearted opposition. Then Sam turned the five of them loose to horse around, shooting, dribbling, playground stuff to help them relax while at the same time mentally measure the dimensions of this arena.
Sam and Axel sat on the bench along the side of the court. The thump of basketballs and the boys’ voices echoed hollowly under the great suspended dome. Scott fed rebounds to Rob and Pete at the west basket.
“Rob’s getting his eye,” Axel said, nodding.
Scott rebounded a shot and tossed it back to Rob. Rob dribbled once, sprung into the air, and popped a fifteen-footer.
Swish.
“The big question is in the trainer’s room,” Sam said. “Without Olaf at seventy, eighty percent, we’re sunk, it could be embarrassing. I keep having the feeling that someone is going to knock the outhouse over.”
“Huh?”
“Oh… nothing, an inside joke.”
“Why do people want to win so badly?” Axel said, scrunching up his pug-nosed face. “Last night I watched a NCAA game. It was crazy—guys painting their bodies and faces with their team colors, wearing basketballs on their heads, everyone, men, women, screaming, going bonkers. I mean
these people live or die with the team.” He paused. “I live or die with this team. Why?”
“I don’t know.” Sam said. “Maybe after so many losses along the way we all need to win at something.”
“Maybe that’s it,” Axel said, watching the boys shoot.
Olaf and Diana returned. With their time on the floor about up, Sam blew his whistle and gathered the boys at the bench. He stood in front of them, out on the floor several steps, regarding each boy. A few college students were moving around in various latitudes of the field house, preparing for the afternoon games. Sam collected himself.
“Men, we’re going for three. We’re not here to make a showing. The people of Willow Creek have had to duck tournament news like a bright sun, to watch this world go by, the other teams advancing to glory year after year, leaving them out. Not this time! You’re going to bring them a star, the moon, the whole ball of wax. You’re going to give them back their pride. We’re not going to be afraid to say it out loud, we’re not going to take it one game at a time, we’re going for three. We’re a little nicked up but we’re used to that.”
Sam turned his gaze on Olaf.
“Olaf, you’re the most dangerous center in the tournament, I would hate to have to coach against you. You are a Maalox Moment for all opposing teams. Undoubtedly Wibaux saw the papers about our game with Twin Bridges and they probably have something on their bulletin board about an all-out effort to stop Gustafson. After your thirty-five points last game they’ll be on him like flies on a picnic ham. Let’s hope so, because tonight Olaf will be our bait. While they’re trying to keep him from coming through their front gate, Tom will be knocking down the backyard fence.”
Sam nodded at Olaf and regarded Tom.
“Tom, you’re the strongest forward in Montana. There’s nobody who can outmuscle you on the boards or move you out of the post. Tonight they’re going to see that you are just as damaging on offense. We’re going to put Olaf out on the high post and have you slide in on the low.”
Sam nodded at the bull rider and then turned his gaze on Curtis.
“Curtis, you’re the best invisible man around. Every team that has overlooked you has paid the price. You have personified the name Forget Me
Not far beyond anything I could have hoped for. Without you we wouldn’t be here. Tonight, when they finally catch on that Tom is in their backyard and go after him, you’ll be able to help yourself to the apple tree.”
Sam regarded Rob and Pete, sitting in their cutoffs and grubs.
“Rob and Pete, you’re the two best guards in the state. Alone, you’d start for any team, but together, you become a murderous combination that keeps opposing coaches walking the floor at night and kicking their dog. If Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid could’ve shot as well as you, they’d have died in a nursing home. Tonight, when Tom has knocked a hornet’s nest out of the tree in their backyard, you’ll be setting fire to the roof shooting Roman candles from the street.”
Sam came to Dean, forbearing in this vaulted cavern in his unvarnished youth, gazing back at Sam out of a magnificent innocence. Unmatched socks draped out of his shoes around his gnarly legs.
“Dean, you’re the toughest sixth man I’ve ever seen. You’ve kept your finger in the dike and saved us from being washed away many times. There’s no boy in the state who plays harder or gives more. Tonight you’re going to be a crocodile in their swimming hole. When they’re diving into the water to get away from the hornets and burning roof, you’ll make them wish they’d learned how to walk on water.”
“What hornets?” Dean said, and the boys buffeted him gently.
Sam held out both hands and they quickly huddled around him.
“Win! Win! Win! Win! Win! Win! Win!” they shouted together, but their affirmations of faith were swallowed up swiftly in the great, indifferent spaces of the empty field house.
Thursday night pounced on them. The field house vibrated with a crowd that far exceeded anything they’d experienced at Divisionals. Sam found himself caught up in the anticipation. For once they were playing in the night bracket of opening day, no more dog paddling through sluggish afternoon contests. The Wibaux Longhorns ran a flashy layup drill in their royal blue and gold sweat suits. The spectators had watched Rocky Boy edge Highwood, 94 to 88, in a firehouse game of run-and-gun. Now they stretched and swarmed the concession stands in anticipation of the Wibaux–Willow Creek game. A general curiosity grew over the six-man team and its chances, where Reason and Sentiment each had its favorite.
Gus Holland, the Montana State University trainer, had taped Olaf’s ankle, and after testing it several times, Olaf said it felt good. Sam watched his center’s eyes for hidden reflections of pain, knowing the Scandinavian would play on a bloody stump at this point; they all would. On the ride to Bozeman the boys tried to get Olaf to pronounce their opponent’s name correctly. “Wybox” he would say. No, “Wee-bow” they would correct him. Either way, the Wibaux County High School brandished twelve dashing, weaving boys who came off ranches that endured on the arid, wind-swept plains of eastern Montana. They had two players listed at 6'4", but Sam noted that only one of them started. The Broncs ran layups against a background that had been dramatically transformed from that morning. The bright, vaulted space had become a giant animated amphitheater of human energy and expectancy.
Sam had had some anxiety over their lack of accuracy in the morning workout, but now, with the boys out on the floor in their freshly cleaned gold and blue, it seemed their stray shooting eyes were at least considering coming home. Grandma and Axel resided on the bench in gold sweatshirts and blue slacks, seemingly overwhelmed at the center of this humming throng.
Axel surely looked the part, but Sam figured Grandma, in her brown fedora, would be the center of speculation at least until the game started. Tripod poked his head from a gym bag under Grandma’s chair. Hazel had turned down Sam’s offer to pose as an assistant coach, though he sensed she wanted to in the worst way. Denise Cutter would remain up on the balcony rail. Sam had given the remaining pass to her, forming a coaching staff—in the ticket-taker’s eyes at least—of a barrel-bodied bouncer, a hatchet-faced granny, and a palsied girl in a wheelchair.
They all trotted to the dressing room for their final words. Tom assured Sam and Diana that his knee felt strong. Olaf said that, though his ankle felt stiff with the tape, it didn’t hurt much. Sam briefly reminded them that the bull rider would be the point of their attack, the ball-peen hammer of their offense, while Wibaux was marshaling their defense against the alien giant who had landed in their midst. When they were about to return to the arena, Dean stopped Sam in his tracks.
“I’m scared.”
Sam was taken aback.
“Thanks, Dean, for having the guts to say it,” Sam said. “I’m scared, too.”
Sam paused and glanced at the other boys.
Rob said, “I’m scared.”
The boys regarded one another. Tom nodded, then Peter.
“It’s okay to be scared,” Sam said. “It’ll make us play harder.”
Diana said, “But think how scared
they
are after seeing
you
guys.”
Tom stood and roared, “What are wounds to a knight errant! Sancho!”
“Yes, my lord!” Scott shouted.
“My armor and sword…”
The boys shouted and ran through the concrete runway that led to the court. Sam followed, so tight he thought he was about to pop rivets. They seemed so few, so very few, in the jaws of this numbing, nameless crowd in which they and their followers were swallowed into insignificance. The cheerleaders rallied the townsfolk as the boys took a few final shots and then the team stood at the bench for introductions.
Peter ran off the floor and up the bleacher steps to give Denise Cutter high fives when he was introduced. Many in the crowd watched curiously as this young athlete singled out the small girl in a wheelchair with a bright
blue ribbon in her golden hair. Olaf tried not to hobble out when they announced his name, hiding his vulnerability from the wild dogs who were stalking the herd. The news coverage during the week kept harping on the fact that a six-man team in this day and age had little chance in a state tournament. When the boys returned to the bench for last words and their huddle, they looked tense. Sam managed a smile.
“You worked hard, men, you deserve to be here, now it’s time to have some fun.”
“And learn something?” Dean shouted.
“Yes,” Sam said, patting the top of Dean’s cap.
They joined hands with everyone on the bench, including an overwhelmed Grandma and Axel, and shouted, “Team!”
The players circled the referee. Sam crouched in front of the bench, gripped with such an intense anxiety he thought he might faint. The Broncs and Longhorns went at each other with a strangling aggressiveness, chewing nails and spitting fire. The Willow Creek boys tried to fight off the early jitters like a man trying to pull on his long johns while fleeing from a bear. Curtis let a pass go through his hands, Tom knocked a sure rebound out of bounds, Olaf traveled, and Pete missed a layup.
“Run a play,” Sam hollered, holding up one finger. “One! One!”
Wibaux seemed more settled and was hitting a respectable percentage of their shots, gradually pulling ahead. But by the end of the first quarter the Broncs had the long johns on and the bear hadn’t caught them.
“Okay, we’ve got the jitters over with,” Sam told them. “Now run a play, run a play, do what got you here.”
In the second quarter, they found their footing and settled down. Their game plan began to work. They repeatedly got the ball to Olaf out high and the Longhorns surrounded him. The boy guarding Tom was skinny, almost as skinny as Curtis, and a portion of his attention was drawn to the towering Norwegian. Tom got excellent position in close against the lighter boy and Olaf got him the ball. Methodically the Broncs pulled even as the bull rider began killing them inside: layins, short jumpers, getting his man in the air and going around him to the constant chorus of Axel’s “You betcha!” and Grandma’s “Attaboy!” Olaf ran the floor quite well on the ankle and he was devastating on defense. They attacked him with a frontal assault,
running expendable substitutes into the game, but Olaf had become too adept at avoiding contact while reaching over the shorter boys and swatting their hope away.