Blind Your Ponies Read online

  “Of course, it’ll just be a minute. I sure hope you boys win tonight.”

  “Are you from Willow Creek?” Pete said.

  “Heavens, no. I don’t even know where it is.”

  “Why are you rootin’ for us?” Rob said.

  “ ’Cause you only have six players against all those other boys.”

  She picked up their smeared plates and hurried away.

  “Did you tell Kathy we’re in the Divisionals?” Rob asked.

  “Yeah, sure.” Pete glanced over at Rob and then back at the tabletop. “I haven’t talked to her in two months. She doesn’t give a damn what I’m doin’.”

  Rob stared at him as though he were suddenly speaking in a foreign language.

  “She’s goin’ with some jerk. She’s not my girlfriend anymore.”

  “But you talk to her every Sunday night about all that stuff going on in your school?”

  “It’s all bogus, I made it all up.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. I just didn’t want anyone to know.”

  Pete shot a look at his teammate, watching Rob’s face for a reaction. Rob regarded him with a slight squint and furrowed brow.

  “Is that why you came back?”

  “No … I came back because of you guys … and Coach.”

  “Man, am I glad you did. We wouldn’t be sittin’ here in Helena if you hadn’t come back, we’d have been blasted at District.”

  Pete glanced over at Rob’s parents. They were finishing their breakfast.

  “You boys getting enough to eat?” Alice Johnson called.

  “Yeah, Mom,” Rob said. “We won’t be able to get out of the chair.”

  Pete looked at Rob and spoke quietly.

  “When I called my mom and told her I was back in Willow Creek …”

  “Yeah?”

  “I could tell she was relieved. She was hoping I wouldn’t stay in Saint Paul.”

  A trace of sadness appeared in Rob’s eyes for a moment. “Do you care if anyone knows, about Kathy?”

  “Not anymore.”

  “Well, you’ll sure make Louella happy. And you’ve already made me happy. We’re going to State because you stayed.”

  Rob whacked Pete on the shoulder and then hesitated as if he’d thought of something else.

  “Do you think you would have stayed home if Kathy hadn’t—”

  “Hadn’t dumped me?” Pete said. “I don’t know, I’ve asked myself that a lot. Sometimes I think she was supposed to dump me so I could be here for this.”

  Rob opened his mouth to speak and then stopped short. Pete sensed he was about to say he was glad she had dumped him but feared how it would sound. The waitress delivered the goods and Willow Creek’s unlikely shooters went back to reloading.

  SAM ATTEMPTED TO orchestrate a calm, restful day. The team spent the morning talking basketball, listening to Sam’s quiet assessment of Seely-Swan and planning strategy while the girls went to the mall. They all ate lunch in the motel restaurant and left the coaches to themselves in a corner. While shopping, Diana had picked up a Sweetheart, a Montana singles magazine, and she read it aloud with restrained curiosity.

  “Here’s another one. ‘Loves long walks, candlelight dinners, watching sunsets.’ Everyone of these gals uses the same copy, which doesn’t tell you much about them.”

  Sitting beside her, Sam scanned some of the personal ads, flipping through the dozens of pages, hundreds of pleas for someone to love.

  “God, they’re brave,” he said. “Sticking their thumb out like hitchhikers to the passing world and believing ‘Mr. Right’ will come along.”

  She ran her finger down the columns on a page.

  “There are a lot of people here.”

  “Shopping for love at a flea market,” Sam said. “It’s our greatest affliction, that unquenchable faith that there is someone out there for all of us. People are starving for love, that’s why it’s so easy to believe.”

  “Well, I think they ought to lighten up, put some humor in it while they’re at it,” Diana said. “I’d like to run an ad for a man who couldn’t stand long walks, went into convulsions watching sunsets, and threw up at candlelight dinners.”

  “Think you’d get any takers?”

  “I’ll bet I would.”

  “Maybe, but romance works better,” Sam said.

  “All right, you write an ad. What would you say?”

  Sam thought for a minute.

  “How about this? Extraterrestrial who doesn’t know who he is or why he’s here, looking for similar female companion who also missed her home planet due to some cosmic miscalculation. Loves intergalactic travel, interfacing, and weightlessness. Let’s match beeps for compatibility and space out together.”

  “You’d get a pile of mail,” she said with a smile. “I’d answer it.” “Youdon’t need to. I’ve already found you.” The dread in his chest swelled and he stopped himself from venturing further.

  “You’re getting awfully wild on the bench,” he said. “You’ve come close to a ‘T’ more than once.”

  “You’re changing the subject.”

  “I know.”

  She let it go, as though she understood his attempt to avoid the pain, as though she agreed it was a topic much too sensitive for both of them. He had promised himself he would concentrate on their assault on the mountain top. Today they were in a base camp just below the summit. He had to keep his mind clear. It wasn’t only the boys who risked the humiliation of being blown away by some excellent team. He could end up in front of that gaping crowd utterly exposed by some brilliant opposing coach, leaving his boys in disarray and scattered, caught in rock slides, and overrun in an avalanche, while he watched helplessly from the fairgrounds in his fouled clothing.

  CHAPTER 67

  The girls were taking advantage of the pool and Jacuzzi while the boys sat around watching and goofing off under Diana’s watch. Sam suspected that Andrew had slipped Curtis and Dean a roll of quarters and the underclassmen were hanging out at the arcades. Fully dressed, Sam sprawled on the bed, rereading Friday’s papers and the sparse coverage of yesterday’s games. He couldn’t help but note that the traditional indifference given to Willow Creek was becoming a thing of the past. The Helena Independent Record captioned its coverage with the headline:

  SIX-MAN TEAM ALIVE.

  Rising like a giant, the six-man team from Willow Creek has surprised more than a few in its surge to the semifinals at Divisional level. But to me they’re no surprise. They have impressive wealth in two outstanding guards and a dominating center that no boy in the state can match up with. They have a bruising 6'4" senior forward who can go to the boards with anyone. They also have a coach, an English teacher named Sam Pickett, who has them using their talents and strengths with uncanny efficiency. If Seely-Swan takes them lightly in the seven o’clock game tonight, the Blackhawks may have to set their alarms for an early Saturday morning game.

  “Yeah!” Sam cheered.

  The phone rang. He reached over and picked it up.

  “Hello.”

  “Mr. Pickett?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hello. This is Hazel Brown.”

  “Oh, hello. You back in town?”

  “Yes. I have a message for Peter from his grandma. She has a little bit of the flu and didn’t feel up to the trip. Would you tell him? And tell him I have Tripod with me.”

  “Sure, I’ll tell him. I hope she can make it tomorrow. I don’t want her to miss out on the fun.”

  “Oh, she’ll probably be here tomorrow, just a little fever and nausea.”

  “I’ll tell him.”

  “Mr. Pickett …” She gasped with a note of desperation.

  “Yes.”

  Sam waited through an awkward pause.

  “Mr. Pickett, can you keep a secret?”

  She wasn’t giggling and she sounded as though she might cry at any moment.

  “Yes.”

  “I mean a sacre
d holy secret.”

  “Is there something wrong?”

  “I have to tell you … just have to … I don’t know what else to do.”

  “What is it?” Sam asked. He felt the fear working its way up his stomach to his throat.

  “It’s Grandma … she’s real sick. She’s dying.”

  “What?”

  “She’s dying, Mr. Pickett, and she doesn’t want anybody knowing about it, but I just had to tell you with the basketball practicing and all.”

  “Where is she?” Sam said, finding it difficult to breathe.

  “She’s in the hospital in Billings. She’ll be all right in a day or two, but the doctor says she won’t live through the summer.”

  “What’s wrong with her?”

  “Leukemia.”

  “Oh, God.”

  “They’re givin’ her blood or something. She’s scared to death that Peter will find out, that’s why you’ve got to promise me you won’t tell. She’ll have my hide if she knew I told you. I think I’d lose her friendship and I couldn’t handle that. She’s the best friend I’ve ever had.”

  “Don’t worry,” Sam said. “You won’t lose your friend.”

  “Thanks a million, Mr. Pickett. I thought you had to know. She shouldn’t be playing basketball or anything anymore. Was I right in telling you?”

  “Don’t worry, Hazel, it’s all right. I’ll pretend everything is normal.”

  “You’ll tell Pete she has the flu?”

  “I’ll tell him.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Pickett, thank you so much. I feel better that someone else knows, I just didn’t know what to do.”

  Sam hung up the phone and slumped back in the bed. The world went wrong! He wished Hazel Brown had kept her deadly secret. He felt his chest would burst.

  Oh God! Grandma Chapman wouldn’t live through the summer.

  And still she’d sent that crazy cat as though Willow Creek would be at risk without him. He heard the thump of footsteps on the hall carpet as the boys burst into the room. Peter Strong was laughing and loving his life.

  PETER SEARCHED THE crowd for his grandmother as he warmed up out on the floor, even though Coach told him she stayed home with the flu. The sports center was packed, and though he recognized a lot of people in the Willow Creek section, he couldn’t find Denise Cutter. He realized that sometimes when he gazed into that sea of faces he expected to see Kathy or even his father.

  Seely-Swan had come blasting out and run a lap around the floor while their pep band blared their fight song. They looked classy in black and gold sweat suits. Though they had four or five guys around six foot three or four, and Pete noticed them gawking at Oaf as they warmed up. Pete’s stomach felt like cement, but he turned to his teammates who were shooting around, and he immediately felt better. Seely-Swan might beat them tonight, but they’d have to do it over their dead bodies.

  It all went by so fast: the national anthem, the introduction of the players, the last-minute instructions. And before Pete could catch his breath he was crouching at the edge of the jump circle. Olaf batted the ball to Rob. Pete took off down the sideline and Rob led him with the ball. He caught it, took one dribble, went for the layup, and crashed into Boyd, the stumpy 5'10" kid with a receding hairline. Both boys splattered onto the floor. A whistle. The ref pointed at Pete and put his hand behind his neck. An offensive foul. No basket. Damn!

  They fell back into their zone and the Blackhawks moved the ball around patiently, the way Coach said they would. A kid with a pockmarked face hit a sixteen-footer and Seely-Swan jumped on top. Pete hustled down the floor. Seely-Swan was so worried about Oaf, they were giving Pete anything around the three-point line. Open for a second, he lifted a quick shot. The ball hit the back of the rim and bounced out high to McHenry, a lean, long-legged forward.

  Damn, take your time, be more patient, be more patient.

  He broke a sweat, and his chest heaved. The Blackhawks were in no hurry. They chipped away, they worked the ball. Pete pushed himself on defense, looking for a steal, but he felt logy. These guys were quick. Watch the overloading. Move your feet, move your feet. Seely-Swan was getting the better of it and Coach Pickett called time out. Only two minutes left in the first quarter. The game was going by fast.

  “Olaf, move up to a high post. That’ll open it up along the baseline,” Coach told them. “You’re doing good, doing good. We need to be the aggressors, go at ’em, don’t hang back. You can play with these boys.”

  They joined hands.

  “Win! Win! Win! Win! Win! Win! Win!”

  On his side of the zone, Pete guarded Thomas, a wiry 6'1" kid Pete figured might be quicker than he was.

  Play him a little loose, give him the long stuff, cut off his driving lane.

  He could gamble some, knowing Oaf was behind him with his long, sledgehammer arms to pile drive layups into the floor drain. Pete leaped out at Thomas as he lifted an eighteen footer. The shot dropped. Pete got whistled for his second foul. Damn! Thomas rattled the free throw in.

  Pete brought the ball up, starting to get into the flow. He lobbed a high pass to Oaf at the edge of the paint. The Blackhawks swarmed around him as if he were dead meat. Oaf flipped the ball back to Pete. Wide open, he squared up to the basket and let his instincts do the rest—wrist and fingers following through. It milked the net. The referee held up both hands. A three-pointer. Confidence rushed through him. They could play with these dudes, all twelve of them, and he loved it: the squeaking shoes, the grunts and shouts, the way his body ran the floor, the joy of scoring, the look in a teammate’s eye.

  At the end of the first quarter Seely-Swan led 17 to 14, and Coach brought Dean into the game, giving Tom a break on the bench. Seely-Swan had good athletes, lots of them, and they kept coming off the bench fresh, hustling, until Pete couldn’t keep track of them. It seemed they were all blond, 6'2" or 3”, and could shoot from anywhere on the floor. Shortly before the half, Pete saw an opening. His instincts took him to the basket. He went high, banked the shot, and crashed into the 6'4" well-built Lowell Lapp. Both of them hit the floor. Whistle. Offensive foul. His third. He sprang up. Bogus call. The shot was waved off.

  Damn ref.

  At the half Willow Creek led by one, 38 to 37.

  The huge locker room made it seem as though they had forgotten a team-mate or two out on the court.

  “Keep getting the ball to Olaf,” Coach Pickett said. “Don’t fall in love with your jump shots, trust Olaf with the ball.” Miss Murphy iced Tom’s knee and read the stats to the team.

  “Pete, you have to watch it. You have three fouls, Olaf, two. Rob, two. Dean, two.”

  Just before they went back onto the floor, Coach shouted at them, surprising Pete. “We’re one half away from the championship game! Do you want it bad enough?”

  “Yeeaaahhhh!” they all shouted and slapped hands.

  “Are you willing to give everything you have?”

  “Yeeaaahhhh!”

  “Let’s go chip ice!” Pete shouted.

  Coach Pickett’s strategy began to work. They kept lobbing the ball high to Oaf. He was great. He kept Seely-Swan guessing, showing how quickly he was catching on to the fine points of the game. One time he’d fake a pass to Tom and give it back to Rob for a shot. The next time he’d fake a pass back to Pete and dish it off to Tom. Then, when they’d anticipate either of those moves, he would fake the pass and pivot to the basket for a jam. Pete felt an unexpected happiness as he ran back on defense, proud as hell to be playing for Willow Creek, Montana. A minute later, when Pete stole the ball, ripped it to Tom hustling down the side, wide open for the layup, he was overcome with a rush of affection for all of them.

  “Yeah!” Pete shouted under the thunder from the Willow Creek section.

  “Great pass!” Tom said as he hobbled by and Pete knew they would win.

  In the fourth quarter, Pete felt grooved, confident. His body was in a dance and he knew all the steps. Confounding his man, stealing the bal
l, getting the ball to his teammates with humming passes, leaving a kid frozen in his tracks. He was the quick, unpredictable player he knew he could be. Living it to the hilt, he gambled to intercept a pass and crashed into Thomas, his fourth foul. Thomas made the one-and-one. Their lead had dwindled to two. The coach called time out.

  “We can’t do it without you in there, Pete,” Coach Pickett said with fire in his eyes. “We’ve got five minutes to go. Give a little, back off an inch. Rob, you and Pete take the three if it’s there, they’re giving us the long stuff and choking off the inside. Run number two. Let’s go!”

  They ran a play, Pete was open and he followed through. The ball had found its way home. Coach held his two arms high to symbolize the three-pointer as Pete ran by the bench. The roar of the crowd was a constant drone, surrounding him, upholding him, loving him. He set himself on defense. He could knock down as many more of those as they needed. He felt it. His instincts couldn’t miss.

  After grabbing a defensive rebound, Rob lobbed the ball to Oaf on the high post. Oaf faked a pass back to Rob and snapped it to Pete. Boyd leaped toward him. Pete caught it and shot it in rhythm and the shot soared, out of reach, snapping the net in a moment of almost perfect silence in his mind. Then Rob was giving him five, the referee was holding two hands over his head as though someone held a gun to his back, and Coach and Miss Murphy were dancing up and down in front of the bench. Pete glided downcourt. He felt strong, he felt the warmth of belonging, the glow of being important to someone, to matter. This was his ground, his game. He couldn’t miss and there was nothing Seely-Swan could do about it.

  He hustled on defense. They moved the ball out in front of him. Boyd poised to shoot. Pete moved up quickly, his hand in the shooter’s face. The stubby kid drove to his right. Pete reacted to his left and collided with Thomas, who had slipped up behind him and set a pick. He flattened the blond boy, who seemed to go down too easily. The ref whistled the foul.

  Son of a bitch!

  The buzzer pointed out his screwup. He moved numbly off the court and slammed his body onto the bench. Dean timidly handed him his rag-tail cap and he jerked it on. They were up by six with three minutes and twenty-three seconds to go. Scott wrapped a towel around Pete’s shoulders and offered his timid condolence with a light pat on the back. Kneeling, Coach Pickett took Pete’s head in his hands and looked into his eyes.