Authors: Stanley Gordon West
Thrashing like a runaway penguin and using most of the speedometer, Dean intersected Thomas’s line of trajectory and went up with him, trying to block the shot. He took the Seely-Swan guard tailspinning into the first row of bleachers, and the ball sailed into the crowd. The ref blew his whistle and pointed at the scrappy freshman. It was only then that both Dean and the roaring partisans realized the consequences.
It was his fifth foul! Dean was out of the game.
All the oxygen seemed to be sucked from Diana’s body.
The buzzer belched its note of disaster like a delinquent fog-horn to a ship already on the rocks. The scoreboard showed a bloodied “5” next to Dean’s number “32.” With three minutes and twenty-nine seconds on the game clock, Willow Creek, leading by five points, would have to continue with only four players.
Sam called timeout as the Cutter boy, his chest heaving, came off the court dripping with the despair of his soul-searching innocence. The spectators throughout the field house stood roaring, a tumultuous tribute to the intrepid little freshman. Sam patted him on the back as he dropped onto the bench. He was crying.
“You played great!” Sam shouted to him. “You got us this far and we’re going to win it!”
The huge audience remained on their feet, humming over what was transpiring in front of them. The boys sagged on the bench. Sam crouched.
“Okay, we’ve practiced this a million times,” Sam yelled, attempting to remain collected. “Bring the ball up with ‘volley ball,’ four-man zone on defense. Remember,
we’ve
got the advantage, you’re used to playing four on five, they’ve never done it. Be patient, use your heads, and just when they think
they’ve
got
us,
we’ll shove them in the well.”
They joined hands in a circle and shouted “Team!”
Then Tom said, “Each time he falls…” And the rest of them chanted, “… he shall rise again!” Then the four of them turned into the face of what remained.
G
RANDMA
C
HAPMAN PRESSED
Tripod to her breast as a wave of sadness attacked her. They had worked so hard, had fought their way through the woods to get here, and then
this
happens. Everything was going against them, Hazel had been right, it was too good to be true. Despair squatted on her with the weight of her good friend, who was somewhere
behind her in the stands. Just off to the right of the bench and back a few rows, she had heard loud voices shouting nonstop for Gustafson and Stone-breaker. Finally she turned to see who it was and was startled to recognize Craig Stone and Gary Harkin, along with several other Twin Bridges players, athletes who had made their road so tough, shouting their guts out for Willow Creek. She feathered the volume up on her radio.
“… can hardly hear ourselves think with the noise of this crowd as the four boys come back on the floor… It’s deafening, this field house is rocking, folks… The teams line up at the free-throw lane… Thomas will have two shots with his team trailing, 56 to 51… This boy has played a hell of a game and his seventeen points have kept Seely-Swan close… He bounces the ball and gets set… oooh, it’s in and out… the crowd goes crazy, most of them flying Willow Creek’s banner now… He’ll get another… Thomas sets himself, shoots the ball… count it… Seely-Swan has pulled to within four, 56–52… and here we go, four against five. Wow… let me tell you, fans, I’ve never seen anything like this in a state tournament… Johnson gets the ball to Gustafson, Gustafson holds the ball high in the backcourt, looking for a teammate against the zone press… gets the ball to Strong… Strong dribbles up the side… Thomas and McHenry trap him, there’s that lob back to Gustafson just over the midcourt line… They’ve broken the press all night with their big center… Gustafson gets the ball to Johnson… Johnson wings it over to Strong… three minutes and seventeen seconds.”
Grandma turned up the volume and hugged Tripod to her breast.
“The Blackhawks are swarming, double-teaming, but the Willow Creek boys are using the clock and at the same time avoid being trapped… Strong guns it down the side to Stonebreaker… he whips it cross-court to Johnson… Willow Creek is moving without the ball, back cutting and going four corners, always moving, no one standing still… Their coach is only a few feet from us here at the table and I can feel the sparks coming from the man… Johnson dribbles up high… bounce passes into Gustafson… he pops the ball back out to Strong… The two Willow Creek guards are frustrating the Blackhawks with their speed and ball handling… Johnson gets it high to Gustafson in the paint, they collapse on him… the big center sends it back out to Johnson… he’s open, takes the shot… Holy
cow!… He nails it!… The field house is going crazy… Willow Creek 58,Seely-Swan 52, with just under three minutes in the game.”
Grandma jumped up, almost flipping Tripod out of her jacket.
“The Blackhawks bring it in quickly… the Broncs fall back into a four-man zone… looks like a one-two-one with Gustafson on that bad ankle directly in front of the basket… Man oh man, this is an unbelievable championship game… Thomas gets the ball to Boyd…”
“De-fense! De-fense! De-fense!”
Sam could feel the pulse of the crowd with every missed shot, every rebound, every turnover, a legion of voices and faces on the edge, hardly able to breathe, while five boys tried to overrun four. They swung the ball just beyond the boundaries of Willow Creek’s reach and the Broncs staked claims around the paint, conceding the outside shot. It seemed to Sam that Seely-Swan sensed they’d already won, moving in for the kill like the wild dogs of Africa, confident that they could wear them down and finish them. But they were overeager, extremely excited, over passing, out of sync. Impatient for the kill, Boyd took a quick fifteen-footer from the edge of the key. He missed. Olaf, Tom, and Rob went to the boards with bared teeth. Rob picked off the rebound. The rumbling sound cascaded off the walls of the field house and swirled like a firestorm.
With single-minded toughness etched on their faces, the Broncs chiseled their way up the floor, whittling seconds off the clock. Olaf grunted out position in the high post and Rob got him the ball. Completely boxed in and stumbling with fatigue, he threw a leaden pass toward Pete. Boyd cut it off and streaked upcourt for an uncontested layup. Sam felt as though someone had punched him in the stomach. The congregation of the hopeful, still on its feet, sagged and hushed. The Blackhawks had pulled to within four, 58 to 54, and there were still two minutes and twenty-one seconds to play.
Willow Creek embezzled as much time from the clock as they could while trying to escape the gambling Keystone Cop defense the Blackhawks threw at them. Growing frantic, Seely-Swan hounded relentlessly with larceny in their eyes. Pete ran a pick-and-roll with Tom and Tom broke free toward the basket. Olaf saw Tom coming and screened Lapp from Tom’s path. Pete delivered the ball and the bull rider went up and nailed it, bringing a
seismic tremor from the leaping and ecstatic host. Sam threw his fists at the ceiling.
Axel bearhugged Dean off the floor.
Willow Creek 60, Seely-Swan 54. Two minutes and eight seconds.
Sam saw the weariness in their faces and he wanted to call time out, but they only had one left. The Seely-Swan coach saved him; he stopped the game to calm his flustered players. The four Broncs came to the sidelines soaked in sweat and they slumped onto the bench. The noise in the arena became a tornado, willing on the gutty quartet, sustaining them, nourishing them.
“How’s your knee?” Sam asked Tom.
Tom ignored the question and Sam had his answer.
“One more minute and I’ll call time out,” Sam said.
They nodded, still sucking for air, seemingly too exhausted to speak.
Then Tom said, “Let’s not give ’em the calf!”
When the four of them went back onto the floor, the roar washed over them like a great tidal wave. In their black and gold, Seely-Swan flowed swiftly into the front court. They moved the ball to the least guarded section of the court, looking for the perfect shot. Boyd was open in the corner—the vulnerability of the four-man zone—and Tom lunged to get on him, too late. The boy snapped the net with a superb three-point shot and the arena gasped from the blow.
One minute and fifty-three seconds. Willow Creek 60, Seely-Swan 57.
Within three points, the Seely-Swan boys turned the screws on their zone press. McHenry and Thomas trapped Pete along the side before he could get his lob back to Olaf. Unable to pass the ball, Pete bounced it off McHenry’s leg and out of bounds. Willow Creek’s ball. Rob lobbed the ball in to Olaf and they hedge-hopped their way into the front court. Pete dribbled along the side and zipped a pass to Olaf. He looked for a teammate open and held the ball too low. Cooper got his thieving hands on the ball and tied him up. The possession arrow favored the Blackhawks.
The Black and Gold hurried the ball downcourt as the crowd droned with an uneasy noise. Sam looked at the clock.
One minute and thirty-two seconds.
He could soon give them another break with their last time out. Seely
Swan had uncovered the weakness in the four-man zone. Move the ball around to one side and then a quick cross-court pass to the other side. They were picking on Tom’s corner, knowing he couldn’t get out to cover the shooter. Everyone in the field house could see what was coming. The bull rider did all he could to cover the ground between him and the shooter, but the steady McHenry hit the open jump shot, a three-pointer, bringing a gasping silence to most of the arena. The Seely-Swan section erupted with joy.
Seely-Swan 60, Willow Creek 60.
One minute and thirteen seconds.
Sam waited until Willow Creek had worked the ball into the front court and then shouted to Rob.
“Time out! Time out!”
They came to the bench with sixty-eight seconds left in their life together. It seemed that their unyielding adversaries had stolen the momentum, as though the crowd had sensed the miracle had fallen short. The Seely-Swan players were celebrating at their bench, exchanging high fives and shouting as though it were over, as though they had Willow Creek in their jaws and had only to shake the life out of them. Sam patted each of the four on the back and allowed them a minute to catch their breath, dry their arms and faces and guzzle water. The ludicrous bench crew huddled around them. Then Sam kneeled in front of them.
“Okay, you can relax. You don’t have to go back on the floor.”
The four regarded each other with puzzled expressions.
“It’s over, look.” Sam pointed at the Blackhawk bench. “They figure they’ve won it, they’re just waiting for someone to give them the trophy.”
The boys gazed at the celebrating Seely-Swan boys. Sam could see anger color their faces, tightened their jaws, narrowed their eyes. It was his last hope—that when they were drained beyond all physical endurance, they could reach back and find something to go on, something spiritual, the intangible grit of a wildebeest cow.
“Well, I’m going back on the floor, by God,” Tom said.
“Let’s blow ’em out of the water!” Rob shouted.
Pete stared across the floor. “Stuff it down their throats!”
“They shall mount up with wings like eagles, they shall run and not be weary!” Grandma shouted, startling Sam.
The buzzer sounded. The boys threw off their towels and stood.
“Listen,” Sam said. “Get the ball to Olaf, get the ball to Olaf. Olaf, go for the shot.”
The four came onto the court and the fans rallied behind them, freight trains in the sky. Sam looked up into the blur of faces and knew that, though these people had come to watch an athletic contest, it had become much more than that now. They were hoping to find out if their deepest longings—the fairy tales they clung to like a teddy bear from childhood—would ever come true. They stood and cheered for four boys they didn’t know, who represented the misspent lives within themselves, the dreams they’d never realized, four boys who stood for the shattered hopes and lost loves that would never return, and they cheered because in those four boys, for this one glorious moment, they would all
win!
With the game tied and a minute and eight seconds to find their way home, Rob got the ball inbounds to Pete. The Blackhawks swarmed around Olaf. Elbow for elbow, Olaf battled for position in the low post. Tom slid to his usual spot on the right side. Rob and Pete dashed and ducked to get free and keep the ball moving between them. Without looking, Pete ripped a high, hard one to Olaf, who had worked open for a split second, moving in and out of the paint as though Ray Collins’s Lightning Commander shock collar were attached to his belt. He caught it over his head, planted his left foot as though it were nailed to the barn loft floor, and pivoted to the basket. Lapp, Cooper, and McHenry converged. Olaf rose for the shot and the three defenders went up with him, arms extended, desperately trying to prevent him from scoring. And they did. The ball hit the backboard and came off the side of the rim. Tom, who had hobbled unattended to the basket along the baseline, exploded above them all, and tipped it in. And he was fouled.
You wonderful son of a bitch!
“Take us home!” Sam hollered, “take us home!”
The building trembled as the fans erupted. Strangers hugged each other, pounded one another on the back and exchanged high-fives. With the Broncs up 62 to 60, Tom accepted the ball from the referee. He disciplined himself and went slowly through his ritual. Exhaling a deep breath, Tom catapulted the ball, and though slightly off the mark, it scooped the rim but had enough of the shooter’s finesse to fall back soft and true.
Willow Creek 63, Seely-Swan 60.
Sam and the Willow Creek bench clung to each other, unable to shout, casting their eyes above to the scoreboard clock. Forty-nine seconds! Sam couldn’t breathe, his heartbeat pounding in his throat, while Diana shouted and shook him by the arm.
“They’re going to do it! Oh God, they’re going to
do
it!”
Reeling from the blow, Seely-Swan immediately called time out. The outnumbered boys came to the bench with hope in their eyes. Tom winced when he bent the knee to sit. No one high-fived or demonstrated. They went about the business of nourishing themselves for the last mile of the journey. Without a word Sam sensed they all realized it was within their grasp and still on the other side of the moon.