by Tim Tingle
Coach let the silence hang for a moment. We felt his pride and shared it. Always trying to do what’s right.
“Now, let’s head down to the cafeteria for some food,” Coach said.
We followed Coach Robison to the buffet meal, with the bus driver, Mr. Bryant, and our parents not far behind. As we filled our plates with roast beef and gravy, veggies, and plenty of dessert—ice cream and still-warm cherry pie—we waited for Coach to speak before we took our first bite.
He said a quiet prayer and we all joined him in “Amen.”
On the way home, Mom said, “Your dad and I have lived all of our lives for this day, Bobby.”
What’s the big deal? some people might ask. If you spent your life hoping nobody would hurt you or your kids because you were Indian, you would understand.
I still remember driving through a town, maybe thirty miles away, and seeing a sign on a restaurant door: We Don’t Want Indians. Because No Indians Allowed is against the law.
Get it?!
“Guess we’ll drive through town real slow,” Dad said.
“No reason to break the law,” said Mom.
But, hey! Things are different now. We have our all-Indian basketball team, and we are gonna win some games.
CHAPTER 9
Will Summer Ever Get Here?
That night, for the first time in six months, Coach Robison showed up at our house. Mom made a pot of coffee and we all sat on the back patio.
“I’ve got news about Heather,” Coach said. “And Bobby, it’s not to be repeated.”
I nodded.
“Her dad is blaming the school for everything. He says his wife never hit that teacher’s car.”
It was hard for me to keep quiet. I was there. I saw what happened. Heather’s stepmother smashed her old car into the teacher’s sedan and was approaching the back door of the school when the cops arrived.
“But he’s only trying to clear her reputation before they leave town,” Coach said. “I found him a job, Bobby, a decent-paying job in a factory. So Heather’s dad has a choice. He can let his wife serve a full month in jail, three more weeks, or he can pack his things and move to the city.”
“Oklahoma City,” Dad said.
“And the judge has agreed to cut her sentence by two weeks if she agrees to leave town immediately,” said Coach. “A friend of mine, a real estate agent, found them a rental house. It’s in an old neighborhood, but clean and safe.”
“And Heather?” I asked.
“Heather’s aunt will get temporary custody,” Coach said, “and the restriction remains. Her stepmother cannot come near her. Ever again.”
“You are an amazing man, Coach,” Dad said.
Coach smiled and hung his head.
“And humble too,” Mom said, patting him on the shoulder. “Would you like to stay for supper?”
“Yakoke, but I should be heading home,” Coach said. As he stood up to go, he turned to me.
“Bobby,” he said, “our next team practice is Friday. We’ll practice for a few hours, and the team is spending the night. A local motel is giving us a big discount in rates, both for the team and a few parents who can get away.”
“Can’t wait,” I said.
“Neither can I, Bobby,” Coach said.
To say the week crawled by wouldn’t come close, but finally Friday afternoon arrived. Coach started the practice with a shoot-around, a chance for us to get to know each other better. Shooting guards and playmakers gathered at one end, and Eddie started by tossing up a three-pointer several feet behind the line.
We stared and hollered “Whooaaa!” as the ball sailed to the basket and “Yooooo!” when it split the cords. Soon Coach blew his whistle.
“Come have a seat, boys!” he shouted. “Good news! We’ve got a game tomorrow, with a local high school.”
Johnny and I looked at each other with bug-eyes and whispered “Wow.” No local high school has a chance against the Achukmas. How is Coach gonna pull this off?
“Southside High from McAlester, at noon tomorrow,” Coach said. “And as you Panthers know, they have a tough big man and love to fast-break.”
Not exactly local, I thought. And their post player was All-State, a six foot five giant, a real challenge for Mato. Suddenly the mood turned serious. Everyone took a deep breath and leaned in closely. Playtime was over; game time was here. Finally.
CHAPTER 10
Achukma, the Bad, and the Ugly
“What’s Bobby so quiet about tonight?” Dad asked at the dinner table. I shrugged my shoulders.
“I’m just being a polite little boy, Dad. Pass me the meatloaf, please.”
Dad lifted the meatloaf with his left hand and held it away from me. “Hoke, Dad! I’ll tell you. Meatloaf please.”
“Let me guess,” Dad said. “You’re worried if Mato can guard that McAlester All-Stater, Tommy Boyd?”
I made an ugly face and stared at Mom. See what this old man does to his innocent little boy!
Mom laughed and shook her head. “I’m not getting between you two,” she said.
“Yeah,” said Dad. “Who wants to stand between a Mac truck and a tricycle?!”
Dad did it again. He made me laugh, made me relax.
After we cleared the dishes, Dad and I sat on the patio. “Talk about anything you like, Bobby. I’m here to listen.” He reached across the table and patted my hand, to let me know he was not joking.
“I know we can beat those guys, Dad,” I said. “Nobody’s gonna dominate inside. Mato and Boyd will both get their points and rebounds.”
Dad waited.
“I just hope we don’t have to deal with somebody like Lloyd’s dad. His old dad, the one who cussed at us and smashed Coach’s window.”
“Funny you should mention that,” Dad said. “Mom and I will be sitting with Lloyd and his family tomorrow.”
I looked up and felt the grin growing across my face. “Think you can make him behave?” I asked.
“Who? Coach Robison?”
Jumping ahead. Game time.
The next morning I rode with Johnny to the game. When we arrived, the parking lot was almost full, with the McAlester school bus, parents’ cars, and buses from Native culture centers all over Oklahoma. Fans poured out, stretched, and looked for the nearest restroom.
“Man, would you look at that,” Johnny said.
“You’d think it was the championship game.”
We looked at each other and both had the same thought. To many Oklahoma Indians, this is the championship game—the first time ever we can stand in a gym built by and for Nahullos and cheer our Indian heroes with pride.
The gym wasn’t packed, but maybe four hundred fans climbed the bleachers. And even though there were no cheerleaders—after all, this was only a Saturday morning scrimmage—a cheer soon swept the stands.
“’chukma, ’chukma,
Go! Go! Go!
’chukma, ’chukma,
Go! Go! Go!”
“Now that’s cool,” I said to Ryan, my Choctaw teammate, as we shot lay-ups.
We expected coaches to trade off and do the refereeing, but there were real uniformed referees.
Hoke, I thought. This is more than just a practice scrimmage. Man, I can’t wait!
After warm-ups, Coach herded us to the bench for that one final go-get-’em talk. But Coach didn’t follow us to the bench. He walked to the bench where the McAlester players sat.
Surely Coach isn’t gonna cause some trouble?!
The entire gym grew silent.
As if that wasn’t strange enough, the McAlester coach walked over to our bench, and shook Coach Robison’s hand as they passed the scorer’s table.
“What’s going on?” Eddie asked.
“Wait and watch,” Johnny said.
“Now, men,” the opposing coach said, “I am Coach Maniford and I coach the McAlester Bulldogs, as you know. We won this year’s state title and we are tough. But so are you. I want you to play the best baske
tball of your life and do everything you can to send us back home as losers.
“Because losers get better and become winners. And we need to be knocked down a notch. Our pride has taken over and we think we can beat anybody. Let us know we can’t. Play clean, play hard, and no complaining to the referees, is that clear? We Bulldogs will do the same, and you are in for a battle. Now, hands together.”
We all put our hands on Coach Maniford’s and he counted to three. In Choctaw!
Achufa, tuklo, tukchina!
“Yeah!” we cheered, then sprinted to midcourt.
“Wait just a minute!” Coach Maniford shouted. “Come on back, men.”
We hurried to the sideline, and Coach Maniford had a big grin on his face. “I just wanted to let you know,” he said, “Coach Robison and I will switch back after the tip-off.”
We all took a deep breath and let the air flow.
WHoooooo!
“What just happened?” Johnny asked me.
“Coach Robison made a new friend,” I said. “I’d give anything to know what he said to the Bulldogs.”
We soon found out.
As we scooted in between Bulldogs, waiting for the referee to toss the ball up, every Bulldog turned to his closest Indian opponent, reached out for a handshake, and said, “Nobody gets hurt. Deal? Hard but clean.”
We shook hands with respect and the game began.
No injuries, I thought. Please.
Mato won the tip and slapped the ball to Eddie, who fired me a pass. I hit Johnny, and he threw it back to Eddie, who launched the first shot of the game, straightaway from the three-point line. The ball bounced high off the backboard, and the race was on!
We sprinted back on defense, but not quick enough. Mato was All-State at the post, but so was Tommy Boyd, the Bulldog center. Boyd set up with his back to the basket, ten feet away on the baseline. When Mato muscled around in front of him, Boyd cut to the basket. He caught a lob pass and banked it in.
Bulldogs 2–Achukmas 0
“Heads up, play hard!” Coach Robison yelled.
Johnny tossed me the inbounds pass and I dribbled up court. I hit Eddie in the corner, and he lobbed it over his man to Mato in the post. Mato faked a turn to his right, and when Boyd left his feet, Mato stepped around him for a slam dunk.
“Payback time!” I shouted, jumping up and tossing my fist to the ceiling. Bad idea.
That gave my man just enough time to dash behind me, catch a long pass, and sink the lay-up.
“Uh oh,” I said to myself, then looked at Coach and my teammates. “Sorry guys,” I shouted. “No more celebrating!”
“Good idea,” said Chris, the Bulldog guard who dashed by me for the score. Chris Curtis.
I looked at him and we shared a smile. “Hey,” Chris said, “we’re here to learn. I don’t mind teaching you.”
I nodded, bit my bottom lip, and thought of my theme for the day—Who’s teaching who?
I didn’t have to wait long to use it.
“I gotcha covered,” Eddie said as he threw me the inbounds pass. He ran by me and said quietly, “Pick and roll, you do the popping.”
It was hard for me not to laugh. How’d he know popcorn is my favorite junk food?
As we crossed midcourt, I passed to Eddie, still twenty-five feet from the basket. I set a screen for him, and when his man tried to fight over it, I turned and cut to the basket. But too many big men guarded the lane, so I stepped back. Eddie threw me a bounce pass and I let fly with the soft jumper that got me on this team in the first place. Please let it go in!
The crowd OHhhed and AHhhed, then broke into cheers, at least those sitting on our side of the gym did.
“’chukma, ’chukma,
Go! Go! Go!
’chukma, ’chukma,
Go! Go! Go!”
“You’re a quick learner,” said my Bulldog buddy Chris, dribbling to the sideline.
Achukmas 3–Bulldogs 2
They led by four at the end of the first quarter, and Coach Robison was pleased. “Good hustle, men. They are state champions, so we knew this wouldn’t be an easy game. But we will win. Say that with me,” he whispered and gathered us close.
We knelt around him, touching hands to shoulders and knees and forming a circle that we hoped would never be broken.
“We will win,” we whispered.
“Now, starters take a seat and Team Newcomer, you take the floor. Let’s start off with a tough full-court press. Go for the ball, but no hard fouls. Remember, nobody gets hurt.
“And they will be ready for the press, so don’t leave the basket unprotected. Alright, men. Hands together.”
We slapped our hands on top of Coach Robison’s and made the tallest tree of Indian hands this gym has ever seen. “Achukma!” we shouted.
CHAPTER 11
Zipper-Mouth Night
The Bulldogs stayed with their first team to start the second quarter, as we expected. Coach Robison’s strategy was no secret. Press full-court, force them to speed up the game just to get the ball downcourt. And when we grabbed a rebound or when they scored, fast break and throw quick passes to the open man.
Why? The Bulldogs had won a state championship and had an All-State big man. But the Achukmas, the Oklahoma Indians, we had nothing but all-stars on our team. Our second unit, Team Newcomer as Coach called them, was strong too, and often outplayed the starters.
Chris brought the ball downcourt to begin the second quarter, and he dribbled in front of our bench. “Why don’t you call out for some pizza, Bobby?” he said. “I’ll split it with you at halftime.”
Coach Robison covered his mouth with his fist to keep from laughing out loud. Yeah, Chris was funny, but funny on the court, as I was learning, doesn’t always work.
Johnny and Chickasaw Phil double-teamed him, trapping him on the sideline. Coach Robison leaned out from the bench and waved his pointed finger at me. I knew what he was saying.
He made a joke and it cost him, Bobby. So keep your mouth shut.
Got it, Coach, I Choctaw-told him, with a nod of my head. I’m a quick learner.
Glad I kept quiet. Chris had been trapped before. He bounced the ball off Johnny’s knee and out of bounds. “Bulldogs’ ball!” the referee shouted, tossing Chris the ball.
Coach left Team Newcomer in for the whole second quarter. They did a great job. Johnny couldn’t score over Boyd, but he fought hard for every rebound.
And even Chris tired as we kept up the press. Our team was full of energy and we were eager to show the home crowd, the Native crowd, what we could do. Chickasaw Phil had a great mid-range jump shot.
He had that step-back move, where he drove hard and forced his man to stay low and guard the lane. Then he stopped on a dime and took one quick dribble back before launching a fifteen-foot jumper. He scored eight points in the second quarter, on four-for-six shooting!
Chris tried to guard him, but the step-back is impossible to stop. After his third bucket, Eddie looked down the bench at me and pointed to Phil. “Wonder how long he’s on Team Newcomer?”
“I’m thinking he’s already outscored both of us,” I said. But no jealousy, not even close. We were so happy to see the team Coach Robison had put together. We led by six at the half, a ten-point turnaround.
We knew the second half would be tough, especially since we only had a ten-minute break. “No time to catch your breath,” Coach said. “No halftime speeches. You can take a seat if you need to or stay on court for a shoot around. And get ready for a different style of play in the second half. Nobody wants to lose.”
The Bulldogs had not lost a game in four months! They hated the thought of that long bus drive home after a loss. Still no dirty play, but no more jokes and no coach-swapping.
Coach Robison stepped over to the Bulldog bench to shake hands with their coach just before tip-off. The two coaches were friendly enough, but not like before.
“Team Achufa, first team” Coach said, “you will start the second half.” He h
eld out his hands and we added ours.
“Achukma,” he whispered, expecting us to shout to the rooftops, like always. I will never know why we did what we did—our Achukma Indian team—but I will also never forget it. Instead of jumping and shouting and storming the court, we whispered too.
“Achukma.”
Almost a prayer of thankfulness that we could be here. Together. Our fans and parents felt it too. They rose in silence and waited for the tip-off.
Mato won the tip and Eddie grabbed it, threw it to me, and I drove hard down the sideline. Two Bulldogs double-teamed me, and with nowhere to go I picked up my dribble. I wasn’t expecting a half-court press!
These guys were supposed to be hanging their heads with exhaustion. But they were champions for a reason. My Choctaw buddy Ryan cut from his post position for the ball. I ducked under Bulldog Chris and fired him the pass.
When Chris turned to watch the play, I flew past him and caught the ball. Lay-up time!
Or so I thought.
Tommy Boyd thought otherwise. He waited for the ball to leave my hand, and just before it hit the backboard, he slammed it so hard it was like a fast-break outlet pass.
Chris lunged for it with his right hand, flipped it over his shoulder, and drove hard for a lay-up. The over-the-shoulder flip was so cool, even our own fans cheered Chris. Following the basket, he ran backwards downcourt and smiled and waved to the crowd.
I glanced at Coach Robison, and even though I knew he was not happy with my turnover, he was very pleased with the welcoming cheers from our parents and fans.
A short while ago, Chris would have had something to say to me, but we both agreed, without saying a word, to keep quiet and let our play speak for itself. As the end of the quarter neared, Eddie and I both caught fire.
I faked a shot, tossed him the ball, and set a pick—still a good twenty feet from the bucket.
No problem, oh no, for Eddie McGhee!
His jumper’s in net and it’s worth three!
I sang my new song for him four times in the third quarter. I only hit two threes, but add a short jumper from the lane as Eddie and I totaled twenty points!