Trust Your Name

by Tim Tingle

  Mom gave me a big hug and whispered, “I have never been so proud of you, how you handled this craziness.”

  “And Eddie,” Dad said, shaking his hand and gripping him by the shoulder, “did you make Bobby behave?”

  “You know that’s not an easy job,” Eddie said.

  Dad and Mom looked at each other, and Coach stepped our way after speaking to the lawyer.

  “Did I hear somebody trying to be funny?” he asked.

  “Nothing else to do, Coach,” said Eddie.

  We stopped off at the lawyer’s office before returning to the hotel. Once inside, he seated us all on sofas and chairs. “I know you all want some answers,” he said, “and I wish I had more. I can tell you this.

  “The cashier at the grocery store was the most important witness, Bobby and Eddie. The police and the district attorney were certain he would identify you both right away as the robbers, and they’d whisk you away, charge you with a felony, and you would leave this town not with a basketball championship, but with a prison sentence.”

  “Are you saying,” Coach asked, “that my players were framed because they are playing for the tournament championship?”

  “Coach, I know that anti–Indian feelings are something you deal with wherever you go. The fans here have not been as rowdy against you and your team as we feared. But they were warned. The students—and even the parents—were sent strong warnings about the penalties for racist taunts.”

  “But that doesn’t mean they will accept us winning the tournament,” Coach said.

  “I never thought anyone would go so far as to frame your men for a felony,” Mr. Webster said. “I guess I underestimated them.”

  Dad had been silent until now. “So the cashier said right away that Bobby and Eddie were not the robbers?”

  “Yes, and the desk clerk at the hotel agreed. The boys he gave the keys to were taller. They told him they were asked to bring the players their jerseys. They didn’t say they were basketball players.”

  “But that doesn’t mean they weren’t,” Coach said.

  I could see his mind sailing through clouds of possibilities—the players who shoved and elbowed and did everything they could to hurt us, the fans and coaches who were furious to lose to a band of Indians.

  “So, to wrap this up for now—and it will not be over till we catch the guilty ones—I think I’ll turn it over to Coach Robison.”

  “Thank you for helping my men survive,” Coach said, shaking Mr. Webster’s hand. “As best we can, men, let’s concentrate on the game ahead of us.”

  “I’m ready for that!” Eddie said.

  “Same here,” I added.

  CHAPTER 20

  Back to Business

  As Dad drove us back to the hotel, Coach gave Lloyd’s dad a call. “Blanton,” he said, “can you gather the team in the meeting room? Let them know right away that everything is fine. Bobby and Eddie were not charged with any crimes, and we’ll be there soon.

  “Also, tell them not to ask Bobby and Eddie questions, not now. Let’s forget about the arrests, all of it. We’ll go there later, but for now we need to focus on winning our game tonight.”

  Whatever Mr. Blanton said made Coach smile. “And one other request,” Coach said. “Would you mind giving the team one of your speeches, like you did before our game last year? If you recall, we won that game!”

  We soon pulled into the lot and hurried to the meeting room. Then I remembered New Dad and how important he was to my life. I turned to him.

  “Dad,” I said, “I knew that whatever happened, you had my back. I knew you trusted me, and I am proud to be your son.”

  Dad looked at me with that look, almost like he was about to cry. Then he looked at Mom with a quiet smile and pulled me to him for a good old-fashioned father-son hug. And yeah, Mom joined in, and we shuffled in a circle for a moment, a family of dancers chanting an old Choctaw song.

  “Wehohana hey-yah.”

  “Heylo hay yahay hey yah,” Coach Robison sang. “Now, if you Choctaws don’t mind, we have a basketball game.” He looked at his watch. “In two hours!”

  Mom shuffled Dad to their room while Eddie and I followed Coach to the meeting room. I know Coach had warned our teammates, the Achukmas, not to talk about the robbery or what we had gone through. But how could we not celebrate this Indian victory!

  When we entered the room, everybody stood up and cheered, “Achukma!”

  “Now, down to business, men,” Coach said. “Gather ’round close.” He popped open his laptop and a film of tonight’s opponent flashed across the screen.

  “Unlike the teams we’ve played so far, the Fayetteville Five are versatile. Their low post, Billy Archer, can score either right or left, but mostly he bangs his way to the basket and lays it in. And their high post, Don Sanders, can drive to the bucket or hit a midrange jump shot.”

  “Their point guard, Jay Nickles, is the best playmaker you’ll see all year. He sees the whole court and always seems to find the open man. Bobby, he’s your man. Play him tight. Eddie, you’ve got their wingman, another great shooter, Gary Greenley. He loves corner three-pointers and will sometimes slip behind a pick for a short bank shot. The other wing scores on put-backs and short shots. He’s there for his defense.

  “Hoke, men, let’s watch ’em play and I’ll stop the film for questions.”

  I sat next to Johnny as we watched the film, and he patted me on the knee—not talking about the robbery, but letting me know he was with me all the way.

  As soon as the film discussions were over, Coach gathered us all at the end of the room, huddled together like before a game. “Men,” he said, “this will be a day many of us will remember for the rest of our lives. If you want to turn darkness into light, as I do, let us,” then he paused and took a deep breath, “play clean, play hard, and nobody gets hurt. And let’s win this game for Eddie and Bobby.”

  We slowly reached our hands to his and whispered “Achukma,” lifting our palms to the sky.

  Yes, we are modern kids, young men, modern Americans, school kids. We are also members of our family nations, our Indian Nations. We are Cherokee, Choctaw, Chickasaw, Seminole, Creek, and Lakota. And when we lift our palms to the sky, we’re sending our gratitude to our ancestors, our gone-befores, who sacrificed so much for us.

  Back to our rooms for a brief rest. Onto the bus for the short ride. Into the gym, onto the court, then warm-ups, speech, and tip-off time—time flew that fast.

  I looked to the stands just before tip-off and saw Mom and Dad standing, nervously waving. Next to them stood Mr. Bryant. And next to him stood his guest, who I later found out was the cashier from the store that was robbed.

  “Why did you even bring him to the game?” I later asked.

  “I just had a feeling,” he said.

  The first half was a battle, and it was soon obvious to all that this game could go down to the final minute. We were evenly matched. Mato held his own with the Fayetteville post man. They each pounded the backboards and had seven or eight rebounds apiece at the half. He outscored Mato, but not by much. Their wingman, Greenley, had ten points on three-of-five shooting from long range.

  The real game changer came with four seconds left in the half.

  Fayetteville Five 31–Achukmas 29

  Greenley missed a shot and Mato grabbed the rebound. “Watch the clock!” Coach shouted. Eddie took the pass from Mato, and I glanced up to see time winding down.

  Eddie drove hard to the free-throw line, and when my man took a few steps back, Eddie flipped a pass over his shoulder.

  Everybody was caught by surprise but me. I caught the ball, took one sweet dribble, and from a foot beyond the three-point line let it fly.

  I knew from the moment the ball left my hand, and I was right. The referees waved the three, our fans stood and cheered, and the half was over.

  Achukmas 32–Fayetteville Five 31

  But the real game changer was yet to happen.

  Long
after the game was over, Dad told me the whole story. Here’s how it happened.

  As my shot dropped through the net, Dad cheered, and so did Mom and so did Mr. Bryant—but the cashier, Mr. Finch, did not. He stood up slowly and pointed to the bleachers on the far side of the gym.

  “What are you doing?” Mr. Bryant asked. “Bobby just scored. We have the lead.”

  Mr. Finch said nothing, just kept pointing, while everybody around him cheered. Bryant elbowed Dad. “I think you need to see this,” he said.

  “What is it?” Dad asked.

  “Finch saw something.”

  Dad leaned around him and asked Mr. Finch, “What’s going on? What did you see?”

  Mr. Finch motioned for Dad to sit down, and he covered his mouth before he spoke.

  “I spotted the robbers,” he said. “They are sitting with the team from Tulsa, the tall boy and the boy sitting next to him. They’re the ones who robbed me at the store last night.”

  “I knew I couldn’t tell Coach Robison,” Dad said. “You still had a game to play.”

  “Did you call the cops?” I asked.

  “I hurried down from the bleachers, making sure those two boys didn’t leave. I followed them to the lobby, where they lined up to buy popcorn and sodas. That’s when I saw Officer Belton. He and another officer stood by the door. ‘There they are, the two boys who robbed the store and framed my son,’ I told him.”

  “Did he believe you?” I asked.

  “Not at first, Bobby. I think he was still angry that you and Eddie weren’t still in jail.”

  “How did you convince him?”

  “I didn’t have to. Mr. Finch, the cashier, was right behind me. ‘I swear to you, Officer, those are the two boys who robbed me,’ he said, pointing to them, and that’s all it took.”

  “And we didn’t hang around after that,” Mom said. “Officer Belton spoke to the Tulsa coach, and I pulled your dad away.”

  “Their coach was furious,” Dad said, “and started making a scene in the lobby. So the other officers pulled him away as Officer Belton asked the two Tulsa players to step outside, and that’s where he placed them under arrest.”

  “I’m glad you said nothing to me,” Coach Robison added. “As I told them, we have a game to focus on now. The rest will be dealt with later. How was I to know they’d be spotted at the game?”

  CHAPTER 21

  Championship on the Line

  And what a game it was! Down by only a single point, the Fav-Five turned up their hustle-engine—and so did we. Eddie and I had both hit some three-pointers in the first half, so they guarded us tight.

  Eddie was ready!

  With the score tied midway through the third quarter, he took over. I saw him looking at me like he wanted the ball. I waited till he reached his favorite spot on the three-point line and tossed it to him.

  His defender crouched down and guarded him closely. Eddie didn’t dribble—he lifted the ball quickly over his head, faking a shot. When his man left his feet, Eddie drove around him, all the way to the bucket.

  The Fav-Five post man took one big step in his direction, and that would have stopped anyone else as short as Eddie. But nobody else that short can jump that high!

  Eddie soared over him, all the way to the rim, and rolled the ball off his fingers and into the basket. We never trailed after that. Eddie tossed in some threes, I hit a few, and every Achukma on the floor felt the fire.

  Final score: Achukmas 56–Fayetteville Five 49

  Following the trophy presentation, we quickly showered and changed. “Let’s get to the hotel, where we can celebrate!” Coach shouted.

  We gathered in the dining room, trying to make sense out of an unbelievable day. “When the championship was on the line,” Coach said, “you stepped up!”

  Dad picked up our shiny new trophy and held it high. “Yes, they did, Coach!” he said. “They stepped up to the three-point line.”

  “And we didn’t drive all the way from McAlester to see you finish second,” said a man’s voice from the door. “Go on in, son,” he said, ushering in our biggest fan, Sammy Darnell, wearing his thick glasses and a huge ear-to-ear grin.

  “I knew you would win,” he said. “You did and I knew it!” Out of the corner of my eye I saw Mom dash out the door.

  Where is she going in such a hurry? I thought. In a few minutes she returned with an Achukma jersey. She handed it to Coach and whispered something to him.

  “We have another award to present tonight,” said Coach, standing up. “This Achukma jersey goes to our number one fan.”

  We all stood and clapped, then lined up to shake Sammy’s hand.

  “You young men mean so much to my son, and to me too,” his father said. “You guys are champs.”

  When we settled down at the table once more, our thoughts returned to the Tulsa boys, whose lives would never be the same.

  “I hope they’ve learned a lesson,” Dad said.

  “They will learn their lesson when they blame themselves for everything that has happened this weekend,” Coach said. “Blaming others does nothing but dig your hole deeper.”

  “And my Bobby climbed out of his hole,” Dad said.

  “So did we all,” said Coach. “So did we all.”

  But the night was not over yet. The desk clerk pulled Coach aside.

  “Mr. Finch, the cashier who was robbed, is here,” he said. “He wants to say a few words, if that’s hoke.”

  “Sure, tell him he’s welcome,” Coach said.

  CHAPTER 22

  Root Beer Toast

  Coach held the door open and Mr. Finch entered, looking to the floor and taking one small step at a time. He was in his sixties, balding, and stood maybe five feet six inches tall, with a plump belly.

  He wishes he could be invisible, I thought.

  Mr. Finch looked around the room, and when he spotted us he lifted his shoulders and shivered. He turned to Coach with fear in his eyes.

  “You’ll be fine,” Coach said, and led him to our table. Dad offered him a seat, but Mr. Finch shook his head. “I’m only here for a minute,” he said. “I’ve caused enough trouble for you already.”

  “None of this is your fault,” Mom said. “Please, won’t you join us?” Mr. Finch settled into the empty chair and took a deep breath.

  “I am so sorry,” he said, glancing around the table. He hung his head and looked so sad I thought he was going to cry! “I never pointed a finger at your son or his teammate,” he said to Dad.

  “Mr. Finch,” Dad said, “we never blamed you. We knew you would tell the truth, and when you did, you saved these boys’ lives. You, Mr. Finch, are a hero. Isn’t that right, boys?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said.

  “I’ve never been so scared and so happy in the same day,” Eddie said. “And the happy part was because of you, Mr. Finch.”

  Mr. Finch leaned back and an almost-smile crossed his face. “Do you mean that?” he asked.

  “You bet he means it,” Dad said. “Now—and I hate to ask you to relive it—but can you tell us what did happen last night?”

  Coach had been standing nearby, listening. But now he grabbed a chair from another table and joined us.

  “I’ll tell you what I told the police,” Mr. Finch said, leaning forward with his arms on the table.

  Fear’s gone, I thought. He’s been waiting for this!

  “It was a few minutes before midnight, and I was starting to count the cash and total up sales for the day. We close at two a.m., but the only sales after midnight are usually at the gas pumps.

  “I didn’t see a car pull up, but the beeper on the door let me know somebody had entered the store. Next thing I knew there were two men standing in front of the counter. They wore ski masks that covered every inch of their faces, with holes for their mouths and eyes. And under their jackets they both wore Panther T-shirts.

  “That’s why they accused us first,” I said.

  Mr. Finch nodded and continued. “
They were hunched and turned sideways so I couldn’t see them straight on. The tall boy was light-skinned, looked blonde-haired to me, and his arms hung way long, below his knees.

  “The other boy was shorter and he was the one with the gun, a short pistol. ‘Give it up, man, if you wanna live,’ he said. And it was the way he tossed his head back when he talked, that’s how I spotted them at the game. He was so cocky.”

  “I gave them every bill I had, a full day’s sales from noon to midnight. Then I held my hands up and backed away. I just knew they would shoot up the store, and maybe me.

  “But they tossed the money in a bag and ran out the door. I sat down on the floor for a few minutes, scared to move. When I was sure they were gone, I called the police.”

  Coach wrapped his arm around Mr. Finch’s shoulder, and now he did cry. He sobbed and shook till Dad brought him a cup of coffee. Mr. Finch wiped his face and stammered, “Thank you.”

  I glanced at Eddie and his stunned look told me we were having the same thought.

  They were accusing us of robbing this old man with a gun and threatening his life.

  Dad tapped his fist on the table before he spoke.

  “Mr. Finch, we have all faced evil square in the face—last night and today. But we were strong, we did what was right, and evil did not win. You are part of our championship day. Will you join us in a toast?”

  Mom dropped her jaw and looked at Dad with wide eyes, while Coach hopped from his chair and hurried to the kitchen.

  “I will be glad to toast your championship day,” Mr. Finch said.

  In two minutes Coach stepped from the kitchen with six paper cups filled with ice and a big bottle of root beer.

  “Root beer on the rocks!” said Dad. We stood, lifted our glasses, and whispered, “Achukma.”

  “Do you know what achukma means?” Coach asked. Mr. Finch put his cup on the table and looked every one of us in the eyes.

  “Yes, I do know what achukma means,” he said. “My mother was Choctaw, and she is smiling from above.”

  About the Author

  Tim Tingle is an Oklahoma Choctaw and an award-winning author and storyteller. Tingle performs a Choctaw story before Chief Batton’s State of the Nation Address at every Choctaw Nation Labor Day Festival.