At home I found out Dad had to work the late shift again Thursday night. He wouldn’t see that game either.
“Are you ever going to take time off to watch me play?” I asked him.
“I don’t have control over my work schedule, son,” He answered. “I’ll try to get off Thursday night. But if you make it to the championship game Saturday night, I’ll call in sick if I have to. I’ll be there.”
Dad couldn’t get off work Thursday night after all. But Mom and Aunt Issi were there. It was great to have some of my family there to cheer for us. A lot more people showed up to watch this one. Jennifer and her new boyfriend even showed up.
This time we were up against a team called the War Hawks. They had a reputation for playing dirty. Charley was a little worried.
Things went badly for us the first half of the game. At halftime we were down by three points. Two of our best players were hurt and couldn’t play.
“This team is a lot tougher than I thought,” Charley said at our halftime huddle. “We need to use a different strategy with them.”
He checked a clipboard where he kept play notes. Then he smiled.
“Let’s try the old fake-out play until we catch up,” he said. “Randy, remind us how that goes.”
“Well, we use this play when the ball is on the ground and we’re circling it with our sticks,” I said. “If one of our players gets hold of the ball, the next player to the right of him pretends he got the ball too. Both players clasp their sticks together like they have the towa.”
“That’s right,” Charley said. “Keep going.”
“Both players run toward the goal like they’re going to score,” I continued. “A few of the other team’s players will go after each of our players. Their attention will be split. The other team will eventually figure out who really has the ball. But for a little while they won’t know for sure. It could give us enough time to move past them to score.”
“Very good,” Charley said. “Now let’s go win this thing!”
We put our sticks up together in the middle of the team cluster and screamed “Oka Homma” as loud as we could.
The fake-out play worked just well enough for us to catch up with the War Hawks. By the beginning of the last quarter we were tied eight to eight. The score didn’t change until there were only two minutes left in the game.
Charley decided to use the fake-out play one more time to see if we could break the tie. He told me to try to get into position to be the one to fake it. When our fastest runner grasped the ball between his sticks, I was just to the right of him. We both turned away from the cluster. Then we both headed toward the other team’s goalpost.
But a War Hawk player decided it was time to pull one of the dirty plays they were famous for. He ran up beside me and used his sticks to trip me. I went flying sideways for a split second. Then I hit the ground. Hard. One shoulder and one knee skidded across the grass.
As I lay on the ground in pain, I watched as my brother player scored the point just before the final buzzer sounded. We won! We’d be playing in the championship game!
Charley ran over to help me get up. Right behind him were my mother and aunt. They must’ve run like lightning to get from the stands so fast.
“I’m all right,” I said as I stood up. I looked down at my knee. It was bloody and scraped. My shoulder wasn’t as bad.
“We need to get that looked at immediately,” Mom said with a worried tone of voice. She took me by the arm. “I think that’s enough stickball for a while.”
I pulled away from her.
“I don’t care if I’m on crutches,” I blurted out. “I’m not going to miss the championship game. I’ve worked too hard.”
I hobbled off toward the sidelines where I knew Charley kept a first aid kit. Charley followed. My shoulder and knee hurt a lot, but I wasn’t going to let it show.
Aunt Issi pulled my mother aside and said something to her. I couldn’t hear what she said, but I’m pretty sure she was helping to make my case.
“Randy, you’re a minor,” Charley said. “If one of your parents says you can’t play, then I have to do what they say. It’s going to be up to you to get your mom to agree.”
This was just great, I thought. First Dad didn’t want me to play. Now my mother was the problem. What was I going to do?
Chapter 10
The Challenge
When we got home, Dad was there. I’d have to convince him to somehow override Mom on this. I laid out my case to Dad like a lawyer talking to a judge. I hoped he would be on my side since he’d played sports.
He and Mom went into the kitchen while I got cleaned up and ready for bed. Their voices got louder and louder until all went quiet. Finally Dad came into my room.
“Your mother is going to let you play,” he said. Boy, was I relieved.
“On one condition,” he continued.
“What?” I asked.
“You have to win the championship!” Dad smiled real big.
“Woo-hoo!” I hollered.
“And have those wounds bandaged all through the game,” he added as he pointed his finger at me. “Both your mother and I will be there to make sure everything is going smoothly. If you get hurt again, we’ll pull you out immediately. Got that?”
“Got it,” I said. “Thanks, Dad. This really means a lot.”
Dad and I talked some more about the game we’d just won and about stickball in general. I couldn’t think of a time when we had connected so well.
Saturday came. My uniform had been washed. My cuts and scrapes were tightly bandaged. We drove to the stickball field at around six o’clock. We wanted to get some Choctaw food at the fair and see some of the other activities there.
Charley wanted us on the field an hour early so we could get psyched up for the game. At nine o’clock I walked on the field carrying my sticks. The rest of the team was gathering.
To my surprise, Mr. Gilroy and Coach Boles were there talking to Charley. The two men turned toward me as I approached.
“These two gentlemen have something to tell you,” said Charley.
“Randy, I am so impressed with your performance on this team,” Principal Gilroy said. “Coach Boles and I have been giving serious thought to your suggestion about teaching stickball at the high school.”
“That’s awesome,” I said.”
“We have to present the idea to the school board and get their approval,” Coach Boles added. “But we wanted you to know that we heard you. Good luck with tonight’s game. We’ll be watching from the stands.”
They headed for their seats. My team headed for a huddle.
“We’ve made it to the championship game,” Charley said. “I’m proud of all of you, no matter how this game ends.”
Out of the corner of my eye I saw a half dozen people headed toward us. They were dressed in traditional Choctaw clothes. One of the men carried a drum.
“To help us get prepared tonight,” Charley said, “I’ve asked some traditional Choctaw singers to put us in a Choctaw state of mind. They’ll sing a couple of songs for us. And while we’re playing on the field, they’ll stay on the sidelines to give us strength.”
The singers stepped in close to us and began their songs. I didn’t know what the words meant, but they sounded good. The music felt good too.
“As they sing, I’d like to give any of you guys a chance to say a few words about what you’re feeling. That is, if you want to.”
Charley stepped back to see if anyone on the team would come forward. Chester, one of the players, stepped up.
“I’ve felt a stronger connection to stickball than to any other sport I’ve ever tried,” he said.
“Wow,” I thought. “He took the words right out of my mouth.”
“Stickball is part of who we are,” he continued. “It’s part of our tribal identity. I’m glad I’m playing with you guys. Oka Homma!”
Everyone shouted in unison, “Oka Homma!”
Finally I d
ecided to speak. “I’ve come to realize that playing stickball is more than just a game. It’s like . . . it makes me want to learn more about my culture. It makes me want to learn more about who I am.”
The other players nodded their heads in agreement.
The singing ended. We had to switch gears. Time to man up! We did our warm-up exercises to loosen up.
By game time the stands were full of people. There must’ve been five hundred people there. Maybe more. I scanned the crowd until I found Dad, Mom, and Aunt Issi. I waved to them happily. Then I noticed Jennifer and her mother sitting nearby. No boyfriend this time. Jennifer waved sweetly. I gave her a quick wave before turning back to the field.
To win this year’s World Series of Stickball we had to beat a team called Tushka Neshoba. Wolf Warriors. They were famous far and wide in the world of stickball. They were also last year’s champions. We had our work cut out for us.
As the game began, Charley told me he was saving me for the second half. He said I was his secret weapon. I knew he was just saying that so I wouldn’t feel bad. He was really worried about me getting hurt some more. And worried about what my parents would say if I did.
At the end of the first half we were down by two points. The score was five to three, a low-scoring game for us. Our defense had prevented Tushka Neshoba from scoring several times. All were close calls. But the other team’s defense had also prevented us from making several points. They were worthy opponents. It was hard staying on the sidelines when all I wanted was to be out there in the thick of it.
Surprisingly, Charley really did put me in when the second half began.
“I want to use your smaller size to our advantage,” he said. “It’s time to razzle-dazzle them with the play you’ve been practicing.”
“Absolutely!” I responded with great enthusiasm.
“This may be hard to pull off because of your injuries,” Charley offered. “Are you sure you’re up to it?”
“I’ll pull this off if it’s the last thing I ever do,” I said as I ran onto the field with the other players.
It was obvious to the Tushka Neshoba players that I was injured. My bandages announced that fact loud and clear. A few of them tried to take advantage of that by attempting to hit me on those very spots. But Chester and the others on my team were right there. After a few well-placed, painful tackles, the other team laid off me.
Then it came my time to perform. There was a thick cluster of players circling the ball on the ground. Our sticks clattered together as each of us tried in vain to capture the towa. My smaller size allowed me to squeeze in between the larger players.
Finally I grabbed the ball between the two nets of my sticks. But instead of turning to run with the ball, I simply rolled backward away from the cluster of players. As my back hit the ground I flung the ball through the air toward the other team’s goalpost. One of our players had been standing by. He caught the ball with his sticks. Immediately he flipped the ball to an Oka Homma player waiting near the goal. He caught it and hit the post. The play happened so fast that the opposing players hardly knew what hit them.
Our supporters in the crowd went wild. They were screaming “Oka Homma! Oka Homma!” over and over.
That play was just enough to throw the other team off guard a little. So during the next play of the ball, we pulled the old fake-out routine. To my surprise, that worked, too. The score was all tied up, five to five.
Charley called me to the sidelines and put someone else in for me. When I reached the area where he was standing, he pointed to my bandages. Both had been torn loose. My injuries had started to bleed a little.
“You’ve done your part tonight,” he said. “You get to watch the rest of the game from here.”
“But—!”
“No buts about it,” Charley said. “Remember our deal. Now get those injuries taken care of.”
I knew he was right. I got fresh bandages and put them on. I stayed on the sidelines and watched our team play the rest of the game. Mom, Dad, and Issi joined me during the last few minutes. It was great having them there. Miraculously, Oka Homma did win the game and the championship!
The families of all the players streamed onto the field to congratulate us. I stood in the line of Oka Homma’s thirty players in the middle of the field. The opposing team moved down the line, shaking our hands. Then our team supporters moved down the line, and we shook their hands.
I was so happy we’d won. But at the same time, I was a little disappointed I wasn’t on the playing field at the end. Dad said I had nothing to be down about. I was the smallest and youngest player on a proud winning team. And I had made a real contribution to the victory.
I knew Dad was right. I knew Charley had been right to take me out when he did. But I was still a little disappointed.
Chapter 11
Head to Head
I took it easy for a week or so after the game so my injuries could heal. The following Saturday, Charley paid me a surprise visit. He came into the living room and we sat down to talk. Mom said she’d make us some lemonade.
“This is for you,” he said after Mom had left the room. He handed me a large envelope. I opened it. Inside was an eight-by-ten photo taken after we’d won the championship game. The entire team stood near the scoreboard. In front of us on the ground was the championship trophy.
“Thanks,” I said. “This is great.”
“I know you’re still a little down because you didn’t get to finish out the game,” Charley said.
“I know I shouldn’t be, but I am,” I admitted.
“Well, maybe the news I have will cheer you up.”
“Oh yeah. What news?” I asked.
“As the best Mississippi Choctaw stickball team, we’ve been challenged to an intertribal match with the Oklahoma Choctaws,” he said.
“Really?” I asked. “I didn’t know the Oklahoma Choctaws played stickball. Actually, I never really thought about it before.”
“Our western cousins’ culture has been coming back strong the past few years,” Charley said. “Stickball is part of that revival.” He paused as Mom brought us two glasses of lemonade. She went back to the kitchen.
“And here’s another thing you might not know,” he went on. “To some tribes, the ancient game of stickball was also known as the Little Brother of War.”
“Little Brother of War? Why was it called that?” I asked.
“Because the game was sometimes played to settle conflicts between communities or tribes instead of going to war,” Charley explained. “The game took the place of war. Those matches were played on huge fields, sometimes with hundreds of players. These were very rough, very serious events.”
“Little Brother of War.” I thought about it for a moment. “That’s a more impressive name than stickball.”
“So the best team among the Oklahoma Choctaws has invited us to their rez for the competition,” Charley continued. “It’ll be held Labor Day weekend as part of their annual festival. We’ll play five games. The best three out of the five takes the title.”
He pulled a letter out of his back pocket and handed it to me. “Here’s a copy of the invitation letter with the dates and location,” Charley said. “Talk to your parents and let me know. We need you for those games.”
He finished his lemonade and stood to leave. Mom came in to say good-bye.
“I don’t know where it came from,” Charley said to Mom before heading out the door, “but stickball is in Randy’s bloodline. One of his ancestors must’ve been a great player.”
After he left, I gave Mom the invitation letter to read. She had already said she didn’t know if she wanted me to play stickball anymore. She felt it was too easy to get seriously hurt. I knew I had to work on Dad. I hoped he’d be more agreeable to it. Things had really changed in the last few months!
That evening at dinner I showed the letter to Dad. I sat quietly as he read it out loud. Then I told Mom and Dad about stickball’s other name, Little
Brother of War.
“In my dream of Jack, he kept calling me ‘little brother,’” I said. “He told me to find another path instead of war. Don’t you see? This is that path!”
It took another hour of pleading, whining, and convincing, but I finally wore them down. They said I could go to Oklahoma! I was way beyond excited! This would be my first trip without my parents!
I spent the month of August getting ready for the trip and the upcoming game. Mom helped me gather the camping gear I’d need. We’d be staying at the campground near their old tribal headquarters in the town of Tushkahoma, Oklahoma. Wait. I recognized those words. They were both Choctaw words!
On the Thursday before the Labor Day weekend, the team headed out. We had three full-sized vans filled with players and our gear. Only twenty of our players could go because some of them had to work or take care of family.
The 550-mile trip took about twelve hours with stops for gas and food. We arrived at the campground the same night. The schedule called for us to play five games in three days. The first game would be Friday night and the final game would be Sunday night. That would give us time to drive back home on Monday, which was the Labor Day holiday.
Friday afternoon was the opening of their annual Choctaw Nation Labor Day Festival. Our team was introduced to the crowd that had gathered. Everyone was very nice and welcoming. It was our first chance to see the other team. They didn’t look so tough. They even had a kid on their team who looked to be about my age.
It wasn’t until late that afternoon that our “secret weapon” arrived from back home. A car carrying a Choctaw medicine man, drummer, and singer pulled into the campground. They’d come from Mississippi to support our team.
Charley had explained a little about traditional Choctaw stickball teams. He said they were always helped by this type of “supernatural” support. They would chant, drum, and sing from the sidelines. He figured it wouldn’t hurt to have a little of this kind of help for this competition.
Little Brother of War Page 5