Blind Your Ponies

by Stanley Gordon West

  Rob asked, “Should we go out on them?”

  “No,” Sam said, gambling. “Let’s sit in our zone for a while longer.”

  They linked hands, Grandma and Axel included, shouted their cheer, and stepped back on the tracks where the Northern Stars locomotive was steamrolling them. Sam hoped that the quarter break would cool off the incredible shooting of the boys from the reservation who had—for lack of much else to do—made a vocation of tossing bull’s-eyes from anywhere in the yard. Rocky Boy’s coach started the second quarter with three substitutions and they picked up Willow Creek in a zone press. The Broncs broke the press repeatedly, getting several easy layups, but it was costing the boys in energy spent and the break hadn’t tempered the Northern Stars eagerness for lighting up the scoreboard.

  Little Dog had a square, ungainly body, bowed legs that would challenge Dean’s, long black hair held in a pony tail, and Sam had never seen a boy shoot like this kid. When he caught the ball he was already in his rhythm to shoot. The boys were playing well, doing everything he had asked of them, but when they limped to the locker room at the half, the score was Willow Creek 32, Rocky Boy 50. The majority of the fans had been taken out of the game by Rocky Boy’s uncompromising express. From the Land of Sky Blue Waters, a beer truck was backing over them.

  The boys caught their breath and were ministered to by Sancho and the “coaching staff.” Sam prowled the locker room like a trapped animal, searching in his head for an ounce of dynamite to blow a wheel off the Rocky Boy freight train. He knew there had to be something if he could only lay his hands on it before the game was irretrievably lost. It kept hitting him in the chest like a box car. They were behind by eighteen points!

  He gathered them a minute before they had to return to the inferno.

  “I know you boys,” he said, glancing into their grim faces. “If Rocky Boy thinks the picnic is over, if they’re already hoisting their flag, we’re going to shoot it down.”

  He found Diana’s eyes and felt her willing him the words that would rally them, but seeing also that the burden of the huge deficit seemed too great for dreams, an unbearable weight that stomped its boot on fairy tales.

  “I’ve never knowingly lied to you,” Sam said, clearing his throat. “Exaggerated a bit maybe, asking you to do things I didn’t think you could. But then you went out and did them.”

  He paused.

  “My wife was murdered six years ago.”

  Sam glanced from face to face, allowing it to sink in.

  “When that happened, I quit believing in anything; in winning, in God, in life. I was afraid to bet my heart on anyone because I didn’t think I could stand being shattered again. But right now I believe in you boys; right now I’m betting my heart on you. I believe as surely as I’m breathing that if we give everything we have, somehow we will win—some crazy, unbelievable way, we will win. I’m asking you to believe, to give everything you have, and to believe. We’re not going to let it end here.”

  Grandma and Axel stood somberly off to the side, and the boys riveted their attention on their coach. Sam turned to Diana.

  “How are we doing with fouls?”

  “Dean two, Rob and Olaf one, Pete and Tom none.”

  “Good, good,” Sam said with a rush of emotion in his voice. “Pete, you take Little Dog man-for-man. The rest of you in a four-man zone. Pete, with or without the ball, I want you not only in his face but in his head, in his imagination; I want him to think he’s grown a Siamese twin, I want him to think he’s in a house of mirrors, I want him to think you two are married. Wear him out physically, wear him down mentally. If you let the air out of his tires, we can beat them home.”

  “They’re killing us, they’re running over us!” Tom shouted. “Is this what we worked so hard for, to get our asses whipped?”

  “No-o-o-o-o!” they responded, standing and huddling around Sam. They were veteran actors, wearing their masks and playing their roles, willing to go out for the third act in front of a packed house when they knew the stage was on fire.

  OLAF CAME AROUND a double screen Sam had diagramed, caught an alley-oop from Pete, and jammed it to start the second half. The Willow Creek followers rose to their feet with a revitalized rumble.

  When Little Dog got the ball racing upcourt, he found Pete in his socks, sticking to him like yesterday’s gum. He had to pass off to a teammate. The Willow Creek boys dug in. Pete stalked Little Dog wherever he went, frustrating the dead-eye. They hadn’t wilted as Rocky Boy might have expected, and the teams traded baskets as the quarter wore on. Then, trying to get the ball to their premier shooter, Rocky Boy became careless. Peter cut off a pass and went coast to coast, scoring an uncontested finger roll. Again the crowd exploded, looking for a thread of hope to cling to, gazing at the clock with growing dread. Willow Creek was down by fourteen.

  Little Dog got loose for an instant around a screen, something Rocky Boy did little of with their run-and-gun offense. Peter reached around and grabbed the shooter’s arm. The ball sailed harmlessly into the bleachers and Little Dog was awarded two free throws. To Sam’s surprise, he missed both and a light came on in Sam’s head. Double-teamed, Olaf dished off to Tom at the other end and he banged home the buck. Rocky Boy took the ball out. Rob dashed back and intercepted the long inbounds pass they were in the habit of throwing. He took two dribbles, squared up, and rattled home a three. The crowd erupted. Curtis stood hollering, “You can do it! You can do it!”

  They were down by nine when the quarter ended.

  The boys fought off fatigue on the bench. The fans stood, hurling their vocal support and encouragement.

  “Go, Broncs, go! Go, Broncs, go! Go, Broncs, go!”

  The field house shuddered, and the team was visibly puzzled at the overwhelming outpouring.

  “They’re all cheering for us,” Pete said.

  Olaf wiped his dripping face. “Why are so many yelling for us?”

  Tom gazed out at the thousands. “They’re not from Willow Creek.”

  “They are in their hearts,” Diana said.

  “Why are they pulling for us?” Rob asked

  “Because you’re outnumbered,” Sam said. “Because you’re the underdog, because they want you to win for them.”

  “Because they like us,” Dean said, and they all regarded the grinning fourteen-year-old. Tom rubbed his hand over Dean’s sweat-drenched head.

  “Yeah, you’re right,” Tom said. “They like us.”

  They had found their fire. Rob held up a fist and shouted. “We can take these guys!”

  “Kill ’em on the boards!” Pete yelled.

  “Listen up,” Sam said. “We’re going to gamble. When they’re working the ball for a shot, foul them, but do it before they’re in the act of shooting. No three-point plays, wrap them up, let’s see if they’ve done their homework.”

  The first time Rocky Boy came racing downcourt, they snapped the ball to Robert Stands Alone. He squared up for his jump shot and Tom whacked him across the arms before he could shoot. The thin 6'1" forward missed the front end of a one-and-one and Olaf controlled the rebound. Time became the sixth man against them. Pete dribbled swiftly into the front court. He blew by his man with a cross dribble and Two Horse slid over to stop him. Pete tossed the ball high above the rim and Olaf rose to drive it home. They were down by seven.

  It was like a home game; the roaring crowd belonged to Willow Creek. Rocky Boy came on the attack, still running as though they were behind. Walking Feather missed a three-point attempt but Two Horse grabbed the rebound and went back up with it. Olaf hammered the ball away but was whistled for a foul. The deceptively good Rocky Boy center made the first but missed the second. Rob went high and snatched the rebound. On a play they had practiced when the opposing center is shooting a free throw, Olaf sprinted downcourt on his stiff ankle, took the pass from Rob, and with only 5'11" Walking Feather to stop him, glided to the basket and stuffed it, rattling the foundations, bringing the crowd back into the ga
me with both feet. Willow Creek was down, 68 to 62. Three minutes and eleven seconds. Rocky Boy called time out.

  “You’ve got two fouls to use,” Sam shouted, looking at Olaf and Tom.

  “Use them. They may try to stall before long. If they do, foul Stands Alone or Two Horse immediately.”

  The running and gunning Rocky Boy athletes could shoot the ball from any angle, from anywhere on the floor, so long as they were moving. But when they stood still at the free-throw line with no one’s breath in their face, they faltered. The Northern Stars attempted a stall, but Willow Creek fouled quickly and Rocky Boy couldn’t unwrap the gifts at the charity line. When Tom grabbed the rebound of a missed free throw with fifty-two seconds remaining, Sam called time out.

  Rocky Boy 71, Willow Creek 67.

  “All right, all right!” Sam shouted. “Get the ball to Olaf. Olaf, watch for Tom backdoor, plenty of time, then go man-for-man. Cross them up.” Sam clapped his hands. “One more minute!”

  The field house reverberated with the uproar as Willow Creek brought the ball into the front court. Rob got the ball high to Olaf and set a pick on Pete’s man. The dauntless Scandinavian held the ball over his head and faked a pass toward Tom. The Rocky Boy defense bit for a moment but as it shifted toward Tom and surrounded Olaf, Olaf spotted Dean alone on the weak side, completely unattended by the Northern Stars. Olaf bounced the ball behind him into Dean’s startled hands. With a reflex he had practiced a thousand times, the nearsighted boy flipped the ball up against the backboard and it banked in. The field house shook, Sam stood dumbfounded, Diana pounded his back, and the scoreboard blazed: rocky boy 71, willow creek 69.

  “Yeah!” Sam shouted. “Bodacious!”

  The Broncs picked them up man-for-man as the Northern Stars inbounded the ball. Seconds peeled off the scoreboard clock. Thirty-one, thirty, twenty-nine, twenty-eight. Little Dog fought to get free of Pete. The Broncs overplayed, gambled, stuck to them relentlessly. Twenty-three, twenty-two. Two Horse came out high and set a pick for Little Dog. The Rocky Boy guard squeezed past his teammate. Pete tried to cut behind. The guard ducked back, took a pass from Walking Feather, and flicked the prettiest shot Sam had ever seen, rotating like the earth itself, breaking Sam’s heart.

  Rocky Boy 73, Willow Creek 69.

  “Time out!” Sam called, “Time out!”

  It was their last. The boys came to the bench, their faces drained, with little more to give and only eighteen seconds in which to give it.

  “Okay, okay, clear the right side,” Sam said. “We’ll go one-on-one with Pete and Walking Feather. Pete, if you can’t get the layup, pull up and take the ten-footer. Rob, the minute they take it out, foul, you only have three. We should still have eight or nine seconds to work with. Let’s go, let’s do it!”

  They caught their breath and dragged their spent bodies onto the court, uplifted by the sustained roar of the standing thousands. Tom attempted to camouflage his pain but Sam could see it in the way he moved. Willow Creek took the ball out and Rocky Boy pulled back, not wanting to risk fouling in the backcourt. Rob fired it to Pete and the Broncs shifted everything to the left side. Pete cross-dribbled several times until Walking Feather was back on his heels, guessing. Pete dashed by him. The surprising Two Horse moved quickly to cut Pete off. Instinctively, Pete lobbed the ball high to Olaf. Stands Alone and Little Dog were there to clog the paint. Hesitating only a second, Olaf lofted a push shot from the free-throw line as Stands Alone leaped to block it. Sam gasped until he saw the ball fall sweet and clean. A whistle. Olaf was fouled. One free throw. The clock stopped at nine seconds, 73 to 71.

  The crowd hushed. With the Rocky Boy fans trying to distract him, Olaf took a deep breath and flipped the ball leadenly at the hoop. It hit the front rim, paused an instant, and with a will of its own, crawled over the iron and fell through.

  The field house rocked. Down by one, 73–72, with nine ticks on the clock. When Stands Alone inbounded the ball to Walking Feather, Rob was there to foul him. Only one second had elapsed. The crowd stood roaring and Walking Feather readied himself at the line. Sam knelt at the bench; Diana held Scott’s and Curtis’s hands; Grandma Chapman muttered a prayer. As if the pressure were too much to bear, Rocky Boy’s senior guard flicked the ball without hesitation.

  It swished.

  Willow Creek 72, Rocky Boy 74. Eight seconds.

  Walking Feather again accepted the ball from the referee and tossed it quickly. It hit the backboard and glanced off the rim. Olaf snatched it. He found Rob on the side and both teams streaked into the front court. Six seconds. Rob pulled up his dribble and was open for a moment from sixteen feet. He squared up to shoot as two Northern Stars flew toward him. Then, at the last instant, surprising everyone in the arena, he fired a pass to Pete out beyond the threepoint line. Little Dog, having left Peter alone, was rushing frantically for Rob.

  Three seconds.

  Without hesitation, Peter dribbled once and lifted his shot, a continuous flow of rainbow and grace, of miracle and magic, a dimpled leather ball that carried the character and courage of the shooter as well as the breath and heartbeat of his teammates and thousands of followers, arcing perfectly on its long journey home.

  Swish!

  The buzzer pitchforked the Northern Stars in the chest and launched the majority of spectators into a frenzied ride over the moon.

  Willow Creek 75, Rocky Boy 74.

  They had bootstrapped themselves from eighteen down! They had endured without substitution. They had stopped the locomotive before it crushed them on the rails. They were going to play tomorrow night for the championship. Sam was lost in the swarm of exhausted boys and ecstatic fans. He found Dean in his sweat-smeared lenses and bear-hugged him off the floor.

  “Great shot, Dean! Great shot!”

  “I didn’t know what else to do!”

  Amid the chaotic celebration and milling confusion on the court, Sam caught sight of Little Dog heading for the locker room. Sam shoved his way through the boisterous fans and grabbed the somber boy by the arm.

  “You’re the best shot I ever saw!” Sam shouted.

  Little Dog nodded and walked away.

  CHAPTER 80

  Sheltered from the frenzy in the arena, the locker room became subdued, as though each of them realized they were in the very shadow of their elusive, long-sought-After quest. Tom and Olaf limped badly, using ice in an attempt to stave off the swelling and hoping they’d be ready for one last game. With the scorebook in hand, Sam sat in the locker room somewhat numb and emotionally exhausted while the boys showered and dressed. He glanced at the totals: Tom had scored sixteen, Olaf nineteen, Rob fifteen, Pete twenty-three, and Dean, with the biggest bucket of the night, had two. The tough little freshman had run with Rocky Boy stride for stride without substitution, never giving an inch.

  There was a knock on the metal door. Sam gathered himself and opened it slowly. Amos stood in the hallway. A stranger in a dark gray suit stood off a pace, watching.

  “Can I talk to you fer a minute?”

  “Sure, sure,” Sam said, then stepped back. Amos nodded at the man and slid into the locker room. Sam closed the door. The moment the door latched Amos lit up like an excited kid.

  “Ya did it, by God, ya did it!” Amos whacked Sam on the back. “Thought we was dead and buried six foot under there fer a spell.”

  “Who’s the guy in the suit?”

  “Oh… they nabbed me,” he said. “Have a warrant for my arrest.”

  “When did they get you?”

  “Just now, After the game. Musta been watching it the whole time.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Begged him ta let me stay till tomorra night. He’s a decent feller. Has two boys hisself. Sez he can catch me tomorrow as well as taday. He’s so riled up about the team hisself I didn’t have ta do much persuading. We’s going ta stay in a mo-tel tonight.”

  “Will you be going to jail?”

  “Don’t know. He’s
real polite and everything. Sez there’s got ta be a trial, unless I give ’em the money. I figure they’d druther wheedle the money outta me than slap me in jail.”

  “What did you tell them?”

  “Thoughta giving it to ’em, but I seen how Tom stood battling out there on only one good leg and I sez, ‘What money?’” Amos looked for a place to spit. “Can I see Tom fer a minute?”

  “Yes, he’s getting dressed.”

  “Don’t want him knowing about this till the games is over.”

  Sam turned to call him.

  “Hey, boy,” Amos said, “that was a helluva game you played, nearly lost my liver I’s yelling so hard.”

  Tom pulled on his Levi jacket and limped over to his peculiar friend.

  “Thanks.”

  “How’s that knee?” Amos asked.

  “It’ll be ready. If it isn’t, I’ll play without it.” Tom grinned. “Have a favor ta ask ya,” Amos said. “Promise me ya’ll check with Mr. Pickett here ’fore ya sign any papers ta go in the service.”

  Tom looked confused. “Yeah, sure, okay, I will. Will you be here tomorrow night?”

  “Remember the blizzard?” Amos said.

  “Yeah.”

  “Thar ain’t nuthing that’d keep me from watching you pluck the feathers outta Seely-Swan and tote that trophy home, nuthing.”

  Amos leaned awkwardly toward the strapping boy as though he were about to hug him. “You’re a helluva kid.” Then, clearing his throat, the fugitive slapped Tom on his shoulder. “I gotta git.”

  “See you tomorrow,” Tom said.

  “Tomorra,” Amos said.

  He nodded at Sam and opened the door. The man in the gray suit was waiting as Amos stepped out and closed the door.

  EVERYONE WAS SETTLED in bed, Tom on the living room sofa, when the banging nearly popped the screws out of Elizabeth Chapman’s front door hinges. In her NFL-monogrammed nightie and her furry bearpaw slippers, Grandma worked her way toward the door, hoping the ruckus wouldn’t wake the boys. She snapped on the hall light, muttering to herself. “Hold your horses, I’m coming.”