Circling to their bench, every player in white and red sits down. Then, as Mr. Bothner finger-points to one and another, a starting five rises and moves to center court, excluding Karl Bothner, the man’s son and point guard! An attention-getter, Dale thinks. He may have smoked the kid in the first half, but he knows his benching is a bluff and that he’ll be back on the floor in a minute. At the same time, the starting Mother Truckers go directly to center court, ready to play, and Dale senses invaluable fight being stolen yet again. Anger, defiance, his spontaneous strategies . . . Mr. Bothner is stealing them away, just like that!
Miss Furbish! There she is in the bleachers, high in an aisle! Eyes moving from the Truckers on their bench, Dale spots her. Miss Furbish surrounded by others within the sea of spectators. Making no attempt to signal her, Dale attends to his teammates, takes a string of warm-up shots. Still, her presence has let him know that she is into it with him. How can she not be, for it’s a contest with more at stake for Dale than anyone else can know. Vindication, salvation, a fight, he thinks, for her pumping heart. Ever aware, she will see that his impulse is to win her back, to have her affection re-opened to him down through the months ahead. She may have little conscious intention of submitting to him, but she cannot be unaware of his dream of her, or of his hope to be with her as before.
CHAPTER 17
THE HORN BEEPS, ZEBRA ONE TWEETS, THE LITTLE MS RETURN three balls to a canvas Walt Whitman bag while the starters take their positions at center court. The Mother Truckers—even Sonny Joe, Dale notices—keep their eyes ahead, looking like red and white sticks of dynamite with fuses sizzling. No eye contact. No words. Dressed down in the girls’ locker room, they’re ready to fight.
As they crouch for the jump. Dale chooses not to go for another interception, and on the jump something goes wrong at once for the Little Ms. Sonny Joe controls—no surprise—but tips the ball to the side to Hal Doyle and, as the Little Ms back-pedal into their zone, takes a return pass just inside the free throw line, squares up, elevates and fires, draining a ten-footer. Sonny Joe is good inside or out, why not go to him?
Just like that, the lead is cut to nine and Dale can see their strategy: Screen Sonny Joe for eight- and ten-footers with Hal Doyle and Keith Bothner crossing low post, leaving Joe to shoot or to feed off inside. Even big clumsy Keith can score lay-ups with his defenders screened.
Dale doesn’t call a time-out. Not yet, he thinks, though it’s clear what is happening. It could be a set-up, he thinks, intending—after the Little Ms readjust—to return Joe low for high percentage lay-ups while the Little Ms defend something that is no longer happening.
The Truckers’ defense is different, too, as the player replacing Karl Bothner bird-dogs their down-court movement like a mad man, racing man to man as the ball is passed and, if not intercepting, hindering movement enough—with what breath he retains—to allow his teammates to settle into a zone of their own. Less a press than an irritation. What also runs through Dale’s mind, as he passes off to Emmett, is being swarmed and trapped, for which the untrained Little Ms have next to nothing with which to counter by way of experience. Their only strategy can be to do more fiercely what they’ve been doing. Even Miss Furbish, he guesses, could read their minimal options.
The Mother Truckers’ defense is ferocious—in the way the Little Ms opened the game—and this is threatening, too. Their underdog rage has been appropriated by Mr. Bothner in removing his son from the game . . . which removal would never have happened had he been in the role, Dale can’t help thinking. Whereupon he tells himself to stop thinking like a loser! To be a leader! To take charge! Don’t let these jerks steal the game back! Don’t even think of Miss Furbish! Lead the way! Be your own man!
So it is—with their offense stifled—that Dale thinks to shoot again from outside. It’s always a risk. A brilliant counterpunch if he scores, desperation city if he misses and the ball is given up. As they look for ways inside, the risk begins seeming to be the only valid way to regain an edge and reignite their fire. Still, will he be leading, or gambling?
The ball comes back from Lucky, and getting a look and a partial pick, Dale elevates, squares up, locks, fires. Karl Bothner’s replacement is all over him. The ball bangs from the rim. No basket, no foul. Ripped from the air by Sonny Joe—just what the Mother Truckers wanted—the rebound is fired down-court on a breakaway that Dale knows his play has allowed. Three on one, Hal Doyle going in untouched, a Mother Truckers’ score and an explosion from the crowd. A turnaround is what they’ve been after, and in hardly a minute four points have been recovered. “Jesus man, move it inside!” Chub hisses at Dale, returning down-court.
A moment later, on another missed shot—by Grady—the Mother Truckers explode into another breakaway that gains two more points, by Sonny Joe, laying in a rebound off a missed shot by Keith Bothner. Just like that, as they have yet to score, the Little M’s eleven-point cushion has been reduced to five and is not a cushion at all. Dale calls time.
“Hafta stay on Joe,” he says to Chub as they huddle. “He gets inside, they’ll kill us.”
“Don’t take those long shots!” Chub snaps back. “Stop trying to be a hero!”
Dale’s heart sinks.
“Cool it, let’s play the game,” Lucky says.
A moment later, as the Little Ms move to inbound, they find themselves hit with another surprise that is a punch in the face: A swarming full-court press. Within one surprise another: the press is not being led by their guards but by their big front three, Joe Dillard, Keith Bothner, Hal Doyle. Everyone is covered and enormous arms are all over Dale as he scrambles to inbound. Hands and whipped out legs chop every space before him. At last, seeing Lucky on the run near half court, he gets off a base-ball toss over Keith Bothner’s dinner plate hands, only to have Lucky instantly swarmed and trapped when, as he tries to pass, Keith Bothner gets a finger on it, dives after it—as does Dale—and the two of them slide over the floor grappling to retain possession as the whistle is blowing.
“Jump ball!” Zebra Two is calling. “Jump ball!”
CHAPTER 18
A SUDDEN PROBLEM: AS DALE AND BIG KEITH BOTHNER ARE climbing to their feet, Zebra Two carries the ball to the foul circle before the Little Ms’ basket and Dale, certain the tie-up occurred closer to center court, says, “What are you doing? Has to be center court!”
“Jump ball here,” the official says. “Line it up!”
“Come on, what is this?” Dale says.
“Tie-up was closest to this circle, let’s go!” the man says.
“Like hell it was! What’re you doing?!”
“You watch your tongue or I am putting you out of this game!”
Looking to Zebra One, Dale says, “You said this was going to be a fair game! Jump goes to the nearest circle!”
“It’s his call, it’s how he saw it. Line it up or I am calling a technical!”
“I can ask for an explanation!” Dale says. “I’m the captain . . . I’m asking for an explanation!”
Zebra One raises a palm to Dale, warning him to go easy, and approaches his colleague to confer. Quickly he turns back. “Jump ball where he said. It’s his call.”
The players sidle about, while Dale says, “He was at the center circle himself when he blew his whistle!”
“Knock it off and play ball or I am calling a technical!” Zebra One remarks.
“Can I ask a question? As Captain?”
“One question.”
“I questioned his call,” Dale says. “That’s all I did. And he threatens to put me out of the game for what, because I said hell? I’m the Captain! I have a right to ask questions! He can call a technical . . . but he can’t just put me out of the game because he feels like it! That call was wrong! You know it was wrong! He’s making us line up at the wrong circle! And you said we were going to have a fair game!”
Zebra One watches Dale, less in angry reaction than in curiosity. “You better get a hold of yourself,” he says
. “This is a ball game, not a court room.”
“Threats to put somebody out of a game . . . take the fight out of a team! That sure as hell isn’t fair, and you said—”
“Jump ball!” Zebra Two snaps. “Now!”
Hands on his waist, Dale is sucking air. “He threatened me, to show he won’t take any guff!” Dale tells Zebra One, but before the man can toot a technical Grady is at Dale’s side, sweaty arm around his neck. “Forget it, man. Let’s play the game.”
Face down, Dale draws in added air. Looking up, approaching the line, he sees players giving him glances and knows it’s true that he’s risking losing control of himself.
Jump ball.
Dale shoulders in, crouching beneath bulky Keith Bothner, when a voice from on high bellows, “DUMB CALL, REF! JUMP BALL SHOULD BE AT CENTER COURT! PLAY IT FAIR!”
There is passion in the shout, and it sends a charge into Dale that has him circling from his crouch, pulling in added air. Orange and black, take no flak! he tells himself. Always show up, always fight back!
# # #
DALE RESUMES HIS crouch. There is the ball in the official’s hand, about to be lofted as Dale is sensing more than seeing the bulk of Keith Bothner looming over him, six inches taller, arms and hands larger and longer, likewise tensing for the jump. As Zebra Two’s hand lowers in anticipation of lofting the ball, Dale begins—as if in slow motion—leaping on an angle directly into big Keith Bothner, the bulky brother who has become an item with Zona Kaplan, meaning to knock him out of the way, to knock him on his ass if he can.
Dale’s shoulder masses against the slippery flesh and shoulder of the larger boy, blasting him back—not onto his ass but out of the way—leaving the ball hanging for Dale to tip to Emmett. Just like that. Play continues no matter Keith Bothner needing to regain balance. No whistle, for it has been a move more audacious than any of them have ever seen. No sooner does Dale receive a return pass from Emmett, however, than whistles are cutting the air, halting play.
The problem: Giant-sized Mr. Bothner is on the court, red-faced, stabbing a finger at Dale, shouting, “THAT IS A DIRTY PLAYER! YOU, NUMBER FOUR! YOU ARE A DIRTY PLAYER! GET THAT TROUBLEMAKER OUT OF THIS GAME! GET HIM OUT OF HERE!”
Both Zebras are closing on Mr. Bothner, as if to keep him from crossing the court and hammering a fourteen-year-old. Holding his forearms, they deflect him toward his bench, even as he continues glaring past them at the dirty player who just assaulted his oldest son, the winner of the Nationals at Akron and the apple of Zona Kaplan’s dark eyes. The Word Power Challenge would be disturb and perturb, Dale is thinking, as the giant, if not struggling to break their hold, maintains an outraged trajectory toward Dale that he could break with ease if he wanted to.
As Mr. Bothner is seated, if not settled, Zebra One returns to center court, indicating with his fingers that he wants the ball. “Bench technical,” he says over his shoulder to the scorer’s table. “Flintstone Truckers—bench technical, on their coach, for coming onto the floor.”
Dale feels vindication for being called a dirty player by the red-faced man. He’s gained his attention at last, the man—like a heavy Cadillac thrown in reverse and ignoring its path—who entered his school, took away his team, and crushed his dream. Nor is he a dirty player as charged, Dale is thinking, is simply playing to win on their terms. Mr. Bothner dirtied the water on day one, and he just returned the favor. No one has ever played dirtier than Mr. Von Bothner, he tells himself.
His teammates around him are sucking air, guffawing. “You’re the dirty player, you shoot the technical,” Lucky is saying.
Following Zebra One with the ball, Dale approaches the free throw line in the presence of shouts and hoots from the stands. Readies himself. Handing over the ball, Zebra One notes, “One shot. And no more shenanigans.”
Dale bounces the ball before his sneakered toes. As he looks to the rim, shouts from the stands increase in volume. Do it, he tells himself. Do it!
He misses. The ball rims out, hits the floor, and his heart sinks under added shouts. Don’t look back, he tells himself, moving to rejoin his teammates, knowing in his disappointment that he invested too much in a free throw, not least of all in Miss Furbish and her dark living room. What is she thinking, up in the stands . . . that he is a boy and not a man after all?
CHAPTER 19
AS IF ALL AT ONCE, THE GAME IS LOST TO THEM. IT’S THE fourth quarter and playing time is not over, but suddenly the game is lost, as any experienced eye could see. Something is wrong, has failed, the Mother Truckers have invoked their talent—which is considerable—and, even as the Little Ms lose and retain and lose again their slim lead, the game is lost. For Dale, in his heart, it’s the dying of a hoop dream and a dream of Miss Furbish, too. He would like to see things differently, but can only see what he can see, can only know what he knows.
The Little Ms fight on, not admitting that the game is lost or seeing, either, that the Mother Truckers are putting together all they learned throughout a season of workouts and drills, evening practices and one-on-one tutorials from a trained professional. Fourth quarter. Intensity persists, as does the Trucker’s full-court press. The Little M’s struggle to move the ball down-court, pass and pass, try to work the ball inside for higher-percentage shots, fail and pass until someone—they all give into temptation—tries what seems a reasonable shot only to have Trucker arms and legs all over them, and all over the board, pulling in rebounds as shots clang off.
The Little Ms work in turn to be as tenacious as their opponents. There is Mr. Bothner, Dale notices more than once, as seized by the game as anyone, pacing his bench, waving his hands, using them to megaphone instructions, more into it than any coach he has ever seen. On a glimpse, Dale sees the giant man pivot and fire, in near violence, a wadded piece of paper at the floor behind his own bench.
# # #
THE MOTHER TRUCKERS keep coming, taking and retaking the lead. Free throws are made and missed, shots made and missed. Dale loses track of the score and intentionally avoids reading the scoreboard. Maybe their lead is four, maybe three . . . maybe two. He doesn’t want to know. Try harder! he keeps telling himself. Harder! If they can rack up six straight points, he’ll check the score board again.
In another moment, inbounding at mid-court against another wild-handed full-court press, the ball is deflected and, running after it, Dale ends up in another floor grapple, this time with Karl Bothner. “Jump ball, jump ball!” Zebra One is calling.
Dale declines to surrender the ball. He lets up some but maintains his grip, as does Karl Bothner, until Dale rips it free. Incensed, the boy tries to rip it back, as if out to retain possession at any cost. Whistles shrill and Zebra One snaps, “Jump ball! Enough!” Karl Bothner has a nail-grip on Dale’s wrist, however, and as Dale whips his hands violently, making the ball fly, his fist comes up ready to blast a boy similarly possessed. Grabbed by Zebra One and swung around, Dale hears the man hissing into his ear, “Enough! Or you are outta here!”
Contained by the man, Dale settles, but again his attention and the attention of all, Karl Bothner included, is drawn to Mr. Bothner being restrained by scorekeepers and his own players. There he is pointing, sputtering, bellowing, “THROW THAT NUMBER FOUR OUT OF THIS GAME! GET HIM OUT OF HERE! HE IS A DIRTY PLAYER! GET HIM OFF OF THIS FLOOR!”
Zebra One releases Dale, stepping over to help the others contain the giant. Dale stands gasping. Players from both teams stand sucking in air, and most spectators are straining their necks to take in the spectacle. Mr. Bothner, one hand whipping out to accentuate whatever he is saying, is guided back to his bench where he submits, again, to sitting down. Zebra One, returning center-court, motions to Dale, indicating that he has words for him. To the others he says, “Jump ball, right there, in one second.”
Aside, Zebra One brays under his breath at Dale, “In one more minute! You, hot shot! AND their coach! In one more minute you are both leaving this gym! I have never seen such a display! Do you
hear me!?”
Sucking air, Dale replies, “He’s the one showed up here and stole my team.”
“Enough!!” Zebra One snaps. “I don’t give a shit about your goddamn history!!”
Sucking air, getting his eyes to meet the man’s glare, Dale gets out, “He was on the floor . . . it’s technical number two. Two and you’re out,” he gasps. “It’s in the book.”
The Zebra’s eyes close and his face looks down. He sighs as some seconds pass, which time keeps him from throttling the teenager before him. Looking up, he says, almost calmly, “Are you an athlete or a shithouse lawyer? Technical one was a bench call. I am not putting Von Bothner out of this game! That is something I am not going to do!”
“Coach, anybody else—”
“Shut it up!! Now! One more word and you are gone! Unsportsmanlike conduct. I have to, I’ll carry you off this floor and throw you into the street. What is it with you!?”
“I been screwed around here and I’m taking no flak,” Dale manages to say.
“Is that what this is about—taking no flak?!”
“I ain’t taking no flak.”
“Well it’s a jump ball. So shut up your smart ass mouth and line it up!”
Dale thinks to say, again, that the game is being played under protest but keeps his tongue, knowing he’ll be thrown out for sure if he says anything at all. Aren’t they still in the game? Don’t they have a chance . . . sort of?
CHAPTER 20
STEPPING TO THE LINE, DALE GLANCES (AGAINST HIS BETTER judgment) to the scoreboard and is surprised by the scarcity of time remaining.
QUARTER 4 2:06
Where has the time gone? The score also shocks him:
HOME 53/VISITORS 54.
Dear Miss Furbish. How can she help him now, even if she wanted to? Loss is upon him and he senses her moving beyond reach, as if he had known all along it would come to this.
Winning the City Redux Page 22