“Listen to this,” she said, rapping a knuckle on the paper.
WILLOW CREEK WON’T GO AWAY. Coach Jeff Long of Twin Bridges must be looking over his shoulder and shaking his head this morning. Faced with a challenge game on Monday night, the excellent Falcon team—who’ve beaten Willow Creek three times this season—should make it four. The second-ranked team in the State has too many guns for the ‘Half-a-Dozen Squad’ from Willow Creek. But I have a feeling it will be close and I realize I could be writing on Tuesday morning, ‘Willow Creek won’t go away.’
She pulled off the outer pair of glasses and looked over at her grandson.
“Thank heavens we have a challenge game. Twin Bridges only won two games while you boys won three. It’s only fair that you should get a crack at them. This way no one sneaks by in a weak bracket. Whoever thought it up was one smart cookie.”
WHEN ALL THE equipment was in its place and everyone else had scattered, Diana and Sam walked to her car. She surveyed the sky and took a deep breath.
“Let’s see what’s happening,” she said.
“Where?”
“Out there.”
She nodded toward the mountains and the vast country beyond the meager boundaries of the town.
“You mean right now?” Sam said, gazing toward the Tobacco Roots.
“Yeah.”
“I have a lot to get done before—”
“Like stew and fuss and worry.”
Sam regarded this sprightly woman who had moved into his heart with all of her mysterious baggage and he recognized the little girl sparkling in her eyes.
“You’re right. Let’s go.”
“I have to change,” she said. “Half hour?”
“I’ll pick you up,” Sam said and turned for his house.
He changed into his sorry running shoes, old jeans, and Levi jacket, then he pulled into her castaway ranch yard. She bounced down the steps in her field jacket and Padres cap. She directed him down gravel roads to a different place along the Jefferson River. They parked and scrambled over the rusted barbed wire. He followed her through brush and rose thorn and sage into a towering cottonwood stand where a few juniper and aspen were competing for space and sunlight. He loved to watch her forging on ahead of him, knowing just where to step.
From time to time she pointed out animal tracks and signs, magpie nests, a blue heron rookery, coyote scats, and the other unending evidence of the ongoing life around them.
“Of course this will all be buried in snow at least once more,” she said.
Sam followed her meandering course along the wooded river bench until they came to a small meadow covered with knee-high brown grass.
“Look,” she pointed at a place where the grass was trodden down in several faint oval shapes. “Deer bedded down here today.” She felt the ground in one of the matted places. “Maybe we spooked them.”
“Can we do it here?” Sam said.
She smiled enticingly. “Do what?”
“Lie down and feel the earth turn.”
“Oh… sure.”
She knelt in one of the deer beds and stretched out on her back, her feet pointing south. Sam lay beside her.
He slid an arm under her head and she snuggled on his shoulder. Then they were quiet, their arms out to the side, watching the clouds and trying to sense the planet’s rotation. The sun, mostly hidden in the multilayered sky, was mincing toward the rim of the Tobacco Roots. They were the only people in the universe. What would it be like to mate here in this hidden meadow like the deer?
“Feel it?” she whispered.
Sam tried to refocus on the earth beneath him, lying there with her in his arms. He breathed deeply. They were quiet for several minutes. A breeze whispered in the grass.
“Yeah, I got it, I can feel it.”
He imagined himself falling back into the rotating earth, and a centeredness faithfully returned to him, an underlying balance that he faintly recognized from some unremembered time.
“We’ll do this some clear night when it gets warmer,” he heard her say. “It’s easier to feel the rotation when the stars appear to be moving west.”
Sam gazed at the clouds and a great sense of awe gripped him, a shivering instant in which he wanted to tell her about Amos and Andrew and Grandma and how afraid he was that she would leave him.
Finally, it dawned on him. What in hell was Sam Pickett worried about? Life was only found here, in the present. And it was tragic to poison this miraculous moment by allowing the pain and regret of his past or fear of the future leak all over it. He breathed deeply and allowed himself to cherish this wondrous interlude, letting all else fall away, to cherish the air and the earth and the warm woman lying beside him in the winter grass.
SAM ATE HIS noon meal before gathering the team. The high school kids had Monday off, game day, and at the Blue Willow it seemed that everyone else had followed suit. When Grandma slid into a chair next to him, Sam prayed that he could pretend to be totally oblivious to the cataclysm and shipwreck of her life.
She startled him. “Well, you gonna tell me I look pale like the rest of them?”
“No, no!” Sam overdid it. “You look great to me.”
“Never saw the likes of it. Have a touch of flu and they try to bury you,” she said with a genuine disgust on her face.
He accepted her effusive praise and they rehashed the games for a minute.
“Will you be stayin’ when this is all over?” she asked.
“No… I’ll be leaving this summer.” He caught his breath. “It wouldn’t be the same around here without… without the boys… without Diana.”
“I know what you mean. I’m going to miss Peter something fierce.” She glanced into his eyes. “Are you leaving with Miss Murphy? You’re so good for each other.”
“She is for me.”
“And you are for her. I’ve seen it in her eyes. It would be a crime if you two don’t up and get married.”
“That sounds nice, but she’s taking a job in San Diego.” “So? They don’t need English teachers and top-notch coaches in San Diego?”
“I think I’ll stick to English from now on. It wouldn’t be the same with the basketball.”
“You’re right,” she said wistfully, as if for a moment the garment of her courage had slipped, revealing a glimpse of her heart. “This has been something else. Things are never the same. We gotta dance before the orchestra goes home.”
Sam sighed with relief when Grandma scooted off to another table, immediately aware of how strained he’d been emotionally. How in the hell do you talk to someone you know is dying but who thinks you don’t? Maybe the way one should talk to everyone. They were all dying.
The chair hadn’t cooled when Axel dropped in and leaned an elbow on the table.
In a hushed voice the proprietor of the bustling inn said, “Sam, there was a guy in here this morning asking about a Granville Hamilton. He never showed a badge or anything, but I think he was some kind of a cop.”
“Hamilton? I don’t know any Granville Hamilton. Never heard of anyone with that name around here.”
Axel leaned closer and whispered, “The guy kept talking about weather and things and then would come back to this Hamilton guy, like wondering if he stopped in here now and then. It was spooky. After awhile I found myself lying!”
“Lying? Why?”
Axel’s forehead gleamed with perspiration, the scar below his ear flamed, and he whispered so quietly Sam could barely hear him in the droning dining room.
“Because the guy was describing Amos Flowers!”
Oh, Jeez, I knew it, I knew it!
Sam tried to swallow the portion of lasagna he had just shoveled into his mouth and felt a deep-dish concrete form in his stomach.
Now it was Sam who was whispering.
“Amos! Are you sure?”
“Yeah, he described him to a tee except for the hat. Said he always wore a black hat, but it was Amos he was talking about.”
&
nbsp; Sam tried to disguise his fright. The hidden suitcase bulging with cash loomed in his mind as though it had spilled all over the table in the Blue Willow. He glanced around the inn to see if any strangers were watching. “Well, I hope it’s nothing serious,” he said. “Have you seen Amos today?”
“No, but we better warn him. He doesn’t have a phone and no one knows exactly where he lives. I don’t know what to do.”
“Well, when he shows up we can tell him. He’ll probably be at the game tonight.”
On his way up the blacktop toward school, where he would walk through some offensive sets with the boys before heading for Helena, he leaned into the robust southwesterly that was indigenous to Willow Creek. He wanted to stop at the house and hide the suitcase in a less obvious place. What had he gotten himself into? He caught himself looking over his shoulder, no longer for George Stonebreaker, but for some mafioso in a black pinstriped suit who wanted his money back. Going past his house, he acted as though he’d never seen the place before.
He couldn’t help but notice the fanfare of clouds, surging and swelling in the extravagant sky.
An unfamiliar car came into town from the south, and he ducked into the school as if out of some blazing spotlight of guilt. But Amos and his satchel of cash instantly faded from his mind in the glow of the bright apple faces waiting for him in the gym.
CHAPTER 73
Diana had never seen the boys that eager, that fired up to play a game, their last shot at Twin Bridges forever and forever. As they warmed up in the Carroll College Sports Center, she kept one eye on Olaf. The kid had improved so much in the past few weeks it seemed that his coordination and confidence, like younger brothers, were catching up to his sprawling dimensions. She watched him shooting free throws and she could see that the boy had a look in his eye that had never been there before, a look neither she nor Sam could have put there, a look that had its seeds back in the long lineage of fearsome Vikings.
At the bench for introductions, the boys were like sled dogs straining at their harnesses, challenging one another and slapping palms. She and Sam needed only to stand aside and turn them loose. The announcer welcomed the whittled-down Monday-night crowd to the challenge game and began the introductions.
“For Willow Creek, starting at one forward, number eighteen, a 6'4" senior, Tom Stonebreaker.”
Rugged, dear-to-her-heart Tom, their rock, their anchor, yet a boy terribly unsure of himself, struggling to understand the pain in his life. Diana recognized a fierceness in him at times that frightened her.
Tom hurried off the bench and scrambled through the high fives of his teammates to the free-throw circle while the Willow Creek followers hooted and cheered. Diana didn’t like the way Tom moved, definitely favoring his knee.
“For Willow Creek, starting at the other forward, number 44, a 6'2" sophomore, Curtis Jenkins!”
She smiled. Shy, quiet Curtis. Forget Me Not traded high fives with them all and trotted onto the court.
“For Willow Creek, starting at center, number 55, a 6'11" senior, Olaf Gustafson!”
Olaf, the adorable giant. Unselfish, overly conscientious, expecting too much of himself, wanting to win so badly for his teammates and coach. His adopted hometown fans roared their support and admiration for the polite visitor from across the Atlantic.
“Oaf! Oaf! Oaf! Oaf! Oaf! Oaf! Oaf!”
“For Willow Creek, starting at one guard, number 22, a 5'11" junior, Peter Strong!”
Precious Pete, fiery, playful, trying to live up to his name, trying to cope with wit and a sense of humor, channeling his confusion and loneliness into the discipline of basketball. He ran off the floor to the far end of the gym to give Denise Cutter a high five and then sprinted back to join his teammates on the court.
Finally, only Dean and Rob and Scott remained on the bench.
“For Willow Creek, starting at the other guard, number 10, a 6' senior, Rob Johnson!”
She smiled. Darling, clean-cut Rob, their bright all-American boy, happy, eager, surrounded by the safety and affection of his family and girlfriend. The senior, with a rocklike expression chiseled on his face, slapped hands with them at the bench and then joined his teammates on the court. They looked sharp, circled around Olaf in their Twilight Zone game shoes and their sparkling new uniforms.
“And the head coach for Willow Creek, Sam Pickett.”
Diana whistled and clapped loudly as Sam looked out at his team on the floor. She wanted to throw her arms around him and kiss him, there for the whole world to see.
The team hustled to the bench and huddled around Coach Pickett, who was down on one knee.
“All right, men. We know this team. We’ve seen everything they’ve got and it ain’t enough. Have fun and let’s put a trophy in our trophy case.”
Sam glanced at Diana and nodded.
“I’d like to go shopping in Bozeman next weekend, boys,” she said.
“Yeeaaahhhh!” they shouted.
Then they were out on the floor, poised, staring in fortune’s face with the hope and faith more common with the young.
From the opening whistle it became a war zone. She went through the elation and anguish, the ebb and flow of the combat, a contest that had come down to the sweat, saliva, and blood of ten young athletes doing what they had been honed to do so well. She found the longings of her heart entangled with the boys’ gutty resolve and Sam’s deepest hopes, blended into one heartbeat in the teeming, roaring arena where it was decreed that only one team could win. She couldn’t help glancing at Sam, where the conflict was mirrored in the reflections of a human eye, etched in the lines of a human face. Like an aroused bear he prowled the sideline, shouted plays to the boys, and tried to influence the flight of the ball with body English.
Their rotating zone didn’t give the Falcons spit and five golden jerseys rushed to the defensive boards like firefighters rescuing their mothers. But the lurking smile on Diana’s face was the surprise Sam had for Coach Long and his arrogant twelve-man team. Sam called the play on the Broncs’ third possession. Tom and Curtis set a double pick at the side of the paint, shoulder to shoulder. Olaf quickly slid around it, leaving Craig Stone, the 6'4" veteran center, momentarily caught behind the barnyard fence. Olaf caught a high pass from Rob and canned a soft seven-footer over Curtis and Tom.
“Bury them!” Sam yelled. “Blow them away!”
Coach Long employed the same strategy he had used to beat them three times that year: rotating nine boys, keeping them fresh, wearing down Willow Creek so they could be dry-gulched in the fourth quarter. But tonight it was the first quarter Coach Long needed to be concerned about.
Tom and Curtis kept meeting together along the edge of the paint, and when Stone frantically fought his way through the double pick, Olaf slid the other way and stuffed the ball. Gary Harkin, the Falcon defending on Tom’s side, cheated all he could, but when he did, Olaf dropped the ball off to Tom and Tom knew where to put it. Stone and Harkin were consistently getting tangled in the double picks. Coach Long called time out with a minute left in the first quarter. Willow Creek 19, Twin Bridges 12.
“All right, you’ve got them confused,” Sam said. “Now, Rob, you join the picnic with Tom and Curtis. Pete, you’ve got to guard the bank. The others will be tangled in the traffic jam.” He smiled at his big center. “Olaf, clean out their refrigerator.”
“Where’s their refrigerator?” Dean asked and the boys swatted him gently and laughed.
The second quarter started like a street fight under the Twin Bridges basket. Rob set a triple screen with Tom and Curtis. Harkin and Stone scrambled to stay with Olaf as he slid around and between and behind his teammates. They bumped and grunted in teeth-jarring collisions. Olaf traveled, picked up two offensive fouls, and missed several shots, but in the scramble around the paint, he nailed fourteen points to the scoreboard, one a resounding alley-oop slam from Rob. And he made them pay with his free throw shooting when the frustrated Falcons hacked and battered him.
Near the end of the second quarter, Olaf came around a pick and went high with an alley-oop. When he stuffed the ball, Craig Stone fought his way through the picks and cut Olaf’s legs out from under him while he was in midair. He came down like a load of fence posts. All elbows and knees, the unprotected boy slammed his back and head solidly on the hardwood, his mouth guard flying out like unglued dentures. All spectators in the sports center were on their feet.
“Flagrant foul! Flagrant foul!” Diana shouted. “Throw the jerk out of the game!”
Sam rushed toward Olaf. Tom went for Craig Stone, and in the moment’s emotion, Diana hoped the bull rider would flatten him. Only Rob and Pete and a referee prevented Tom from taking the kid’s head off. Sam and Diana stooped beside Olaf, who was sitting on the floor, slightly dazed.
“How are you?” Sam asked.
“Angry,” he said, shaking his head lightly.
The referees sent both teams to their benches. When the smoke cleared, Olaf was awarded two free throws, making the first, missing the second. Still, Willow Creek got the ball because of the flagrant foul. Diana could sense the tension out on the court and wondered if Tom would be able to contain his wrath. That didn’t turn out to be the main problem, because at halftime, Tom could hardly hobble to the locker room. They were up 40 to 36.
Sam didn’t have to come up with anything inspirational. In fact, he fed off the boys’ fire and confidence. Olaf got up twice and started for the door when Sam had to tell him it wasn’t time yet.
“Tom can’t play anymore,” Diana whispered in Sam’s ear.
He looked at her. She shrugged.
“Okay,” Sam said. He stood in front of his team. “They’re all trying to crash the party under the basket. When the ball comes in to you, Olaf, pop it right back out. We’ve been delivering our packages on foot. Now let’s send them air mail. Rob and Pete, you ought to be open. When it’s there, take it.”
Sam looked at his gutsy forward.
“I have to take you out, Tom.”
The Willow Creek cowboy didn’t protest. Diana shared the anger and bitter disappointment in Tom’s unyielding eyes, knowing then to what extent the pain had invaded his heart, to what extent the pain invaded all of their hearts as they fought and scrambled with everything they could lay their hands on in their stores of courage and endurance.
Blind Your Ponies Page 47