No More No Name

by Tim Tingle

“Man, what am I gonna do with you?” Dad asked, shaking his head and leading us through the garage to the patio.

  I filled three glasses halfway with ice and to the top with root beer, and joined my two man buds.

  “Fixing the broken window is not solving the problem,” Dad said, and I knew which road the conversation was taking. “Don’t you have to report what he did? Aren’t you required to do that?”

  “Yes. I already filled out the paperwork. I’ll be meeting tomorrow morning with the principal. He will have to report to the district office. But I feel certain, as long as he repairs the window and causes no more problems, that the district will not file charges.”

  File charges! I hadn’t thought of that. But it made sense. Lloyd’s dad had destroyed school property and threatened a school employee. In front of students.

  This was more serious than I had imagined. And I thought my dad was the craziest rampaging idiot I’d ever seen. But even Dad never destroyed school property.

  Then another thought crept into my mind.

  If he smashed a window with a chair and waved the chair in Coach Robison’s face, what has he done to Lloyd?

  Coach and Dad must have read my mind. They both took a sip of root beer and looked to me.

  “You think he’ll keep his promise?” I asked.

  “Oh, I fully expect to see a repair crew early tomorrow morning,” Coach said.

  “That’s not the promise I’m talking about, Coach.”

  “You mean his promise not to hit Lloyd.”

  Dad leaned back and his eyes grew wide. He was hearing this for the first time. “Whoa,” he muttered under his breath. “It’s getting deep.” Then his eyes went to me. He covered his mouth with his fist and I knew what he was thinking.

  “Hey, Dad, we’re cool now,” I said. An important lesson of the “No Name” story is forgiveness, and when it comes to Dad, I’m all about forgiveness.

  He nodded and patted my hand.

  “I also can’t ignore his threat to his son, promise or no promise,” Coach said.

  “I think I know where this is going,” said Dad.

  “I know you’re a mind reader, Buck, but you don’t have a clue why I’m here.”

  “Hoke, let’s see,” Dad said. “How about tickets to a Thunder game? How’s that for a big-time wager?”

  “You’re on,” said Coach. “Hoke, what am I asking you to do?”

  This was so cool. It was like I was invisible. No! Better than that! Both Coach and Dad were giving me my first glimpse into the world of beer-drinking men, even if it was root beer!

  “You’re asking me to head to the bar again, as soon as possible,” Dad said.

  “No way!” I shouted. When jaws dropped and they stared at me, I added, “Sorry, but I just couldn’t stay quiet and listen to that ridiculous idea.”

  “Well, Bobby, my little basketball star,” Coach said, “your dad just won free tickets to a Thunder game, for your entire family. And my wife and I will tag along too.”

  “Dad, you can’t start drinking again!”

  “I’m not going to the bar to drink, son,” Dad said, as he and Coach bellowed out the belly laugh of the week. When they finally settled down enough to speak, it was Coach who explained the plan.

  “Bobby, I’m asking—or I was about to ask—your dad to find Lloyd’s dad and have a talk with him.”

  “And the easiest place to find him is at the bar. And I know he and I share one thing,” Dad said.

  Coach and I waited without saying a word.

  “We are both angry drunks,” Dad said. “The worst kind. My biggest worry is that he’ll take his anger out on Lloyd. As I know, promises mean little when the fire takes over.”

  “What if he keeps the promise and takes his anger out on Lloyd’s mother?” I asked.

  The silence told me they were thinking the same thing.

  CHAPTER 9

  Under the Spell

  “I have a few friends I can call,” Dad said as we entered the house. “They can let me know when Blanton appears at the bar. They know when to keep a secret, so I’m not worrying about them saying anything to him.”

  “Buck,” Coach Robison said, “you know how to talk to him. Go easy, but make sure he understands how close he came to being arrested.”

  “I hope I can talk some sense into him,” said Dad, and I knew he was asking himself if this would have worked with him.

  Coach shook Dad’s hand, thanked him, and drove home.

  For the next few days, Mr. Blanton must have done his drinking at home. Dad received no calls. And I was glad to get back to basketball.

  Lloyd and I showed up at the gym an hour before school started every day. “What’s up?” he said, greeting me on our first day of before-school practice. We both wore b-ball shorts and carried our school clothes rolled up in a bag.

  “Let’s do some dribble drills first,” I said, “to get that left hand strong. I can use the work myself.”

  We both dribbled a hundred times—around the back, through the legs—all with our left hands only. I had forgotten how hard a behind-the-back dribble was with no right hand.

  “Oh man,” said Lloyd. He kicked the ball across court and dashed after it.

  “Hey, Lloyd, just remember you’re not the only guy who can’t go to his left. This drill is helping us both, big time.”

  “I just hope I can do it,” he said. “It’s like dribbling with a shovel. How do you do it?”

  “It’s all about the muscles, Lloyd,” I said. “You build up the muscles on your left arm, especially your left wrist, and it gets easier. You’ll see.”

  When I kicked the ball, trying to dribble through my legs, Lloyd picked up his ball and gave me a suspicious look.

  “You did that on purpose,” he said. “I’m not buying it. You’re better than me at this ball-handling stuff. I know it. So just don’t act like you aren’t.”

  I had to laugh. “Hoke, Lloyd, sorry. But I’m on your side, dude. You gotta know that.”

  “Let’s take a break,” he said. “How about some jumpers from the free-throw line?”

  Lloyd started on the left side of the court and drove hard to his right, even with the free-throw line. He stopped on a dime, then jumped high and turned—in midair—to face the basket. He let fly with a high, arching shot that kissed the rim on the way down.

  “Nice shot,” I said. “That’s why Coach added this play, Lloyd. You’ve got a sweet jumper from fifteen feet away, and this new play will get you open.”

  “Let’s shoot twenty apiece and keep score,” I said. And was I in for a surprise. I usually took my shots from the corners, or sometimes straightaway from the top of the circle. Fifteen feet, no problem—or so I thought.

  What I did not consider was Lloyd’s ability to dribble quick to his right and suddenly stop, then transfer all that energy into his jump. Me? I almost always faced the basket. I missed my first three shots.

  “That’s enough,” said Lloyd. “One more miss on purpose and I’m outta here. Besides, classes start in twenty minutes.”

  “Hey, Lloyd, I’m not missing on purpose. I’m out of my league here. Gimme a break.”

  “Wait till I tell Coach about how you can’t hit a wide-open jumper from the free-throw line,” said Lloyd.

  “You don’t have to tell me anything. Nothing goes on in my gym without me knowing it,” Coach Robison said, stepping out of his office.

  “How long have you been there?” Lloyd asked.

  “Since the beginning of the year, when I accepted the coaching job,” he said. “And it seems like forty hours a day instead of sixty a week.”

  Lloyd and I picked up our basketballs and headed to the dressing room.

  “Not yet,” Coach said. “By my count you still have seven shots to go, and Lloyd has a three-to-nothing lead.”

  “Yeah, I’m on it,” Lloyd said. He dribbled with his left hand to the starting spot, switched to his right, drove to the line, and sank another jump
shot.

  “Man, you’re making it hard for me,” I complained, then hit the next three in a row.

  Lloyd beat me, eight to five, and I was happy for him. But, since basketball is a competitive sport, I was not entirely happy.

  “Good job, boys.” Coach said, “Now get dressed and hustle to class. If you’re late the first day, we all get in trouble.”

  Lloyd and I made it to class with five minutes to spare. As we hurried from the gym, I was reminded of another complication. What happens when Heather decides to wait for Lloyd?

  She already did wait for him after practice. What happens when she and Faye are both standing around outside the gym, before school, waiting for their boyfriends?

  I guess I could call her my girlfriend. She kissed me. I kissed her. Doesn’t that qualify?

  I entered first-period English and tried not to stare at her.

  There she was, my Mystery Lady Faye, sitting by the window and watching the December breeze blow leaves from the trees.

  “Shut up,” I told myself. “You are a basketball player, a varsity starter. You are not a poet, so cool it with all this romance stuff.”

  I plopped my books on the desk and took my seat.

  “How did practice go?” Faye asked from two rows away.

  Muffled laughter came from several classmates.

  As I turned to face her and give her a wide-eyed cool-it look, I caught the scent of her perfume. I tilted my head and blinked a few times, helpless and confounded by Mystery Lady Faye.

  “Did you hear the assignment?” Mrs. Porter asked.

  “Uh, yes, ma’am. No, I’m sorry. I guess I wasn’t paying attention.”

  The whole class laughed at this one. I ducked my head between my shoulders. “Sorry,” I muttered.

  “Jerry,” she said to the student sitting next to me. “Let Bobby know what we’re doing today so he can join us.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Jerry said.

  Thus began my first day under the spell of Mystery Lady Faye.

  CHAPTER 10

  Coming Off the Bench

  On day two of our early morning practice, Coach added a new drill.

  “Bobby, I want you to stand on the free-throw line, waiting for the ball. And Lloyd, what’s your job?”

  “I’ll drive hard to my right, then pivot back and fire a pass to Bobby, for him to take a shot,” Lloyd said.

  “You’re right so far,” said Coach. “Now, can you tell me what’s so special about this play?”

  Lloyd and I both had to smile. “I’ll fire the pass with my newest friend,” Lloyd said. “My left hand.”

  “Yeah,” I said, and Lloyd and I did a little two-step fist bump.

  Coach Robison blew his whistle and stepped off the court. I moved to the free-throw line and Lloyd began his dribble. Two dribbles and ten feet later, he stopped and pivoted, with his back to his invisible defender.

  With his left hand only, he scooped up the ball and fired a pass in my direction. Hoke, so maybe he didn’t fire a pass. Let’s say he floated a pass in my direction. But it did arrive chest high, perfect for my shot.

  “Good pass, Lloyd,” Coach said. “You’ll get there.”

  “Thanks, Coach, but I’ve got a long way to go.”

  “But you’re on your way, son. And here’s another drill to help you get there.”

  He pulled a roll of tape from his pocket and marked an X on the floor next to Lloyd. “Stand here, Lloyd, and take a few dribbles with your newest friend, then throw the pass. No pivots. Just dribble and pass.”

  “How many times, Coach?”

  “Till your arm falls off, son. But don’t worry, it’ll grow back before this afternoon’s practice.”

  “Can I have his old arm for a souvenir?” I asked.

  “Sure thing, Bobby,” Coach said. “You can nail it to your door.” Then he blew his whistle and stepped to his office.

  Something about Lloyd’s left arm hanging from my backyard door reminded me of Dad’s favorite Led Zeppelin song:

  Good times, bad times

  You know I’ve had my share

  I said a quiet prayer in hopes that good times were ahead, for both of our families, Lloyd’s and mine.

  We practiced twice a day, and the week sped by with no big dramas. No smashed windows, no calls from the bar, no bad bullying.

  Faye and I decided that Heather had a short attention span. She had moved on and was now picking on one of her own friends, a friend who had made an A on a math test.

  “Hey, let’s go get some burgers and fries after school,” Heather said one day at lunch, dumping her tray in the trash can for everybody to see. “I’m not eating this junk food anymore. Who wants to go?”

  Her friends waved their hands and giggled, just as Heather knew they would.

  Suddenly she froze. She tilted her head and dropped her mouth wide open. With her hands on her hips, she announced, “No way are you coming with us, Miss Suzy—the school In-Tuh-Lect-Chew-ULL. You’re too good for us.”

  I buried my head in my hands and hoped Faye hadn’t heard her. But she did, and snuck up behind me.

  “Don’t worry, Bobby. I’m cool. At least she’s after somebody else.”

  The week fast-tracked, and looming ahead was my first basketball game since the accident. I woke up Friday morning after a restless sleep. I hopped out of bed—and that’s when it hit me.

  Mom and Dad will be going to the game together. For the first time, both of my parents will sit together, drink Cokes together, and watch their only son play in a varsity basketball game.

  “Be cool if I was on the starting five,” I thought. Then another thought came to mind. I remembered Lloyd’s dad smashing the window in Coach Robison’s office.

  No, no problem with my coming off the bench. Besides, Dad understands why, and so will Mom. They’ll still be proud of me.

  Proud.

  Just like in the story “No Name.” My dad will be proud of me. I hope Lloyd’s dad is proud too.

  Then I was hit with another thought. What about Lloyd’s dad? What will he do when I take Lloyd’s place?

  As usual, I met Lloyd in the gym before school. “You ready to play?” I asked him.

  “Ready as ever,” he said. “I guess Coach wants to wait till next game to add the new play, since we haven’t practiced it with Johnny and the full team yet.”

  “I guess so.”

  “Oh, and in case you were wondering, Mom and Dad will be at the game. A cop dropped by the house yesterday, while we were having supper. He and Dad talked for a few minutes. I don’t know exactly what was said, but I’m sure it had something to do with the window.”

  “Can I ask you something, Lloyd?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Is your dad drinking a lot since that day?”

  “He’s cut back. Big time. And he’s staying home. No trips to the bar. But we’ll see how long that lasts. He’s cut back before.”

  “How are things around the house?”

  Lloyd looked at me without speaking.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I don’t mean to be nosy. Just trying to help. You know I went through all this with my dad.”

  “Not easy, is it?” he asked, then shook his head fast, trying to make it all go away. “Things are a little tense between him and Mom. But better than the cussing and fighting when he’s drinking heavy.”

  “And I thought I was the only one,” I said.

  “So did I,” said Lloyd. “So did I.”

  Coach Robison joined us on the gym floor. “No hard workout today, boys,” he said. “Let’s take ten jump shots apiece from the line, then the same number of free throws. That’ll be enough for today. I want you both well rested for tonight.”

  “Thanks, Coach,” I said.

  “Thanks for everything,” Lloyd added.

  If I’m lying, I’m dying. Ten out of ten jump shots for Lloyd, ten out of ten for me.

  CHAPTER 11

  Jump Shooter Lloyd

 
“I want you to think of this as the start of a new season,” Coach Robison said, beginning his pregame speech in the locker room. “We’ve played hard and won a few, but lost too many. The real season starts now. We have the talent. Let’s show that we have the desire to win and the determination to fight through mistakes, exhaustion, whatever stands in your way—our way.

  “Think of every play on defense as a game changer. Fight through every screen, hit the boards for every rebound, go for every loose ball. And when you have the ball, play smart.”

  Coach cast his gaze across the locker room, looking every one of us in the eyes, letting us know his message was for the team. As he finished, he motioned for us to stand and join hands in a circle, bowing to the center.

  “We are a team,” he said quietly. “Let us always remember. We are a family. We are a team.”

  “Now, men—one, two, three—yes!”

  Our family of fifteen, joined as one, sprinted to the court for our final warm-up drills before tip-off. Johnny and I wanted so badly to look to the stands and see where my parents sat, how close they might be to Lloyd’s mom and dad.

  I guess I wasn’t as subtle as I hoped. Lloyd jumped in line behind me and whispered over my shoulder.

  “Remember what Coach said? We are here to win a basketball game. You can’t focus on the people in the bleachers. That’s for later.”

  “Hey, Lloyd, you’re not just a cool teammate,” I said. “You’re a mind reader, and boy did I need that.”

  “Hey guys, what about me?” Johnny asked.

  “Oh yeah, sorry,” I said. “I forget. Did your folks walk that Trail of Tears too? My dad says you rode in limousines.”

  “Not funny,” Johnny said.

  “Somebody’s gonna have to fill me in on what this is all about,” Lloyd said.

  “Later, Lloyd,” Johnny said. With a smile he added, “And you should talk to me first, not this uninformed Choctaw kid.”

  Through the entire conversation we were shooting lay-ups, grabbing rebounds, and running from one line to the next. No one else paid any attention to anything we said. Every small group had their own banter going on. Which was good.

  Still family.