At some point during the season, Shirley had broken her pinkie finger and never told a soul about it, including her mother, for fear she would be forced to stop playing. But Bridget was not Shirley. Despite her 5-9 frame, Bridget was slightly built and tended to play like a girl. To that end, her goal card for regionals read: “I didn’t achieve my goal last time, so I still want to be mean and possess the ball, not deflect it.”
At the hospital as she prepared to get stitches, Bridget was pretty much consumed by two thoughts—that she was permanently disfigured and that her teammates hated her. Since the doctor wouldn’t let her see her face, she figured she was hideous, and looking at her reflection in the lid of the metal wastebasket did nothing to dissuade her.
“What?” the doctor said as Bridget moaned. “Is your face your fortune or something?”
Bridget was one of those girls we just didn’t know very well. She had moved to Morton Grove during eighth grade after being raised on a farm downstate and had not one friend when she entered Niles West. She had not once considered going out for the basketball team until Mrs. Mulder came up to her in gym class and suggested she give it a try.
“But I don’t think I’m any good,” Bridget had said.
“It doesn’t matter,” Mulder had responded. “I want you to try.”
Wanting desperately to gain acceptance and please everyone, Bridget would have consented to go out for the knife-throwing team at that point.
Three years later, during her first full season on varsity, she had what we all knew was a serious boyfriend in Scott, a fact that impressed most of us but only made Bridget feel left out. We didn’t know that. Nor did we know that her parents had just separated, which left her resentful toward her mom, who soon started seeing another man, and more dependent on her dad.
Bob Berglund was a handsome guy for a father, or otherwise. He was 6-foot-4 with dark, wavy hair and long sideburns, and he wore blue jeans and looked like the Marlboro Man. And when he came to our games, it was always an event for Bridget. He’d bring enough Big Red gum for everyone in the gym and always offered to take the team out for dinner or ice cream afterward, which he did several times, even though Bridget knew he couldn’t afford it.
On the many other occasions the team would go out for dinner after games, Bridget was often a no-show. We figured she didn’t want to come with us. But for Bridget, it actually meant one of two things. She was either out with Scott, whom she didn’t get to see all week since he went to another high school, or it was an opportunity for her to see her father, whom she missed terribly during her parents’ separation.
Bridget adored her father. When she got her first pair of leather high-top Converse and was afraid they would get wet in the snow, her father carried her to their car. To us, she was a bit of a princess, and when she showed up for practice the day after she was elbowed, sporting a butterfly bandage and ready for the sectional final against Resurrection, we were shocked and more than a little impressed by her toughness.
To our surprise, the school announced that it would supply a bus to take fans to the game. Apparently, word had finally circulated that we were pretty good and our games entertaining and, oh yeah, that we were two wins away from becoming the first-ever Niles West basketball team to go downstate. In no small way, the boys we scrimmaged against in practice had become our most effective salesmen. Once they began helping us, they started coming to games and then more boys and, naturally, girls followed.
The Resurrection game was another defensive slugfest, but their best player fouled out in the third quarter, and we slipped by with a 39–31 victory to advance to supersectionals and a showdown with Hinsdale South at Addison Trail High School. The winner would advance to the inaugural Illinois girls’ state basketball championship.
Out of the 475 schools to enter the first-ever girls’ state tournament, we were one of the top 16. Our supersectional game, to be played the following Tuesday, the traditional day for boys’ basketball supersectionals in Illinois, was going to be on the radio, which both thrilled and scared us, despite the fact that nobody had actually heard of the radio station broadcasting the game.
We had, however, heard of Hinsdale South, a school in the southwest suburbs, and their freshman sensation Dawn Hallett. A 5-9 lefty who, everyone marveled, had only one year of organized basketball experience, Hallett had been nearly unstoppable in sectionals, with 27 points and 10 rebounds in the title game. Put her together with Hinsdale’s 6-2 senior center, Debbie Lueken, and we were more than a little intimidated. On top of that, word of the game was spreading throughout our school, and the Addison Trail school officials were expecting a big crowd.
In the Chicago Sun-Times on the day of the game, famed prep sports writer Taylor Bell profiled Hinsdale South coach Lynne Slouber. The profile focused on the hardships of being a wife, mother, and coach and on Slouber’s husband, Mark, handling the “babysitting” duties in caring for their six-year-old son while Lynne coached basketball for three months. “There’s only one more week of basketball,” Slouber was quoted as saying. “After that, Mark said I could buy a new dress and we’d go to Pheasant Run [a local resort] for a weekend.”
In another Bell column, Slouber admitted to feeling the burden of competing in a state tournament. “It scares me,” Slouber said. “Many women don’t want the kind of pressure that the boys have. We lose a game and I hear someone say, ‘Maybe someone ought to help Mrs. Slouber.’ All sports should be fun first and winning second. But that’s not the way it is.”
The night before our game, Marquette defeated North Carolina for the NCAA basketball title in an epic upset for the team from nearby Milwaukee and its popular coach, Al McGuire. It was inspiring, and we tried to feed off of it. We certainly could not imagine our own season ending. And yet, with a record of 13–3 to Hinsdale’s 19–1, we wondered if we were not about to meet a team for the first time that was more skilled than we were.
Their uniforms struck us first. They were the flashiest we had ever seen, black with electric gold piping, the shorts looking suspiciously like the ones the boys wore rather than our plain, tight red ones. And when the Hinsdale South players ran onto the court, seemingly in perfect lockstep, they jump-stopped at each corner, then sharply reversed direction before jogging to the next corner. We were playing the Harlem Globetrotters. Great.
We sneaked glances at the stands, which seemed dominated by Hinsdale South fans. “Where we going? Where we going? State, state! State, state!” they chanted.
Our own crowd on the other side of the gym was bigger than we had enjoyed all season, which only made me more jittery. Shirley flexed the swollen finger on her shooting hand, trying not to wince.
What had we gotten ourselves into? Yeah, sure, “Why not Niles West?” I’ll tell you why not us, I thought to myself. Because we’re scared out of our shorts, that’s why. Because this team with their professional uniforms and giant freshman is good, really good. Because we’re not ready for all of this. I stared at Shirley and Connie, hoping their inner voices were braver than mine. But for the first time all season, I could sense our lack of confidence.
Nancy and Shirley exchanged glances as the 6-2 Lueken walked into the center circle for the opening tip, and Shirley saw fear in Nancy’s eyes. And when the game began, the nerves manifested in our mass confusion. Connie and I were playing our usual 2-1-2 zone defense, while it looked like Shirley and Diana were in a man defense. Nancy was doing a little bit of both. We screamed at each other in an effort to correct ourselves but could barely be heard above the din. Passes that had been crisp and accurate all season now sailed wide and long and past the outstretched fingertips of our teammates. Before we knew it, it was halftime and we were trailing 29–19.
We could barely find Shirley in the jungle that was Hinsdale South’s 2-3 defense, much less get her the ball. And Hallett was unbelievable. The kid just did not miss. She ended up hitting 70 percent of her field goal attempts for 24 points.
We whittled down a
n 11-point lead to five, helped by a pair of free throws by DD and a layup by Shirley off an inbounds play with five and a half minutes left in the game, but Hinsdale South called a timeout, and we never got closer. Shirley ended up with 18 points, but it wasn’t enough. Our next-highest scorer was Diana with seven. Connie finished with six. And we lost 50–39.
Nancy, our only senior, buried her head in her hands on the bench afterward as one by one, friends and family walked over and whispered words of consolation in her ear. The rest of us fought off tears, realizing that we were simply beaten by a better team.
A reporter approached Shirley. “What are your future plans?” he asked.
“I think we’re going to start practicing tomorrow,” she replied.
Shirley couldn’t imagine returning to school.
How could she face all those teachers she had begged to come to games, not to mention the boys who had scrimmaged with us and would now think we let them down? We choked, and that was unacceptable, and she was damn sure not going to let anyone see her cry, which she was bound to do if anyone tried to talk to her.
It was as good a time as any to go get the finger x-rayed, she figured. But after having the splint applied to what was indeed a fracture, she decided she might as well go to class. Every eye in the room focused on her as she slinked to her desk, trying desperately to blot each tear before anyone noticed.
It was not until after school, when she decided on the spot to forgo the spring’s softball season after being a standout her first two years, that she began to feel better. Basketball would be her priority now. She would play tennis and volleyball the next fall and winter, but starting today, she would go back to the gym, splint or no splint. We needed to start practicing immediately if we were going to win state the next year. And no discussion was necessary to determine that was exactly what we intended to do.
Letters continued to appear in the West Word about our lack of fan support, buoying our spirits and solidifying our determination.
“The Niles West varsity basketball team (girls) lost last night to a good Hinsdale South team,” one letter began. “I don’t feel the girls got the attention they deserved in their super effort to try and win the state championship.” It ended with the writer congratulating us on a fine season. “Maybe they didn’t capture the state championship this year,” it read, “but a state championship can’t be too far off for this team!” It was signed, “Sincerely, Impressed Male, Class of ’79,” which impressed us as well.
Before anything, however, there were a few details to take care of. Hinsdale South had made us look silly with their cool pregame warm-up routine, and Connie and I decided it was up to the two of us to make up one for next season. It would be a ballhandling routine, and it would have to be great, the kind of stuff we had been fooling around with since camp at William Penn, dribbling through our legs and behind our backs. We started planning it the day after our loss.
Our next order of business was deciding that we were going to Illinois State University to watch Hinsdale South and the first-ever girls’ state tournament that weekend. Shirley, Connie, and I piled into Mrs. Mulder’s small car, while the rest of the team drove with the JV coach and trainer. Bridget told us her parents couldn’t afford to send her, and she stayed home.
Mrs. Mulder’s greatest concern was Shirley. It was Passover, and Shirley’s parents had OK’d the trip, as had mine. But our coach knew that Shirley’s family was more religious than mine, and she knew that Mrs. Cohen had told Shirley to make sure to observe the holiday.
Mrs. Mulder quietly worried as she turned onto the highway. She was not in the business of disappointing our parents, but this was all foreign territory to her. She didn’t know how to make sure Shirley would observe the holiday.
As the only other Jew on the team, I stepped up.
“You know, Shirley,” I said, as straight-faced as I could, “maybe we should go to a truck stop and see if they have gefilte fish. We can have a seder.”
Shirley did not find it all that funny, nor did Mrs. Mulder, who became stricken by the thought that maybe we really did need to go on a gefilte fish hunt. “You can lead us, Shirley,” Mrs. Mulder said. “It will be educational for all of us.”
“Yeah, Shirley,” I said. “You can lead us.”
Shirley shot me a dirty look, and sure enough, Mrs. Mulder steered us into the back room of a roadside smorgasbord restaurant, explaining to the manager that we needed a private area for a special religious ceremony. We had to bite our lips to keep from laughing. But Mrs. Mulder was so sincere, never cracking so much as a smile, we managed to control ourselves. She even convinced the restaurant that we needed a little bit of wine in plastic cups. OK, so maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.
Shirley and I lurched our way through a pseudo seder, though without matzoh, a shank bone, or bitter herbs of any kind, we were pretty much forced to sing a couple verses of “Dayenu” and call it a day. At least Mrs. Mulder was happy.
Once in Normal two hours later, we shuffled into the Horton Field House for the state tournament, equal parts excited to be there and depressed to be in street clothes. Even though we knew Hinsdale South was a good team, it still hurt to think of them here. They would be playing Fremd, also 20–1, in the first game, and we weren’t sure whom to root for or whether or not we even cared. Wallowing in self-pity, we went to purchase the $1 programs. “Hey!” someone yelled. “Look, it’s Bridget.”
And there, sure enough, on the cover of the first girls’ state basketball tournament program, inside an outline of the state of Illinois, was a photograph of our starting center guarding a girl from Libertyville.
Quickly overcoming our initial jealousy at not making the cover ourselves, we screamed and cheered, all while trying to appear cool, of course. Suddenly, we all felt a little more important as we took our seats, thinking we might even be recognized as Sweet 16 finalists and fanning ourselves with our programs so everyone could see.
We ended up rooting for Fremd, reasoning that their school was geographically closer to Niles West than Hinsdale South, and besides, the pain was still fresh from our supersectional defeat. Fremd won a thriller over Hinsdale South, 48–47, but that night fell to eventual state champion Sterling, 69–57. By then we had gotten over our disappointment, but we still hated every team there and vowed this would not happen to us again.
Once back home, I returned to softball, starting in center field for the varsity team for the second year while Connie surprised me only a bit with her decision to join Shirley in giving up softball and spending the spring and summer concentrating on basketball.
Ever the writer and the suck-up, I wrote a letter to Dr. Mannos, thanking him for the tickets he provided us for the state tournament. “Next year, you won’t have to worry about where we sit,” I wrote. “We’ll have the best seats in the house (on the court).”
Days later, in Mr. Skuban’s homeroom, I was handed an envelope with notepaper inside that had “Memo from N. J. Mannos” across the top. Very impressive, though I thought it best not to share our principal’s letter with anyone else around me.
Dear Missy,
Thank you for your kind note. I was very pleased that you had the opportunity to attend the first state girls’ basketball tournament. It was an exciting affair! I’m with you 100 percent—next year I am sure that you will have the best seats in the house—right on the basketball court!
Keep up the excellent pride and esprit de corps that has been established in the girls’ basketball program. Delighted that you had a good time at the tournament.
In April, we had our basketball banquet, the first time we had our own banquet separate from the usual sports awards dinner, and we insisted that Mr. Schnurr be a part of it. Many of the parents thanked Mrs. Mulder, which finally seemed to ease her fear that they all thought she had inflicted on us irreversible physical and psychological harm. And they gave her special praise for getting us to dress up occasionally, given that they were seldom able to do the
same.
Then Toni Atsaves played the piano—a delicious irony we all privately noted—Mr. Schnurr gave a speech on perspective, and Mrs. Mulder read all of my poems from the season. But the best part of the night came at the end, when we were given real varsity letters, just like the boys. None of us knew they were coming, and we could not have been any happier had they handed us diamond rings.
When we got home that night, I got a couple of straight pins out of my mom’s sewing basket and pinned my varsity letter to an old windbreaker I put on over my pajamas, imagining how it might look if girls actually had varsity letterman jackets. Then my mom and I sat at the kitchen table, talking about the season, about how nice it was of Mrs. Mulder to include my poems in the program, and how good Toni was at piano.
“I’m so proud of you, honey,” my mom gushed.
Later, I sat propped up between my parents in their bed, coaxing more compliments out of them on the season, how well I played, and how fun it all was until both of them fell asleep on me. This year, I noticed, I was the one tucking my parents in and not the other way around. I also noticed I had to remind them about some of the season highlights, even my season-high 10-point game I thought they should have remembered. When my dad forgot things like this, I just ascribed it to his general absentmindedness. Our family always laughed that he was a few sentences behind in our dinner table discussions. My mom was the sharp one, but lately, she seemed kind of absentminded, too.
I was too tired to analyze it, so I focused on the fact that in these last few months, my parents were happier, more connected. Our games became an event my mom and dad genuinely looked forward to, and as I lay in bed that night, I felt good about doing that for them.
When the Niles West yearbooks came out that week, I shyly slipped mine onto Mrs. Mulder’s desk and walked away. When I retrieved it a little later, I thumbed through it to read what she had written, but there was nothing. Not in the front or back where all my friends had signed, or in the sports section, where Connie had taken up a whole page, or under her picture, which is what she did last year and what Mr. Schnurr had done, signing, “Good Luck in basketball next season. B. Schnurr” under the picture of him in his cardigan sweater.
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