by Tom Hansen
Kenny Gormon took over right where he left off in the first half. The Martin Park defense couldn’t even locate Kenny as he moved with blinding speed around their two-one-two zone, hitting jumper after jumper. Meanwhile, Tyrone Banks had blocked the last three Martin Park shots in the paint, setting up three successful fast breaks for Seminole Bend and causing the defending state champs to start shooting longer shots, something they never had to do before. With two minutes and four seconds left in the game, Martin Park called time out as their lead had sunk to ten points, eighty-nine to seventy-nine. Albeit still a daunting task against a superior team, this was the last chance opportunity the Warriors needed. During time out, Martin Park devised a plan to break the Seminole Bend one-two-one-one full court press that had caused four turnovers in the quarter.
“Okay, boys,” Coach Berry said calmly. “We’re now going to switch to a half-court, one-three-one trap. They’ll be looking to break the full court zone by going deep, and maybe we can confuse them.”
“But Coach, we’re down ten! We need to keep pressure right up front,” hollered Marcelus. “There’s only two minutes left!”
“We’ll go half court this time down the floor on defense, and then three quarter court trap the next, then full court man to man. But that will only work if we keep making our shots. We’ll keep up that pattern until the end of the game. But you need to concentrate and always be thinking about which defense you’re in. Defensive pressure is the only way we can get the ball back. Everyone needs to be on the same page, got it?”
In unison, the entire team responded, “Got it!”
Martin Park was confused! Where was the full court pressure? As their High School All-American point guard, Clevus Mathune, dribbled across the half court line, Willis and Marcelus clamped on the trap and forced an errant throw that Tyrone picked off. Kenny had already sprinted down the floor and Tyrone threw a strike for an easy layup, eighty-nine to eighty-one.
Expecting now to wait for the half-court trap, Martin Park was bewildered to find the trap had moved up to three quarters court. Johnny Jones slapped the balled away from Martin Park’s Matt Russell into the hands of Willis Mann who flipped it behind his back to Tyrone for another slam dunk! One minute and thirty-five seconds remained; however, Seminole Bend had closed the lead to six.
The full court man to man pressure startled Martin Park again and they couldn’t get the inbounds pass in within the allotted five seconds. Another turnover! One minute and thirty seconds to go, Jones passed the ball to Kenny who flipped it over to Willis and then broke for the basket on a give and go. Willis’ pass was intercepted by Clevus, but he was immediately tackled by Tyrone. Clevus Mathune hadn’t missed a free throw in his last seventeen attempts, three games ago. His first shot was nothing but net. So was his second, but the Martin Park center stepped in the lane too soon, nullifying the basket and making the score ninety to eighty-three.
Jones again inbounded the ball to Willis who dribbled and streaked elegantly through the Martin Park full court zone, then cut towards the corner before lobbing a perfect pass to Tyrone for his sixth dunk of the night. Score: ninety to eighty-five.
So why are they falling back, away from the full court press again, thought Clevus? Those damn Warriors were now back to a half-court trap. Clevus dribbled the ball just short of the half-court line, then stopped his forward motion, but kept dribbling. He was going to wear off the ten backcourt seconds that he was allowed before penetrating into the half-court zone. As the clock showed fifty-five seconds remaining, Clevus put his shoulder down and drove like a madman towards the basket. Tyrone just waited in the lane with his arms up high. Clevus hit Tyrone like a bowling ball hits wooden pins, but Tyrone didn’t budge. The ball lofted towards the basket and bounced off, but it didn’t matter. Both officials had blown their whistle, placed one hand behind their head, and pointed toward the Warrior’s basket: charging on Clevus!
Martin Park called time out for two reasons, the first to let the men in stripes learn some new choice words from the litany of assistant coaches the Martin Park taxpayers were paying for, the second to set up a tight box and one zone. Four players would form a box in the lane and Clevus would stick to Kenny Gormon like glue.
Ten seconds later, a confused Warrior team called time out. They were still down five, but now only forty-one seconds were left in the game. Coach Berry called for a back pick on the zone and a dangerous lob over the top to Johnny Jones. That was the last man Martin Park would have guessed to get the ball, and Johnny’s shot from ten feet out on the baseline rolled around the rim twice before swirling through the net. Ninety to eighty-seven, with twenty-seven seconds left to play.
The three quarter court trap would have been easily broken by Martin Park, however, Johnny Jones forgot where he was going on defense after making the crucial shot, and he accidently got in the way of the Martin Park sideline pass! In one airborne athletic move, Johnny intercepted it and then tossed it over to Willis as he was about to fly head first into the stands. With only twenty-two seconds left, Willis couldn’t wait for Johnny to return to the offensive set, so he dribbled into Martin Park territory, four on five. Marcelus set a perfect back pick on Clevus Mathune, freeing up Kenny for an easy twenty-foot jumper. As usual, nothing but net. Martin Park was up one, ninety to eighty-nine with only fourteen seconds remaining.
Clevus’ ball-handling skills were a sight to behold as he weaved through the full court man-to-man press, avoiding defenders that were trying to foul him. Finally, with five seconds to go, Tyrone grabbed his shirt and hung on. The whistle blew, foul number five, the last one allowed, on Tyrone. Seminole Bend called their final time out.
“If Clevus misses, we need to set another pick for Kenny. They’ll be watching for Marcelus, so Johnny, you screen for him,” Coach said. His voice was beginning to fade from all the shouting.
Marcelus looked down at the floor, shook his head and muttered, “Don’t matter. Clevus never misses. Dang we came close.”
“None of that talk on my bench, ya hear me!” barked Tyrone. He reached over and grabbed Marcelus by the jersey and brandished him. “We do the job and don’t ever give up!”
Clevus made the first free throw, and then smiled and winked at his opponents. The official tossed him the ball for the shot that, barring a wing and a prayer, would wrap up win number seventy-four in a row. But as soon as he received it from the official, his teammate George Bernd left his spot in the lane to fall back into a prevent defense. The whistle blew for the dead ball violation, a turnover to the Warriors. Martin Park called their last time out. George Bernd was ordered to sit on the bench by his coach who had just grown red horns and a pointy tail!
On his green basketball court clipboard, Coach Berry assumed some sort of full court pressure would be applied with only five seconds to go, so he designed another back pick play for Kenny to be set by Johnny Jones around mid-court. The officials blew the whistle and handed the ball to Marcelus under the Martin Park basket. But as Marcelus was trying to make the inbounds pass, he saw that Kenny was now guarded closely by two Martin Park defenders. Johnny couldn’t pick both of them! He wanted to call time out but knew the Warriors were all out of them. His pass went to Willis who was wide open at half court thanks to Kenny’s double team. Kenny also realized that a single pick would do no good, so he feigned a dash for the basket, stopped suddenly and reversed direction. His defenders couldn’t stop on a dime with him, but they tried to hustle back to Kenny after both had momentarily slipped on the court. Willis passed Kenny the ball at the top of the key, and as the buzzer sounded, Kenny’s shot floated like slow motion in a perfect arc to the hoop. Swish, but his right foot was inside the three-point line . . . game tied! However, as Kenny had reached the peak of his jump, Clevus tried desperately to block the shot and hit Kenny’s wrist when the ball was released. Whistle blew, foul on Clevus Mathune! No time on the clock: score even at ninety-one apiece.
Because the play clock had expired, all the players
took a position at half court to watch the free throw attempt. While Kenny walked to the line, Clevus shouted at him, “Come on, honky, hit the wall!”
Kenny dribbled twice at the line, then stopped. He stepped back from the line, turned his head and glanced over at Clevus. Then he smiled and winked, stepped back to the line, dribbled twice again, and swished the free throw that ended the longest winning streak in Florida high school history.
Kenny’s teammates and others in the gym mobbed him, tackled him to the floor, and piled on high! The cheerleaders were waiting for the pile to unfold, ready with hugs and kisses. Classmates who had avoided the mob, danced and pranced on the scuffed gym floor. The Martin Park team sat on the bench with their heads in their hands.
Coach Berry looked up at the top row of the bleachers to blow his wife a kiss, but Sheryl was nowhere to be found. Either was Roy Jackson.
CHAPTER 22
Friday, February 12, 1982
9:30 p.m.
C oach Brett Berry took home $928 a month for teaching history and coaching basketball at Seminole Bend High School. And even if the coach’s wife happened to be working, which she wasn’t, Uncle Sam wasn’t bound to get rich from the Berry family tax base. The Berry’s rented a two bedroom, one bath, 980 square foot cement block house that resembled a Civil War munitions armory. The fortress on Twenty-Fourth Avenue had no garage, but plenty of cockroaches. A few neighbors raised an eyebrow when the Berry’s told them that they just purchased a new two story, four bedroom, three bath, wood frame home north of town. The beautiful dwelling was located behind a few palmetto trees on the seventh hole of the Seminole Bend Golf Course, but even the Berry’s close friends had no clue about the exact location. The Berry’s hadn’t concocted a viable story that would explain how they could afford an expensive house on their minimal salary, so they simply didn’t invite guests over.
Just a few new homes scattered the area that ran parallel to the seventh hole and those abodes became an attractive nuisance to the Titleist and Top Flight dimpled balls that were sent flying into back yards by the slashing slicers of the Seminole Bend golf world. The nine-hole course and country club, situated about twelve miles north of town and right smack dab in the middle of nowhere, attracted many of the prominent and not-so-prominent citizens of the county. It was a great place to play golf, but more importantly, a wonderful hideaway for poker, beer and Monday Night Football, say nothing of a perfect way to escape a nagging wife. The new residences being built were prime topics for the nineteenth hole imbibers.
Arguments replaced good sportsmanship all along the seventh hole as golfers found their balls lying just a few feet on the other side of the red and white out-of-bounds stakes in the lovely landscaped yards of the new homeowners. No one wanted to take a penalty stroke drop when just a few years ago the duffers wouldn’t have been out-of-bounds. Before “them damn homes” were built, golfers could simply hack their way back onto the fairway, with a few Mulligans, of course.
Set back from the course a bit and mostly hidden by the palmetto trees, the Berry’s new home may never have been noticed if it wasn’t for a large swimming pool being dug in the backyard. The wrap-a-round oak wood deck could easily be seen looking back from the tee box on the eighth hole. Teachers’ salaries were public information and most everyone in town wanted to know where their hard-earned taxes were being spent. So every faculty member, from the principal on down to the school crossing guard, had their annual income printed on a sheet of paper and handed out to every citizen in attendance by the board of education at their first meeting each August. Knowing how much Coach Berry grossed, then considering the new house he was building, caused rumors that either someone in the family died and left the Berry’s a good deal of money, or Roy Jackson was up to something again. As the basketball season progressed and it was obvious that Jimmy Jackson never took a rest regardless of his production on the court, the latter was most likely the truth. But still, it was hard to believe that Coach Berry could be bought. Both he and his wife were solid citizens and dang near patron saints of the local Catholic Church. They both taught Sunday school and organized most of the fundraising efforts for the diocese. Father O’Shea, the fastest talker on this side of Dublin, would even take twenty-seven seconds out of his twenty-nine-minute church service to thank the Berry’s every Sunday. That is, of course, unless a hurricane was coming or the Miami Dolphins were on TV. Then Father made sure all the good Catholic folks were back in their cars headed for home in twelve minutes flat!
US Highway 441 ran straight north out of Seminole Bend with barely a crook in the road until you got just outside of Rabbit Hollow. The road was heavily traveled in the winter when the snowbirds began their migration down the turnpike heading for the land of largemouth bass and crappies, better known to Southerners as speckled perch. Although it was just two lanes wide, it was a safe concrete road with a few cracks here and there. Of course, you needed to be ready to dodge the last second passer, usually someone in a Chevy Pickup with a Confederate flag pasted on his rear window who had no patience for old folks that dwelt most of the year north of the Mason Dixon line.
Sheryl Berry had frequently driven the twelve mile stretch of US 441 in both the daylight hours and at nighttime, in the searing hot sun and the pouring rain. Since she became pregnant, Sheryl kept her vehicle at fifty miles-per-hour in the fifty-five zone, just to make sure her unborn child would never be at risk. And Coach Berry changed his Ford L-Series pickup truck’s oil and had the tires rotated and checked every three thousand miles, just to make sure everything was running properly and the vehicle was safe. He couldn’t wait to play one-on-one with his future son.
* * * * *
Willy Banks had watched the game standing behind two teachers who were supposed to be supervising the school grounds, but got too wrapped up in the biggest basketball game in Warrior history to pay much attention to the hallways. Willy wanted to be in the bleachers cheering on his nephew Tyrone and his alma mater, but he knew Roy Jackson would be there, as well. By now, Willy was sure that Roy knew he had escaped the swamp alive and would most likely be back hunting him down. He wasn’t afraid of Roy, but he didn’t plan on being an easy target.
After the biggest win of his life, Coach Berry was frantic. As players and fans lifted him on their shoulders and began to parade their beloved coach around the gym, Berry was searching the arena for his wife. Willy noticed the coach’s eyes had tears starting to form around the swollen sockets, but they weren’t filled with liquid drops of joy. Willy was curious why it appeared that there was a look of panic transmitting from the coach’s flushed face as he nervously made quick glances back and forth. He was definitely conveying a look of fear, but no one seemed to notice in the midst of the wildest celebration in Warrior history.
As Coach was gently placed back on the floor while sustaining a load of slaps on the back and hugs from the unknown, Willy made his way forward and grabbed the coach’s wrist as he was about to start jogging for the exit.
“What’s up, Coach?” Willy asked inquisitively.
“What do you mean, ‘what’s up’, Willy? I just want to get home.”
“Why the rush, and by the way, where’s Sheryl?”
“I can’t talk right now, Willy. I’ve got to run!”
“She’s in trouble, isn’t she, Coach?” Willy turned the coach around so the two men’s faces were just several inches apart.
“I don’t know, Willy!” Coach Berry said aggressively. “I’ve got to find out.”
“Let me help you, damn it! Tell me what you know!” Willy was beginning to see a picture in his mind that he didn’t like.
“I can’t right now. Listen, I’ll stop down to the station in the morning and we’ll chat, okay Willy?”
Coach Berry’s jog became a sprint as he exited the gym and jumped into his 1963 orange Plymouth Fury, the same car he used to drive to his own high school back in the early seventies. The car was originally red, but several winters of salted slush on
US Highway 119 in Pennsylvania transformed it into a faded rust bucket, but it was and always would be Brett’s pride and joy. No air conditioner, no radio, and a stick shift that slipped into second gear when it dang well felt like it! But it was superbly equipped with an eight-track player, thanks to a small scholarship Coach Berry received after graduating from Uniontown High.
The 225 cubic inch slant six Fury did zero to sixty in about four minutes as long as the mosquitoes didn’t get caught in the carburetor. Coach was out of the parking lot in a flash, speeding north onto US 441 in the light rain. Willy pulled out behind him in the squad car and kept a safe distance. No need to startle the already rattled coach.
The flames could be seen from three miles away. Willy radioed headquarters to see if a fire had been reported anywhere in the north county. When the night dispatcher told him “no”, Willy put on his flashing red lights and zipped past Coach Berry’s Fury. Coach didn’t pull over, nor did he even slow down. He was probably thinking the same thing that Willy was.
The Ford pickup truck was almost vertical, lying ten feet down in the culvert that was used to cross Brahman cattle under the highway. It was engulfed in a towering blaze of orange, red and blue, and the heat seared Willy’s face as he rushed to get close to the completely destroyed vehicle with a small fire extinguisher. Coach Berry ran up behind him, then seeing that it was his own Ford truck, he tried to pass Willy and make his way to the door. Willy clamped his enormous arms around the coach’s chest and jerked him back from the inferno.
“Let me go, damn it!” Coach barked.
“You can’t get into your truck with those flames, you’ll kill yourself,” Willy yelled back. “Take my extinguisher while I call the fire department!”
“Hurry, Willy. Damn it, hurry up!”
Willy raced to his squad car and called in the emergency.