Hoosier Hoops and Hijinks

by Brenda Stewart

  John frowned. “That’s not the same thing at all. They came here intending to cause trouble. That’s why we hate them.”

  “Do you hate all of them, or only the team?” Suellen asked.

  “You know what I mean.”

  She shook her head. “Yes, I know what you mean. You mean you’re obsessed by basketball. Completely nuts, like most of the other people in this town.” She nodded toward the sign over the couch. “Muncie loves her Bearcats.”

  “You don’t understand because you’re not a Hoosier. Basketball is important in Indiana.”

  “Important! It’s a religion in Indiana,” she said.

  “It’s going to be great cutting down those baskets again after the way we were robbed last year.” He put the bow up under his chin and grinned at her. “Think about it—state champs in ‘51— state champs in ‘52. Should have won in ‘53, except for that sudden death. Now in’54, the Bearcats are back. This is a day that’ll go down in history. Those poor kids from that little hick town don’t stand a chance.”

  “Hicks? Wait a minute,” Suellen said, “Didn’t you lose a game to a little team from Center School?”

  John glared at her, suddenly serious. “Suellen, we do not talk about that in this house.”

  “John, I swear if I cut you…”

  He finished for her, “I know. I’d bleed purple.”

  She groaned and pulled the door closed behind her.

  In the kitchen putting beer in the fridge, John almost didn’t hear the timid knock. He laid his purple ribbon down on the table, still trying to decide where to hang it up. He walked to the front door and looked at the tall, skinny man with a briefcase standing on the porch. An unbuttoned stained overcoat revealed a rumpled suit, a white shirt with a brown tie slightly askew.

  “Hi, there. Remember me? I’m Steve Wilson. I met you at the plaza when you stopped to look at the bomb shelter literature.” He sounded apologetic. “I hope this isn’t a bad time, but I found some additional literature you might like to look over and thought I’d stop by on my way back to the hotel.”

  John nodded. “Sure. I remember you.” He glanced at his watch; Monte and Barb would be here in less than an hour. Courtesy fought with urgency. After a long pause, he said, “Come in.”

  Wilson noticed John checking his watch. “I won’t take but a minute of your time, but I wanted to share this with you.” He handed John a brochure.

  John read aloud: “To improve your chances of surviving a nuclear attack, your primary need would be an adequate shelter equipped for many days of occupancy. The fallout protections provided by most existing buildings would not be adequate if the winds blew from the wrong direction during the time of fallout deposition. To remain in or near cities that are probable target areas, one would need protection against blast, fire and fallout. Our smallest standard model is a 6-person shelter 3 ½ feet wide, 4 ½ feet high and 16 ½ feet long. A small stand-up hole at one end would allow each tall occupant to stand up and stretch several times a day.”

  John frowned. “You call that a six-person shelter? Six people couldn’t survive for a week in a space that small. Our pantry is bigger than that.”

  Wilson nodded. “The small six-person is our cheapest, but you’re right, it would be pretty cramped. But we have a number of other models, with some really helpful features. See, the farther you can keep away from a source of either light or of harmful radiation, the less light or other radiation will reach you—like if fallout particles are on the roof of a building and you were in the basement, you would receive a much smaller radiation dose from those particles than if you were on the floor above you.” He paused and looked around. “Do you have a basement?”

  “Yes,” John said.

  “Well, that’s good. See, you need to have food and water because after the atomic bomb goes off, radioactive iodine from contaminated food and water gets concentrated in thyroid glands and causes cancers. Besides that, fires get started from thermal radiation. If that happened here, on a clear day, serious flash burns on a person’s exposed skin can occur 25 miles away.”

  John shuddered. “Is Muncie a target area?”

  “The way I understand it, Muncie is a secondary target. I mean, there’s a lot of industry here—not like Chicago or Indianapolis of course, but still, if planes couldn’t bomb either of those places, they would dump their loads here or over Kokomo, Richmond, Anderson, maybe even New Castle.”

  “That’s the whole conference!” John said.

  “What?”

  John shook his head. “Nothing. Nothing. It’s just you named all the teams in the conference.”

  “Well, we sell a lot of shelters in all of those cities.”

  John stared at the brochure with the picture of the ruins of Nagasaki. “It really could happen here, couldn’t it?”

  “It could,” Wilson agreed. “That’s why I asked about your basement. It might be possible to do some remodeling there and create a top-notch shelter for you and your family. Could you show it to me?”

  John checked his watch. He could take ten minutes.

  He opened the basement door and nodded to Wilson. “This way. Go slow and duck your head. There’s a low place at the bottom of the stairs.”

  The loud clunk told him the warning had come too late. He hurried down the steps to where Wilson lay in a heap on the cement floor. He rolled the body over to see blood gushing from a deep gash on the man’s forehead. Even as he watched, the blood stopped flowing out of the wound and Wilson made a sound that chilled the room.

  John wished he had a mirror so he could see if it fogged up like in a Dracula movie. He did the next best thing; he put his fingers on Wilson’s neck to see if he could feel a heartbeat. Nothing.

  John sat down on the bottom step with a moan. Wilson was dead. The idiot ran smack into that low rafter and knocked his brains out. Now what? He stared at the corpse—that’s what it was, a corpse, a dead body lying at the foot of the basement stairs, dead as a doornail.

  He kept staring at Wilson. He should go upstairs and call the police right away. He stood up, his knees suddenly weak. The police would be here and take the body away. There would be questions. He would tell them the truth. Wilson was too tall to be rushing down the stairs that way. He bashed his head in and it killed him.

  At the top of the stairs he stopped. Questions. The police would come and ask all kinds of questions and he would miss the game. Not only him, but Monte and Barb would miss it too. Suellen wouldn’t care, but his friends wouldn’t appreciate being questioned by the police while Muncie Central was stomping Milan all over the Butler Fieldhouse. He couldn’t do that. No one would know if he waited until after the game. It wouldn’t matter to Wilson. He wasn’t going anywhere and an hour or so wouldn’t make any difference to him.

  He wasn’t being heartless, not really. He was just practical. He would watch the game and then call the police. He took a deep breath and walked unsteadily to the sink, turned on the water and got a drink to steady his nerves. A small dribble of water ran down his chin and dripped onto his crepe paper tie, leaving a small purple stain on his white shirt.

  John almost fainted when he heard Suellen say, “I got snacks.” She put two grocery bags down on the kitchen table.

  She studied his face. “You okay, hon? You look pale.”

  Not as pale as the dead man in the basement, he thought. He forced a smile. “I’m fine, sweetie. Just fine. Let’s get ready for Monte and Barb.”

  The doorbell rang just as they set out pretzels, chips and dip and a dish of mixed nuts. Monte and Barb handed John their coats, under which they wore matching purple and white sweat shirts with purple bows in Barb’s hair.

  “Love the decorations!” Barb said. “You really have the spirit.”

  Monte nodded. “Place looks great.”

  “Do you all want a coke or some coffee before the game?” Suellen asked.

  “I’ll take some coffee,” Monte said. “It should keep me awake.”
>
  “You think the game is going to be boring?” Suellen asked.

  Barb laughed. “Are you kidding? The Bearcats will mop up the floor with those farm boys. It’ll be pitiful, sort of like playing Burris.”

  Monte grinned. “Those rich boys don’t like to sweat.” He noticed Suellen’s frown. “Heck, girl, we just want to watch our boys cut down those nets again. This game will be a piece of cake. Why, someday they’ll probably make a movie out of it to use for a training film or something.”

  “On how to stay humble?” Suellen asked drily.

  John put his arm around her. “Don’t pay any attention to her. She’s not a Hoosier. She just doesn’t understand.”

  Monte and Barb nodded sympathetically. Suellen couldn’t decide if she was amused or angry and decided to relax and let it go. After all, the game would be over pretty soon and be forgotten, no sense in getting upset. Besides, she was going to West Virginia in the morning where no one cared who won a high school basketball game.

  John gestured to the chairs he had moved to face the television set. “Sit down, take a load off. I got the radio ready so we can listen to Don Burton do the play by play instead of Tom Carnegie.”

  Barb nodded. “That’s good. I hate that Tom Carnegie. He’s got it in for the Bearcats. You can tell.”

  Monte smiled at his wife. “This is going to be a slaughter. We beat Elkhart today, 59 to 50.”

  Suellen stopped by the door to the kitchen. “Didn’t Milan beat Terre Haute by 12 points this afternoon?” She smiled. “I’ll get the drinks.”

  Barb stared after her. “What’s wrong with Suellen? She acts real nervous or something. She sure doesn’t love basketball.”

  John tried to smile. She would really be nervous if she knew there was a dead man at the bottom of the basement stairs. “There’s nothing wrong with her,” he said with forced cheer, “could be her time of the moon. She gets kind of tense then. And you guys know she’s not from here. She doesn’t get basketball.”

  Barb looked thoughtful. “Well, that’s all okay, but I remember when she said she didn’t care if you got her another season ticket.”

  John shook his head. “That was around the time her father died.”

  “I know, and we all understood, but she doesn’t holler at the games, either. How about that? That’s not ‘cause her father died. It’s like she’s from New Castle or something, like she really doesn’t want the Bearcats to win.”

  Monte groaned. “I never will get over New Castle winning the state the year I was a senior. I was B team, but man it was something else.” He grinned. “Imagine being on a team called the Trojans.” He winked. “You know what I mean.”

  John turned the television on. “Come on, guys. You know Suellen isn’t from New Castle. She’s not even a Hoosier. She just doesn’t get it.”

  Barb gave him a weak smile. “Well, it’s sad, that’s all. I mean, hey, we’re Bearcats, that’s who we are, and here are our boys playing at the Butler Fieldhouse—that place is like a cathedral.”

  “I couldn’t believe it when I went to the drawing and pulled out that envelope and it said, Sorry,” Monte said, his voice hoarse.

  “I was standing there,” Barb said, “and I swear I thought he was going to pass out, or just break down and cry like a baby.”

  Monte glared at her. “For God’s sake, Barb, I was just upset, that’s all. I never got a sorry before. It was a shock.”

  Suellen came in with a tray loaded with snacks. She set the tray down on the coffee table and smiled at them, apparently over whatever non-Hoosier thing had been bothering her. “Help yourselves,” she said.

  John reached for a small dish and loaded it with pretzels. “You know, sometimes I wish I’d gone into teaching instead of banking. If I was a school administrator I’d be at the game tonight.”

  Suellen stared at him. “John, you don’t even like kids.”

  He nodded. “I know. That doesn’t matter. Lots of administrators don’t like kids, but I bet most of them are there at the game. No sorries for them.”

  Monte reached for the potato chips. “I know a guy at the Muncie Star—typesetter—and he made his own tickets for the regional last year. Pulled a sorry and just made his own tickets. Got in, too. Just kept moving around when he was in somebody’s seat. Saw the whole game.”

  John smiled. “That’s a great idea.”

  Suellen shook her head. “It’s against the law. You could go to jail.”

  John felt a clutch in his stomach. He could go to jail all right. He had a dead man in his basement, and he wasn’t going to call the police until the end of the game. How’s that for being a good citizen?

  Time did a funny thing. Suddenly the TV showed the Butler Fieldhouse and John heard the familiar voice of Don Burton. “This is the state final basketball game on WLBC. Tonight it’s the battle of David versus Goliath, the Milan Indians and the Muncie Central Bearcats.”

  Then he was announcing the teams, “Milan Coach Marvin Wood.” Blank. John heard, “Engel … Cutter …Craft … Plump.”

  The crowd roared for the underdogs. “And for the Muncie Bearcats, Coach Jay McCreary. At Forward, Junior Jim Hinds #40, Junior Gene Hinds #20, at Guard, Junior Jim Barnes #12, Junior Phil Raisor #32 and at Center, Junior John Casterlow #50.”

  Screaming from the Bearcat fans and some booing made Monte yell back at the TV. “Shut up, you losers. We’ll show you.”

  Barb patted his arm even as she nodded in agreement.

  John watched the figures move on the screen like ghosts, like poor dead Wilson in the basement. He would take care of the guy as soon as the game was over. He promised. He wished he’d never let Wilson in the house, or in the doorway to the kitchen. A dead man in the doorway to the kitchen.

  “What on earth?” Suellen said. She stood and went over to where a tall figure leaned against the doorjamb like a weathered scarecrow. Blood streaks ran down the man’s face from a wound on his forehead. His dingy overcoat hung cockeyed over his rumpled suit.

  “Who are you?” Suellen asked, reaching for the man’s arm.

  “Wilson,” he muttered. “Fell down the stairs.”

  “Our stairs? Did you fall down our stairs—the basement?”

  Wilson nodded. “Basement. Banged my head.”

  Suellen turned to John in a panic. “Help me. He needs a doctor.”

  “In a minute,” John said. “Bobby Plump is holding the ball.”

  Monte and Barb nodded their heads. “We’ll help him in a minute.”

  Suellen stared at them. “Are all of you crazy? This man is hurt. He needs a doctor. Apparently, he fell down our basement stairs.” She glared at John.

  “Did you know about this?”

  John kept his eyes trained on the television. “I thought he’d be all right.” He didn’t add that he had planned to call the police as soon as the game was over. Now the corpse was up and walking around, he didn’t have to do that.

  Wilson blinked his eyes a few times. “Could I maybe sit down?”

  Suellen groaned. “Of course, you may sit down. I’m so sorry! Let me get a cloth and clean the blood off your head.” She stared down at the purple crepe paper bow he had in his hand. “Where did you get that?” she asked as she helped him into a chair next to the couch.

  Wilson looked down at the bow. “I don’t know,” he said. “I guess I saw it on the table and picked it up. I don’t know.”

  “Well,” Suellen said as she went to get a wet cloth, “hang on to it, Mr. Wilson, you fit right in.”

  John, Monte and Barb stared at the television. “Jim Hinds’ two free throws have put the Bearcats on top 28-26 with 7:41 remaining in the game. Now Plump has the ball. He’s standing still, holding the ball. He isn’t moving. He’s just standing there holding the ball. The crowd is going insane. I’ve never seen anything like this!”

  John, Monte and Barb groaned in genuine agony. “Plump has held the basketball for 4:13—that’s right! Four minutes and 13 seconds wit
hout moving. Now Coach Marvin Wood calls a time out. It’s about time!”

  Suellen wiped the blood off Wilson’s forehead. The gash didn’t look too deep once the blood was gone. Gently, she cleaned his face, murmuring to him. Then he moved his head so he could see around her. When she realized what he was doing, she threw the washcloth down in his lap. “You’re just like the rest of them,” she hissed. “Watch the game.”

  John, Monte and Barb, unable to sit, were on their feet watching intently. If God had spoken they wouldn’t have listened as closely as they did to Don Burton.

  “The Indians are back on the floor, moving the ball. Plump misses a shot. Muncie brings the ball down court. The Indians are pressing. Oh! Muncie just threw the ball away. Ray Craft drives through the defense and makes his lay-up shot. 28 ALL!! Plump is fouled. Two free throws. One. Two. Milan is ahead 30-28. Craft’s shot is in and out and the Bearcats have the ball. Flowers shoots and it’s in. The score is TIED! Plump and Craft bring the ball down the court. 18 seconds remain in the ballgame. Wood calls a time out. Wood is sending in Ken Wendelman for Rollin Cutter. All four Milan players are on the left side of the court. The key is wide open!! Five seconds on the clock! PLUMP STARTS TO MOVE. BARNES IS AFRAID TO FOUL HIM. PLUMP SHOOTS!! IT’S IN!! MILAN SCORES TO WIN 32 TO 30!!”

  The three stood in shock. Suellen watched as Monte and Barb turned to each other. John started to speak, then stopped. Big tears rolled down Barb’s face. Monte hugged her, patting her back. Silently, they moved like automatons toward the coat tree. John helped them with their coats. He opened the front door. They left in complete silence—there was nothing to say.

  Crowd noises still came from the radio. “I can’t believe it. The Fieldhouse is going wild…”

  Suellen turned off the radio.

  John’s voice sounded as stricken as he looked. “This is a day that will go down in infamy,” he whispered.

  “John,” Suellen said, “It’s only a ball game.”

  “Not to a Bearcat,” he said hoarsely. “This is history.”

  “Amen,” Wilson said. “It’s historic all right.” He sounded happier than John.