Sea of Crises

by Marty Steere

  “But I was finished. I couldn’t do it any more. I’d been in the business for twenty years, and it was time. I quietly retired and moved to Idaho. Where, by the way,” he added, with a new sharpness in his voice, “I would have been willing to let sleeping dogs lie.”

  Afraid of what he might say, Nate turned and looked out the side window, idly watching vague dark shapes passing in the distance. Try as he might, he couldn’t reconcile the Matt he remembered with the one sitting next to him. He wasn’t sure he wanted to.

  He closed his eyes and for a moment was no longer in the quiet, darkened SUV. Instead, he was standing under intense lights, a wave of noise assaulting him.

  “De-fense. De-fense.”

  The chant had been started by the Evansville East cheerleaders and had been quickly picked up by the fans packing the stands surrounding them. The Barons, from the state’s third largest city, had brought a huge following. While the Mackey Arena on the campus of Purdue University in Lafayette wasn’t completely filled, it still contained more people than Nate had ever seen in one place. And the vast majority were there to support, at the top of their lungs, the defending state high school basketball champions.

  The relatively small contingent that had accompanied the Jackson Generals did its best to counter, but it was badly outnumbered.

  As the team broke the huddle on the sidelines, Nate glanced up to the spot where Peter and Gamma sat amid the Jackson crowd. At the moment, Peter had his back turned to the court and was flapping his arms wildly, exhorting the fans behind him to raise a cheer. Gamma was looking directly at Nate and clapping, her mouth open, yelling something he couldn’t possibly hear over the cacophony.

  The mere fact that the boys from the tiny town of Jackson in rural Winamac County had managed to make it to the 1982 Indiana Regional Championship was a huge accomplishment. And, against the odds, Nate and his teammates had managed to make a close game of it. Everyone, especially the Evansville supporters, had expected a blow out. After all, the Barons had the two best players in the state, a pair of six foot ten behemoths with the nicknames “Everest” and “K-2” - earning them the inevitable joint moniker of the “Himalayas.” Jackson had only two players who stood over six feet: Nate at six three, and Skip Anderson, a gangly six foot seven junior whose only real basketball skill was his height. Still, Skip had played some inspired defense, and Nate had managed to score twenty points against the towering Himalayas, many on uncontested jump shots from outside while Everest and K-2 packed the lane down low.

  K-2 had now just fouled out, and, in the process, had turned the ball over to Jackson. With fifteen seconds left in the game, and down by only one point, Jackson would have a chance at the last shot and an improbable upset victory. The prospect had the crowd in a frenzy.

  Nate took up position near the foul line, where he could set a pick. Everest, who’d been covering him all night, stood just behind, leaning in, his long arms reaching around to each side, his hot breath ruffling the hair on the top of Nate’s head. Nate had hoped Everest might have been switched to cover Skip after K-2 fouled out, but the Evansville coach had obviously decided he wanted his best player to stay on Nate.

  One of the officials blew his whistle. The ball was brought in under the opposing basket, and Matt, the Jackson point guard, began dribbling upcourt, an Evansville player hounding him, but not too closely, showing respect for Matt’s already demonstrated ability to shed defenders. Understandably, Evansville appeared to be anticipating that Jackson would let the clock wind down before putting the ball up for a last second shot. As Matt crossed the midcourt line, working to his right, Nate felt Everest shift position and reach his left arm further out to deny Nate a pass.

  Nate and Matt made eye contact, and, to Nate’s surprise, Matt winked his left eye, one of their special signals. Nate didn’t hesitate. Pushing off with his left foot, he quickly pivoted to the right, spinning around Everest and past him before the boy had a chance to react. Nate took two long strides toward the basket, launching himself upwards. He reached his hands out and looked back over his shoulder. The pass from Matt was right on the money. Nate had just a split second to grab the ball out of the air and redirect it toward the goal.

  It caromed off the backboard and dropped softly through the hoop.

  Jackson had the lead.

  Impossibly, the noise from the crowd intensified.

  Nate came down in a slight crouch and immediately pushed off, sprinting up court. Neither team had any time outs remaining. The clock behind the basket at the far end read nine seconds.

  Evansville obviously got the ball in quickly, because it came sailing over Nate’s head and was snagged by the player who’d been covering Matt. He and Matt were now the only players in the front court. With Matt backpedaling furiously, the Evansville guard took two quick dribbles. Then he feinted right and dove to his left, launching the ball in an awkward motion toward the basket as Matt reached out to contest.

  The ball struck high on the backboard, dropping back down at an angle that Nate, with a sinking feeling, thought would put it straight through. Instead, however, it hit the front of the rim and bounced back up. Heart in his mouth, Nate watched as the thing seemed to hang suspended over the basket. Then it dropped, struck the side of the rim, and this time bounced away. Nate, who, in the intervening time, had managed to cover the length of the court, leapt and, at full extension, wrapped his hands around the ball, gathering in the rebound. He glanced up and saw Everest bearing down. In the brief moment available to him, he registered two facts: That the clock at the far end of the court showed three seconds remaining, and that, if he held the ball, Everest would surely foul him to send him to the line, where he’d have to make free throws to seal the win. Nate stepped back with his right foot and tossed the ball in a lazy arc toward the Jackson basket. It struck the floor near the midcourt line, and, with no players nearby, bounced slowly toward the far end as time on the clock ticked down to zero.

  Pandemonium erupted in the arena. Nate turned just in time to catch Matt as he flung himself into Nate’s arms, letting out a roar of exultation that Nate could barely hear over his own. Fans began to descend from the stands, a few rushing onto the court. The other Jackson players were jumping about ecstatically. Nate noticed, however, that some of the Evansville players were waving their arms and pointing toward the end line. The referees were also waving their arms and blowing their whistles. The Evansville coach appeared, planting himself in front of one of the officials. The man was red in the face and gesticulating wildly.

  Ushers and police officers began urging back the people who had come onto the court, and the roar began to subside. Nate saw the referee who was with the Evansville coach signal to the Jackson coach, Billy Hamilton, that he should join them. As Coach Hamilton approached, one of the officials said something, and Coach Hamilton began shaking his head vehemently. Nate couldn’t hear what was being said, but he knew it couldn’t be good.

  Nate let go of Matt and took a step toward them. One of the referees, the older of the two, noticed him and gestured.

  “Yes, I want the captains over here,” he said.

  Nate’s counterpart, the Evansville captain, was the guard who’d taken the final shot. The boy was talking in an animated fashion to the other referee. He tapped his left forearm with his right hand and pointed at Matt. Nate glanced back at his brother. Matt had an odd look on his face.

  “Gentlemen,” said the older of the two referees, “Evansville is claiming there was a foul on the final shot. I’m afraid I was screened out on the play and didn’t see it clearly.” He looked at the other official. “Gene, did you see a foul?”

  The other man shook his head. “There was definitely contact,” he said, “but I thought it was incidental.”

  “No,” the Evansville captain exclaimed, “he hit me on the arm.” And he again pointed at Matt.

  “Sorry, son,” the older official said, “I’m afraid…”

  “Ask him,” the Evan
sville player interjected.

  The official shook his head. “That’s not the way it works.”

  “To hell with that,” the Evansville coach said. “Why not just ask him? He can speak for himself.” He looked at Matt. “Did you foul?”

  “Now hold on a second,” Coach Hamilton said. But everyone had turned to look at Matt.

  Nate looked back again at his brother as the senior official said, “Son, you’re not obligated to respond to that.”

  Matt had set his jaw.

  Oh, no, Nate said to himself. No. He opened his mouth to speak, but Matt beat him to it.

  “Yes, sir,” he said. “I think I did.”

  “There you go,” the Evansville coach said immediately, throwing his arms in the air once again. Looking at the head referee, he added, “You’ve got to call it now.”

  The official looked at his colleague, who simply shrugged.

  Coach Hamilton said, “I’ve never heard of anything like this.” But it wasn’t very compelling, and he seemed to know it.

  The senior official took a deep breath. “Ok,” he said, and he turned toward the scorer’s table, blowing his whistle. “We have a foul on Jackson. Number five. Number one for Evansville is at the line shooting two.”

  After a moment, he added, “Put three seconds back on the clock.”

  It took a couple of minutes to clear the court. The public address announcer tried his best to explain the situation. As it dawned on the Evansville fans that their team still had a chance to win the game they’d just lost, a great cheer went up. The reaction from the Jackson supporters was much different. Nate could hear the boos and catcalls through the general euphoria of the Evansville crowd.

  Peter had brought with him a series of hand-painted signs that he’d been flashing throughout the game to the delight of the Jackson faithful, his theme apparently somewhat loosely inspired by the mythical snow creature of the Himalayas. Nate had seen a couple during the game. “Sas-squash Evansville.” “It ain’t over Yet-i.”

  Now, as the head official blew his whistle and handed the ball to the Evansville captain at the free throw line, Peter stood defiantly, holding over his head a sign Nate hadn’t yet seen.

  “Abominable”

  Nate had taken up position along the side of the lane, hoping for a miss and an opportunity to snag the rebound. He felt a tap on his hip and turned to see Matt, an intense expression on his face.

  “Get me the ball, Nate.”

  All Nate could think to do was nod. Then Matt turned and jogged up the court.

  The Evansville captain bounced the ball a couple of times. Then he flexed his knees, lifted the ball up in front of his face and flicked his right wrist, sending the ball upward in a pretty arc. Nate knew it was good from the moment it left the boy’s hands. It passed through the rim without drawing iron and barely ruffled the nylon of the net hanging below. The game was now tied.

  “One shot,” the referee reminded them all, then he again tossed the ball to the Evansville player. As before, the boy bounced the ball a couple of times before lifting it up, taking aim and giving the same flick of the wrist. This time the flight of the ball carried it further, and, when it came down, it struck the base of the rim, bouncing up high. Nate had stepped into the lane with the motion of the shot and peered upward, willing the ball to miss. Behind him, Everest pushed, trying to get position for a rebound, but Nate braced himself and held his ground.

  The ball struck the front of the rim at an angle that sent it ricocheting toward the backboard. Nate tensed, ready to leap. But, to his chagrin, the ball bounced straight back and through the hoop.

  Again, the arena erupted.

  Nate wasted no time. As the ball cleared the net, he grabbed it and flipped it to one of the officials while stepping over the end line and preparing to inbound. The man immediately blew his whistle and tossed the ball back. Everest stepped in front of Nate and began hopping up and down, his long arms extended and waving, seeking to deny Nate the ability to make a clean pass. To Everest’s surprise, however, Nate suddenly dashed to his right along the baseline, an unusual, but legal, move after a made basket. Everest was caught in mid-jump, and was left behind.

  Looking down court, Nate saw that Matt, who’d started out under the far basket, was now sprinting in his direction. His defender - the other Evansville guard who had not been previously matched up against Matt and who had apparently not anticipated Matt’s quickness - had been left flat-footed. Nate planted himself near the end of the base line and, with one hand, heaved the ball in Matt’s direction as if it were a baseball. At a spot about thirty-five feet from the basket, Matt and the ball arrived at the same moment, Matt jumping up slightly and grabbing it out of the air. He came down and immediately pivoted on one foot, squaring himself with the basket. The Evansville guard was closing, but not quickly enough.

  Matt bent his knees, and, in one graceful motion, pushed himself upward and let the basketball fly.

  For Nate, time seemed to slow to a crawl. As the ball rose in a high arc, rotating slightly backwards, the clock at the far end of the court ticked down to zero, and the red light behind the backboard illuminated. The crowd’s roar morphed into a collective scream as the orb passed through its zenith and began its downward track. Nate thought it might strike the front of the rim. But instead it passed unscathed through the iron with a satisfying swish of the net.

  Jackson had won.

  This time there was no stopping the crowd from charging the court, and, for the next few minutes, it was a sea of happy bedlam. Several people slapped a somewhat dazed Nate on the back. A few grabbed him in exuberant embraces. Peter had helped Gamma down from the stands, and, when she reached him, she gave him a mighty hug.

  “I’m so happy for you Nate.”

  As the players eventually made their way to the locker room beneath the stands, Nate found himself walking next to Matt. His brother wore an expression of pure joy, and he gave Nate a friendly punch on the arm.

  “Nice pass.”

  Nate nodded in appreciation. But, as they turned into the long corridor leading to the visitor’s locker room, he gave Matt a serious look. “Why did you admit it?”

  Matt’s own face turned serious, and, for several seconds, the two brothers said nothing, the hoots and hollers from their teammates echoing off the concrete walls around them. When they reached the door to the locker room, Matt stepped to the side, and Nate did likewise, allowing the others to pass. Neither said anything. Finally, Matt shrugged. “If I hadn’t, it wouldn’t have been right. Would it?”

  Nate wasn’t sure what to say. He couldn’t help wondering whether, had he found himself in the same situation, he’d have been able to do the same thing.

  Then Matt’s grin returned. “And anyway, it’s better like this, right?”

  Nate considered his brother for a long moment. Finally, he nodded, turned and put an arm over Matt’s shoulder, and together they walked into the boisterous locker room.

  The echoes faded as Nate opened his eyes, and he was back in the quiet SUV, the silence broken only by the intermittent swish of the windshield wipers and the sound of tires on the wet pavement. Minutes passed.

  Matt finally broke the spell. “So this guy on the phone, you said he had a southern accent at one point?”

  Nate nodded.

  “There are lots of southern accents,” Matt said. “Can you be more specific? Was it a drawl, did it have a twang to it?”

  “Neither,” Nate replied. He re-played the conversation in his mind. “I don’t know if it means anything, but the first thought that came to mind was Hampton Roads.”

  As youngsters, the boys had moved around quite a bit. Their father, who was a naval aviator before joining the space program, had been stationed at different posts across the country. Nate spent part of the first grade attending a school in Norfolk, Virginia, where his father was assigned to a squadron at the nearby Naval Air Station. The soft southern accent of the man on the phone had conjure
d memories of the accents he’d heard during his time in Virginia.

  At the mention of Hampton Roads, Matt turned and looked at him quickly before returning his attention to the highway. Nate could see that he was working his jaw.

  “That mean something to you?” Nate asked.

  “Maybe.”

  Matt was again quiet for a long moment. He adjusted his hands on the wheel. It seemed to Nate as though he might be tightening his grip. Then he said, “If it’s who I think it is, we’re dealing with someone very dangerous. Not that the others aren’t. But this guy?” He paused. “He takes it to a whole new level.”

  “Who is he?”

  “His name is Raen. And there’s something wrong with him. Seriously wrong.”

  Nate had thought he couldn’t be more scared. But Matt’s words, and the way he said them, induced a terrifying chill. It took him a minute to find his voice.

  “Matt, what are we going to do?”

  “We’re going to follow through on your first instinct. Your gut told you we needed to go to Minneapolis, to see the Gale women?”

  Nate nodded, though it was more to himself.

  “It was a good instinct,” Matt said. “If those women have been told to keep their mouths shut, they obviously have something to say, something that we need to hear.

  “And now we need to get to them before they do. Before he does.”

  #

  Raen held out his palm and allowed the black stallion to sniff it. Then he reached back and patted the animal’s neck at the point where it met the withers. Sliding his hand up, he scratched along the neck. Nickering softly, the big animal lifted his head and stretched as if to offer encouragement.

  As a boy growing up on a farm in southwest Virginia, Raen had spent a great deal of time around horses. Of course, those had all been work animals, plugs for the most part. Nothing like this magnificent specimen.

  In the garage, Raen had found a bag of carrots. He pulled one now from his pocket and held it out with his other hand. The stallion took the treat gently, biting into it only after pulling his muzzle back safely from Raen’s fingers, the sign of a well-mannered, well-trained animal. Raen reached around with his other hand and scratched the far side of the neck. The horse lay his head softly on Raen’s shoulder, gratefully accepting the ministrations.