Trust Your Name

by Tim Tingle

  Wait one minute! School is still going on, I realized. I took a deep breath, walked to the office, and explained my part in what had just occurred. The assistant principal, Mr. Northcutt, gave me a permission slip.

  “Please excuse Bobby Byington for being tardy. He was performing school business,” the note read, and Mr. Northcutt signed it.

  In world history class, as the Germans invaded Poland, I tried to keep my mind on anything but Heather’s stepmother.

  “You must stop worrying about things you can do nothing about.” I remember Mom saying that to Dad as we returned from a family picnic, months ago. Dad took Mom’s advice, and so did I.

  I listened to teachers talk, did a few math problems, and ate lunch at a corner table in the cafeteria with Faye and Lloyd. Faye took charge as we sat down, saying, “Bring it up if you want to, Lloyd, but otherwise we’ll keep quiet about it.”

  “Good idea,” said Lloyd.

  CHAPTER 7

  Miracle Room Comes Through Again

  The final bell rang. I tossed my books in my locker and headed to my above-ground safety spot, the gym.

  Coach Robison stood under the basket for rebounds while Les Harjo, our new Creek teammate, and Ryan MacAlvain, our newest Choctaw, shot free throws. I watched for a few minutes and was soon joined by my Panther teammates.

  Les took two dribbles with his left hand, grabbed the ball, and rocked it back and forth twice on the palm of his right hand. Then he arched a soft shot with a nice follow-through.

  Ryan’s style was slightly different. He dribbled a few times with his right hand, then let it fly. Both players shot with confidence and hit at least seven or eight out of every ten shots.

  “Not bad,” Panther Bart said, walking up behind us. “Has anybody missed yet?”

  “Yeah,” I said, “they’ve missed a few. But not many.”

  Coach blew his whistle and we didn’t wait to be told. We hurried to the dressing room and in ten minutes were running up and down the gym in a full-court scrimmage. “Let’s try a man-to-man press,” Coach shouted, “both teams.”

  He wanted to see if Les and Ryan could dribble and pass when pressured—and of course they could. Ryan took the ball at midcourt and held it high over his head. Les made a quick cut to the ball and Bart darted after him—just as Les hoped. He cut behind Bart and sprinted to the basket. Ryan threw him a sharp pass and Les dribbled in for a lay-up.

  Our scrimmage was short, since Les and Ryan had arrived earlier in the day and were a long way from home. “Do your homework and keep the grades up, Panthers, and I’ll see you tomorrow. And let’s give some high fives to Choctaw Ryan and Creek Les.”

  On the drive home Johnny said, “Les Harjo, Ryan MacAlvain, Greg Tiger, Bobby, me, Mato and Eddie McGhee, makes seven. We’re over halfway there with our summer league Indian team.”

  “Twelve players. Wish we had twelve Panthers. We coulda won district,” I said.

  “From what I hear, we can expect half the football team to try out for basketball next year,” Lloyd said. “Nothing builds a team like winning, and we did plenty of that.”

  “No kidding!” I said. “I played summer ball at the park with a few football players. They’re not great dribblers or shooters, but they sure know how to bump you outta the way to get a rebound.”

  “Panthers, Panthers, go, go, go!” Johnny said, and we all had a good laugh.

  “Hoke, now that we’ve had our funnies, Lloyd, what’s up next? With Heather’s stepmother.”

  “Jail time, thirty days,” Lloyd said, “and she has a restraining order. If she comes within two hundred feet of Heather, she’ll be in for some serious jail time.”

  “Anybody want some backyard hole time?” I asked.

  “Only if you call and let your dad know,” Johnny said. “And tell him we smelled nachos when we drove by earlier. Hint, hint.”

  Lloyd laughed out loud. “You guys are the luckiest dudes in school, you know it?”

  Dad came through in a way we never expected.

  I gave him a call and he met us in the backyard with six cans of chilled root beer.

  “I’m at your service, boys,” he said, “you know that. Hop in your man cave and I’ll bring you some nachos.”

  Hoke, Dad is up to something, I thought. This is tooo much, even for him. In two minutes he knelt down and passed us a huge plate of melted cheese nachos.

  “Want some help closing the door, Dad?” I asked. Hint, hint.

  “Hoke, boys, I’ll leave you alone. Some gratitude!”

  Johnny laughed and Lloyd stood up, saying “Thank you, Mr. Byington. We appreciate all you do.”

  “Try telling that to them Indian troublemakers!” Dad said.

  “So says old man Choctaw,” I said. “Love ya, Dad.”

  “Love ya too, son.”

  We leaned against the cave walls, munching nachos, sipping root beers, and happy to be buried alive.

  “Is Heather staying in town?” Johnny asked, looking at Lloyd.

  “Yep,” said Lloyd. “I wish her stepmother would leave. Heather will never feel safe till she does.”

  “Maybe if her stepfather got a job out of town,” I said, “maybe then they’d move.”

  “Fat chance of that,” Johnny said.

  “You have an idea, don’t you?” Lloyd asked.

  “Maybe,” I said. “Coach Robison has friends all over Oklahoma. And if her stepmother wants to start over, it’s not gonna happen in this town. A woman with jail time! No way.”

  “The cost of moving …” mumbled Johnny

  “The cost of staying …” mumbled Lloyd.

  “The cost of calling Coach …” mumbled me.

  Miracle Room, that’s what we should call my underground room, ’cause miracles happen often here.

  “Give me two days,” I said, “and I’ll see what Coach has to say. How about we meet, same time, same place, day after tomorrow?”

  “Hoke, gotta go,” said Lloyd. “Let me know how it goes with Coach.”

  “Good luck, Lloyd,” Johnny said, pushing the door aside and helping lift Lloyd up and out.

  When he climbed back in, Johnny pulled the door over our heads and sighed. “First his dad almost dies, then his girlfriend leaves home.”

  “And remember what we used to think about Heather?” I asked. “She was the meanest bully we’d ever seen. We wanted her to go to jail, the way she treated Faye.”

  “Show’s what we really know about other people.”

  “Next to nothing.”

  “I heard somebody calling,” said a voice from above.

  “Mystery Lady Faye, come join us,” Johnny said.

  With Johnny’s help, she soon joined us.

  “Any news about Heather?” I asked.

  “Nothing you guys don’t know,” Faye said.

  “Tell her your idea,” Johnny said.

  “Are you still tutoring Heather?” I asked.

  “Yes. Why?”

  “I had an idea. Can you ask her, real easylike, if she’d be hoke with her stepmother living somewhere else? Tulsa maybe? Anywhere far enough away that she wouldn’t have to worry.”

  “I think we already know the answer to that one,” Faye replied.

  “Yeah, but just to be sure.”

  Faye looked back and forth from Johnny to me.

  “Mind telling me the plan?” she asked.

  “I’m gonna ask Coach Robison if he can find her father a job somewhere,” I said. “Once she gets out of jail, nobody in town will want anything to do with her. She won’t be happy here.”

  “She’ll never be happy anywhere,” Faye said. “But sure, I’ll mention it to Heather.”

  “We have a meeting with Lloyd at four thirty-five p.m. the day after tomorrow,” I said. “Can you join us with Heather’s answer?”

  “Sure,” Faye said, “as long as you’ve got nachos and root beer.”

  Another voice from above said, “Thought you’d never ask!”

  “Dad
, are you listening to everything we say?! What if we have teenage secrets? What if I tell my friends what I really think about you?”

  Hoke, that was too much, too real. Dad was insecure since he stopped drinking, always afraid of what people really thought. He did not reply.

  “You still there, Dad?”

  Dad slid the door aside and handed Faye a plastic plate of fresh nachos.

  “Yakoke, Mister Byington,” Faye said with a smile.

  “You are most welcome. And don’t close the door yet. I’ve got something for you too, Bobby. Give me a minute.”

  As Dad returned to the house, I leaned back against the wall. “Uh-oh,” I said. “Dad’s gonna get me back. A bucket of ice cubes, dirty bathtub water, something. He’s not letting me get away with what I said.”

  We didn’t have long to wait.

  “Here, Bobby,” Dad said, kneeling down and handing me a plate of warmed-up cherry fried pies. “Here’s something to share with your friends.”

  When he saw the surprised look on my face, he nodded—and a cool, fatherly grin spread across his face.

  “Gotcha, didn’t I, Bobby?”

  “Yes, you did, Dad. Yes, you did.”

  I was still whispering yes, you did as he returned to the house and we enjoyed the warmth of my new dad.

  Early next morning I walked to the gym to speak to Coach Robison. I knew I’d find him drinking coffee and reading the morning newspaper.

  “Morning, Coach. Can I bother you for a minute?”

  “What’s on your mind, Bobby?”

  “I wanted to run a plan by you,” I said. “It’s about Heather’s stepmother.”

  “What’s your plan?” Coach asked.

  “As long as her stepmother is in town, Heather has no chance of a normal life,” I said. “You know people all over the state, business owners, people who hire workers.”

  Coach read my mind again.

  “Let me get this straight, Bobby,” he said. “You want me to find a job for Heather’s father that will force him to leave town? Am I right?”

  “Yes, and Heather’s stepmother will move too, once she gets out of jail.”

  Coach slowly reached for his coffee cup and took a long sip. When he finally spoke, his face had that warm Choctaw glow. “Once again, son, I am proud of you. You want to help Heather, bullying Heather.”

  “She’s changed, Coach. Just like my dad.”

  “You’re right, Bobby. Now, I’ll think on your plan, and you better get to class.”

  “I’m gone, Coach,” I said over my shoulder, dashing out the door. “See you at practice!”

  CHAPTER 8

  Call Your Own Fouls

  News on the Heather front quieted down and basketball took over. We met every day after school for a quick hour of shooting drills and full-court scrimmaging. Saturday morning soon arrived and Dad banged on my bedroom door.

  “Get outta bed, Bobby,” he said. “Today is your first day of practice with the all-Indian basketball team! Aren’t you excited?”

  “Excited is not the word for it, Dad,” I said.

  “Well, come on, son! Your pancakes are in the toaster oven and syrup is on the table. Come give your Mommy a good-morning kiss.”

  “Thanks, Dad, but that’s your job.”

  Soon after breakfast Johnny honked his car horn and drove us to the gym. Coach was already on the court, and ten—we counted ’em—ballplayers were warming up at both baskets.

  “Hey, Bobby, what took you so long?” Eddie shouted. We shook hands with Les, Ryan, Greg Tiger, and Mato and nodded at our newcomers.

  “Have a seat,” Coach said, waving to the bleachers. “We’ll do the introductions later. Are you men ready for some full-court five-on-five?”

  “Yes, sir!” we said.

  “Good. We’ll play an eight-minute quarter, and you call your own fouls. Play clean and remember, the man you’re guarding is a teammate. We play clean. Always. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Alright. Newcomers first. Johnny, you and Greg stand up so they know who you are. Men, this is Cherokee Johnny and he’ll be your captain for today.”

  He pointed to his right and said, “Johnny, that’s your goal, and you’ve got five minutes to get your team organized. Man-to-man defense and fast breaks are encouraged.”

  “Let’s go, men,” said Johnny.

  “You men who already know each other,” Coach said, “that’s your goal to my left.”

  In the fastest five minutes of my life, Coach blew his whistle, whhrrrrr!, and shouted, “Newcomers, your team has the ball first. Let’s go! And remember, call your own fouls.”

  Call your own fouls.

  That took away all complaining and fussing about a bad call. When you foul the player you are guarding, you know it. If you pushed a man under the backboard to get a rebound, you did it on purpose. Call your own foul means you are not getting away with it.

  Then another thought struck me.

  That’s how Dad stopped drinking, how he returned to his family. He called his own foul. He admitted he was wrong—not me, not Mom. Dad raised his hand and called attention to the foul he had committed, and I will never forget the courage he showed in doing it.

  As Greg Tiger dribbled slowly across half court, Eddie looked my way and gave me a quick tilt of his head, aiming at the dribbler.

  Why is he snapping his head at me? I thought. When he dashed to meet Greg at midcourt, I knew what he was saying.

  A half-court press! Brilliant!

  They’d never be ready for it. I left my man and hurried to double-team Greg. As he picked up his dribble, Eddie and I waved our arms in his face and made life miserable for this far-from-home Seminole.

  “Here!” shouted Johnny, running from the free-throw line for the pass. But Ryan jumped in front of Johnny and intercepted the pass. He threw it downcourt to a speeding Mato, who leapt over the rim and rolled the ball from his palm through the basket.

  Double-team when they least expect it! Yeah!

  Our Guys 2, Newcomers 0

  Coach Robison blew his whistle.

  Whhrrrr! He had a big smile on his face and was shaking his head.

  “I should have warned you Newcomers,” Coach Robison said. “Eddie McGhee and Ryan both played on teams that pressed the whole game, and Mato’s been fast-breaking before he could walk.”

  Nobody on the Newcomers was hanging his head. They high-fived and nodded at each other.

  Hoke, you got us. Now it’s our turn!

  I was hoping to see some regular half-court offense,” Coach continued. “I’m hoke with the press, but I’m warning you. The Newcomers will be ready this time around.”

  “Yeah!” The Newcomers hollered, and they were ready. After a few times down court, both teams looked like they had been playing together forever. We set picks, hit jump shots, nailed a few three-pointers. And nobody pushed or shoved or complained. This game was fun!

  As the quarter ended, Mom and Dad climbed the bleachers with Johnny’s parents and waved at us.

  Coach Robison blew his whistle again and called us to the sideline. “Good clean tough play. The kind I like to see, men. Let’s slow it down now. Swap ends of the court, and I want to see a little less sprinting from the basket when a shot goes up.

  “Remember, we’ll be playing teams made up of all-stars, and you’ll need to block out to get the rebound. We don’t want any second or third shots.”

  When Coach speaks, we listen. Everybody pounded the boards and every rebound was contested. Mato got his share, so did Johnny and Ryan, my too-tall Choctaw buddy, and a few fouls were called.

  “I hit him!” Les called out, as a Chickasaw Newcomer, Phil Morgan, grabbed his cheekbone in pain.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to do it,” Les said.

  “No problem,” Phil said, stretching and rubbing his jaw. “Thanks for the call-out.”

  He hit both free throws, and as we ran down court I saw Johnny’s dad and mine high-five
. They liked this style of clean hard play.

  That’s another never-before, I thought. A Cherokee lawyer and a Choctaw high-fiving!

  Thirty minutes later, Coach called us together one final time for the day. “Men, we have a buffet meal for you in the cafeteria. Shower and change—Johnny and Bobby can show you the way. Before you leave the gym, I want you to know this. I am proud of every one of you. You are the players I wanted to coach, and this is an honor for me. We will win, on and off the court, and the Native world will be better because of your efforts.”

  Wow. I never thought of that.

  The Native world will be better because of our efforts? As I turned to go, I saw tears streaming down the cheeks of Dad, Mom, and Johnny’s parents too.

  “Oh, one more thing,” said Coach Robison. He stepped to his office and returned carrying a box of T-shirts. “Practice jerseys,” he said. “Now, let’s see if any of these will fit. Mato, try this one on.” He tossed a light blue T-shirt to our Big Bear Lakota post man.

  While Mato pulled his regular jersey over his head and said thank you through the cloth, Coach grabbed another T-shirt.

  “Let’s see, here’s a baby size.”

  “Not funny, Coach,” I said, and everyone laughed and slapped my shoulder as Coach handed me my blue shirt. “How did you know it was yours, Bobby?”

  “Uh, let’s see, Coach,” I said. “Maybe because it has my name on it?”

  “A Choctaw who can read!” Johnny shouted, pumping his fist. “News flash!”

  More laughter.

  Five minutes later we all wore our new T-shirts, light blue with our names on the back and the word “Achukma” in large letters across the front.

  “Why do the jerseys say Achukma?” Mato asked.

  “Bobby,” Coach said, “why don’t you explain what achukma means?”

  “Sure, Coach,” I said. “Achukma is the Choctaw word for ‘good.’ We say it all the time.”

  “And why would I select Achukma for our team name?” Coach asked.

  Eddie spoke first. “If it’s like the English word ‘good,’ achukma has two meanings, and both fit our team.”

  “Go on,” said Coach.

  “We are a good team, highly skilled,” Eddie said. “And we are also good people, always trying to do what’s right.”