Winning the City Redux

by Theodore Weesner

“Host school provides balls,” Dale says.

  “This is City League, read your rule book,” Coach Burke tells him.

  “We can’t use some warm-up balls?”

  “I don’t make the rules!” Burkebutt says to Dale, causing the faces of officials about the table to look up. “You bring your own warm-up balls! Read the rule book!”

  “Nobody ever brings balls,” Dale says again.

  “Coach, come on, let these kids use some balls,” Zebra One says to Coach Burke.

  In that moment, to an explosion from the crowd, the Truckers come jogging onto the glossy floor in their silky white warm-up jackets, matching trunks, white shoes, FLINTSTONE TRUCKERS gracing their backs in red, dribbling one new pebbly leather ball per player, circling into a passing-running drill—instant fingertip passes—looking polished and professional as their drill draws stares from all, timekeepers, zebras, Little Ms.

  Wow.

  Emerging in a stride between them in a handsome gray suit and vest, white shirt and tie, clipboard in hand, is the giantsized, silver-haired, former Detroit Piston, Von Bothner. He, too, draws applause, as if for his celebrity demeanor, not to mention the all but professional squad of sprouting teenagers he has whipped into shape throughout the season. As he waves a hand to the crowd on approaching the table, more applause breaks out. Burkebutt, Dale notices, is clapping madly, wearing a smile that won’t quit.

  As things settle, Dale says to the officials’ table, “Can’t we borrow some balls?” but receives no reply as most eyes remain on the Truckers’ fluid transition from the passing to a shooting drill. “Can we not borrow some balls!?” Dale repeats more loudly, getting Zebra One—game ball still under his arm—to look his way and say with his eyes he doesn’t know.

  “There are TWO teams here!” Dale says.

  Nothing.

  Stepping back to his teammates—hearing someone in the stands shout, “Hey, Wheeler, you traitor!”—Dale lets them know that the host school is not going to let them use any warmup balls, that they were supposed to have brought their own. “Horse shit!” Chub says. “It’s never that way.”

  The drill continues like a performance in white silk at the other end. Standing with his teammates, Dale watches the leather balls going one after another off the glass and through the threads to where they’re picked off by players following in the weave. Confused—all seems to have been already determined—Dale returns to the zebras, who are also taking in the quasi-professional performance. “Who’s the main ref?” he asks.

  There is no reply.

  “I said who’s the main ref!?” Dale says.

  Zebra One, game ball in both hands, looks his way. “I’m head official,” he says. “You team captain? If not, send over your team captain and I’ll answer any questions. This game is going to start in five minutes.”

  “I’m team captain.”

  “What’s the problem, Captain?”

  “The problem is we don’t have any warm-up balls!”

  The man lays open a hand as if to say he’s sorry, there isn’t anything he can do about it.

  “They get to warm up and we don’t? Is that how it is?”

  “Coach Burke,” the man calls aside. “Can’t you loan these kids some warm-up balls?”

  “Host school is not obligated to furnish balls during playoffs!” Coach Burke snaps, as much to Dale as to the official. “It’s in the rule book!” Burkebutt adds.

  Something snaps in Dale as he says to his former coach: “Nobody ever brings balls to City League and you know it!”

  A smiling sneer materializes on Coach Burke’s face. “This young man is a known troublemaker,” he tells the zebras.

  “He’s a backstabber who doesn’t play fair!” Dale says.

  “Hey hey hey!” comes from Zebra One.

  “He calls me a name, I’m not allowed to call him a name?”

  “Son, I think you’d better calm down,” the man says.

  Heart racing, Dale feels cheated in the moment and overall and doesn’t know what to say or do. Returning to his teammates—they, too, stand gazing at the Truckers’ silken performance—he says, “Game’s going to start in minutes.” He likewise takes in the show unfolding at the other end of the gym. Everything is wrong. They’re being railroaded. Orange and black, take no flak! Always show up, always fight back! Taking flak is what they are being compelled to do.

  CHAPTER 10

  THE HORN BEEPS, SIGNALING THE END OF WARM-UPS AND THE assuming of positions for the start of the game. As the Little Ms continue watching, Mr. Bothner and Coach Burke proceed onto the floor to receive and direct their players, Coach Burke gathering their pebbly new balls and stuffing them into the school’s canvas ball bags. Zebra One calls, “Little Ms, hey you, Captain, over here,” and it is then, sensing all to be lost, that Dale experiences a sensation of defiance climbing the back of his neck.

  Walking over, uncertain of himself, Dale knows only that he is going to say something. They’re being screwed, all bets are off, and he’s going to make his case.

  Zebra One, joined by Zebra Two, says, “Captain Dillard, over here, please.” Zebra One is about to deliver pre-game instructions concerning gym, lines, benches, clock, expectations for clear substitutions and a clean game, which he proceeds to do as Sonny Joe and Dale stand facing at each other. As Zebra One concludes and looks to Joe, then to Dale, for their nods, Dale says, “I want to lodge an official protest right now. Do I do it here or at the scorer’s table?”

  Zebra One begins to smile. “You want to lodge a protest?”

  “This is supposed to be a neutral site for a play-off game, and we’re not being treated in a neutral way,” Dale says. “Not being allowed to warm up isn’t fair, and you know it. Is there something I need to sign to make it clear that I am lodging a protest before this game even starts? If this game has to be played at a different site, with different officials and fair rules, that’s what we’re willing to do.”

  Zebra One is wide-eyed. “How’s that again?”

  Dale takes a step and points at the canvas ball bags behind the Truckers’ bench, where Coach Burke is standing. “Those balls are the property of this school. I asked if we could use warm-up balls, and was told the site is neutral and we had to bring our own. It isn’t fair to give one team an advantage, and it’s your job, sir, as head official, to not let that happen.”

  Allowing Dale to finish, Zebra One says, “Captain . . . what’s your name again?”

  “I didn’t say. You didn’t ask. You said, ‘Captain Dillard, please,’ and you said to me, ‘Hey, you.’ ‘Hey, you’ isn’t my name.”

  “Whoa, right now! Let’s not get carried away.”

  “If you’re not going to call the game fair and square, why call it at all? Why not just give them the win and save everybody the trouble?”

  “Son, you have got a mouth on you. You better rein it in, I’m telling you.” The man’s voice is changing, and by then he is wagging a finger at Dale’s chin.

  Dale stands his ground, feels no fear, looks to the man and his wagging finger while saying to himself: Touch me with your finger I’ll tear your fucking head off!

  “Your name, Captain?”

  “Dale Wheeler, Captain, Little Ms.”

  “Wheeler, you jerk, what is this crap?” Sonny Joe says.

  “Captain Wheeler?” the official says. “Okay, Captain. You believe warm-up balls should have been provided for your team because they were provided for the other team? That what you’re saying?”

  “That’s what I’m saying. They’ve already been given an unfair advantage, in being allowed to warm up.” Others, Dale notices, have turned their heads to watch. Mr. Bothner, Burkebutt, the scorekeeper, the timekeeper. “Balls and a fair warm-up,” Dale adds. “Coach Burke said this was a neutral site, but that isn’t what it is at all. We’re being screwed before the game has even started, and you’re just letting it happen.”

  “I tell you, son, you better watch that tongue of yours.�
��

  Dale stares back, the defiant sensation re-climbing the back of his neck. “My tongue doesn’t have anything to do with anything!” he tells the man. “If we’re going to be screwed before the game starts. And you’re going to let us be screwed. Then this game is being played under protest.”

  “You know what, Captain Wheeler, I think you better calm down here and now, and get a hold of yourself.”

  “I’m calm, don’t tell me I’m not,” Dale says. “Little Ms are rough and tough and hard to bluff. We’re taking no flak and we’re fighting back.” His eyes may have glossed up, but he holds the staring man’s gaze and is filled with a desire to fight.

  “Captain Wheeler,” the man says, pivoting close enough to confide. “Son, listen to me now. I did not mean to offend you, or shortchange you when I said, ‘Hey, you,’ if that’s what I did. Okay? But you are gonna have to do as I say, concerning your tongue, or you will not be playing in this game at all. I’m getting very close to putting you out of this game, and out of this building . . . if I have to do the escorting myself.”

  “You’re still talking like you’re on their side. You threaten me and they’re the ones doing the cheating. How many do they get to have on their side?”

  The man’s eyes widen in outrage, maybe of a mind to hammer the smart-ass kid before him, but in astonishment, too. Glancing to the floor, taking a breath, he looks at Dale and says, “Your protest is you weren’t allowed to warm up? The other team got to use school balls and you didn’t? Coach,” he calls aside without waiting for Dale’s reply. “You got some balls these kids can use for a warm-up?”

  “Host school is not required to provide warm-up balls!” Coach Burke says. “I’ve said that three times. It’s in the rule book.”

  “If this is a neutral site, how come he’s telling everybody what to do?” Dale says to the official.

  “Hear that!?” Coach Burke snaps. “Didn’t I tell you he’s a troublemaker!”

  “Coach . . . listen to me,” Zebra One says, placing a hand on Dale’s forearm and turning his impatience even more fiercely, Dale can see, in Coach Burke’s direction. “We’re going to get this problem solved! His point sounds valid to me.”

  “Irregardless!” Coach Burke snaps.

  This draws turned heads from all around, into which breach—mind and heart racing to Miss Furbish, to Word Power Challenge, yet again to orange and black fighting back—added electricity is alive on Dale’s neck. “Coach, you’re a credit to the human race,” he says. “There’s no such word as irregardless.”

  “See!” Coach Burke sputters to the officials. “See! What did I tell you?!”

  “Look it up,” Dale adds. “This game is being played under protest,” he repeats to Zebra One, turning back in the direction of his teammates.

  CHAPTER 11

  SUDDENLY COACH BURKE IS STRIDING PAST HIM, MOVING, Dale knows from his mornings sweeping the gyms, in the direction of the ball bin in the corner. Dale also knows that nothing but old rubber gym balls, wayward in their bounce, are kept in the bin and that using them to warm up will do more harm than good. As Coach Burke is lifting the green-painted wooden lid, Dale utters to his teammates, “Don’t touch these balls! Screw these jerks! We’ll play without warming up! Don’t touch them! Don’t even kick them! Orange and black, take no flak!”

  Hoots and jeers come from the stands as Coach Burke rolls one and another old rubber ball over the floor in the direction of the Little Ms, who, by virtue of Dale’s words, hold in place and watch them roll by as if they are meaningless. A third ball comes rolling at Chub, who raises a lone foot to let it pass, his gesture so cool it draws laughter from the stands. Walking their way, Zebra One says, “Captain Wheeler, over here, please.”

  Dale steps to center-court with the official, as do Mr. Bothner, Coach Burke, Sonny Joe. “Captain, is your team declining the use of the warm-up balls provided by this school?”

  “You know very well that there’s nothing neutral in new leather balls with true bounce and old rubber rejects,” Dale says. “That’s not equal treatment. Protest stands.”

  The official blurts suppressed laughter. “Coach, I believe Captain Wheeler has you there,” he says. “Anyone can see that those balls are not equal.”

  “I know the rule book!” Coach Burke says.

  “So do I,” Dale says. “You gave me a copy, in case you’ve forgotten. I know every page of the rule book. There are twenty-six of them, and equal treatment at neutral sites is what they say.”

  Expectant faces turn to Coach Burke for his reply, while he offers nothing beyond a murderous scowl in Dale’s direction.

  “Nonetheless, Captain Wheeler, you’ve been offered warm-up balls,” Zebra One says. “Do you wish to warm up or not?”

  Scrambling in his mind to factor all things, Dale says, “We’ll beat these cheaters without a warm-up,” and turns to walk back to his teammates, whereupon a boy’s voice bellows from the stands, “WHEELER, YOU TRAITOR!”

  “No warm-up,” Dale tells his teammates as they gather. “I said we’ll beat these jerks without a warm-up. Let’s do it! Let’s kill ’em!”

  The horn blares at last from the timekeeper’s table.

  # # #

  THEN ANOTHER DELAY. Coach Burke is up from the Truckers’ bench, calling the officials’ attention to the game clock on the end wall, and Dale finds himself watching the short man wave and point. Wearing a sweater under his sport coat, over a shirt and tie—no matter the grip of winter having passed—Burkebutt had been sitting on the far end of the Truckers’ bench and anyone walking in, seeing Mr. Bothner at the near end, would have surmised the Truckers to have two coaches.

  Clock problem resolved—reset?—Coach Burke returns to his seat and Zebra One, game ball in hand, returns toward center court. Seeing that Burkebutt is running everything, Dale intercepts the official, uncertain what he is going to say. “Our roster . . . no players could be added after a certain date?” he begins.

  “Yes?”

  “What about coaches. If I remember, same rules apply to coaches.”

  “You know something, Captain Wheeler?” the man says. “I’ve had just about enough of your complaints. We’re here to play a basketball game and that is what we are going to do. It is going to be played fair and square, you can be certain of that.”

  Dale turns, hesitates, advises himself all over again to be cool and not a fool. Still he knows he’s right, knows the official’s impatience with him has nothing to do with any question he might ask, knows what he knows. Re-approaching Zebra One, head down, he says, “I’m the captain. I have a right to speak for my team. If there are two violations or twenty-two violations, it doesn’t matter. I have a right to call all of them to your attention.”

  The official inhales, glares as if he wants to throw Dale on the floor and kick him in the head. Dale looks into the man’s glare. With a sneer, the man is asking softly, “Do you really think you’re going to steamroll me?”

  “That’s not what I’m trying to do,” Dale says.

  “What is your problem? That’s what I’d like to know?”

  “It’s okay for Coach Burke to say something about the clock . . . but not okay for me to say something about coaches not being on their roster?”

  “You’re beginning to sound like a broken record.”

  “I have a right, as Captain, to question a violation.”

  Pausing, looking to the floor, the official raises his eyes. “The violation you’re questioning?”

  “Why is Coach Burke on their bench, giving them advantages of what is supposed to be a neutral site? I know the rule book as well as he does. Is his name on their roster? If it isn’t, he needs to be removed from the bench.”

  The man continues studying Dale after he has stopped talking. Dale returns his staring gaze, and it’s the man who finally nods his head. “I’ll check,” he says. “But don’t try my patience any further . . . because I happen to know the rule book, too.”

  Jee
rs and hoots come from the stands as the official, game ball in hand, walks once more from impending action at center-court to the scorekeeper’s table, and leans in to make an inquiry. At Dale’s side, Chub confides, “Enough horse shit, let’s just beat ’em,” to which Dale replies, “We are.”

  The scorekeeper recovers a briefcase at his feet from which he extracts yellow folders. Angling pages for both men to read, he turns over two, three, four before settling on one on which to trace a finger. As the heads of both men turn to take in Coach Burke sitting on the bench, Zebra One steps along and draws him and Mr. Bothner with him, to confide, each coach cocking his head to hear his words. As Zebra One concludes, the short man who was Dale’s Scholastic coach for three years reddens and appears to implode, expanding an inch overall.

  Ears smoking, hands jerking, Coach Burke gesticulates, sputters, jabs, all the while trying to remain in control of himself. As Zebra One points to the folder of papers, Coach Burke goes from red to blue on continued short jabbings of his finger. Surprised at the urge to finish him off that is alive in his heart, Dale turns his back like a bullfighter defying a barbed and muscular little animal. Where is Miss Furbish now? Is she present? Is she watching him standing up for himself, taking no flak, fighting like a man?

  Subsequent commotion has everyone watching Coach Burke remove himself and his belongings from the bench. Unable, four steps later, to compel a student to surrender a nearby seat, Coach Burke climbs up into the bleachers, looking for a new place to sit.

  Close by, Sonny Joe says, “Wheeler, what the hell are you doing?”

  “Playing by the rules, how do you like it?”

  # # #

  AT CENTER COURT, Zebra One says, “Coach Burke is not on the Truckers’ roster and cannot sit on their bench. All of you listen to me,” he adds, waving them closer.

  To their poised ears he confides, “I’m going to tell you something and I want you to hear me. This game is going to be played and officiated fairly. Some of you seem to think everyone’s out to get you, and I’ll tell you this: Whatever happened in the past, I don’t want to know about it. I hope you understand because I’ve had it with this display, and I would hate to have file a report of my own or to put any one of you out of this game and out of this gym.”