Authors: Stanley Gordon West
He turned and offered Sam his hand. Sam took it and they shook.
“You did one helluva job tonight. By God, at the end there I wouldn’ta give Willa Creek a chance in a million.”
“Maybe that’s all any of us needs,” Sam said.
Amos moved over the tracks and down the other side of the roadbed. He disappeared across a squeaking barbed-wire fence into the nightscape. Sam wanted to shout to him, wanted to tell him he was sorry about his son. He heard a horse whinny. Sam stood motionless, holding his breath, listening. Then he heard it. Hooves across the land, muffled, thudding, a horse running into the night.
When Grandma opened the door, Sam was standing on her porch, as nervous as a suitor.
“I didn’t know if you heard my knock… with the wind and all.”
“Drag your body in here.”
Sam stepped in and she closed the door.
“I was doing aerobics with those yahoos in Hawaii, thought I heard something. Why aren’t you at school, something wrong with Pete?”
“No, no, it’s my class break. I have something to ask you.”
“Well, if you’re not going to ask me to marry you, let’s go in and camp at the kitchen table.”
She led the way in her jeans, sweatshirt, and Reeboks. Her felt fedora wasn’t on her head.
“Whatta gas,” Parrot squawked.
Sam rapped a finger on the cage in passing. “Been in any interesting outhouses lately?” he said.
In the kitchen she nodded at a chair and went to the sink.
“coffee?”
“No, thanks, I can’t stay but a minute. I’m taking Olaf in to see the trainer at the university before practice and I’ve a lot to get done.”
She swigged a glass of water and then settled in a chair at the table.
“You read the
Gazette
?”
“No… I’ve been running late all morning.”
“Listen to this.” She pulled on a second pair of glasses.
WILLOW CREEK TO STATE TOURNAMENT.
In one of the most incredible games that will ever be seen in high school basketball, Willow Creek, down by one point with three seconds on the clock and the ball to inbound, found a way to win, sucking Twin Bridges into a pickplay foul and a one-and-one
free-throw opportunity, both of which the marvelous guard for the Broncs, Peter Strong, coolly made, lifting the unheralded six-man team past the second-rated team in the state, eliminating Twin Bridges from the championship show, which starts in Bozeman this Thursday.
Grandma pulled off her outer glasses and plunked them on the table.
“I still can’t believe what happened, we were
dead,
we were in our coffin. Where’d you learn something like that?”
“Watching the NCAA Tournament last year on TV.”
“It was bug-eyed brilliant.”
“We were lucky. I didn’t like putting that pressure on Pete, but someone had to shoot the free throws.”
“It’s a cryin’ shame that neither of his parents saw that.”
“
You
saw it,” Sam said, tiptoeing out on thin ice. “You mean an awful lot to him.”
“What did you need to ask me?”
“We’ve been given five passes for our coaches and assistants at the field house. Miss Murphy and the boys and I want you to sit on the bench with us.”
“
Me! On the bench!
Land sakes,” she exclaimed, “what would I do on the bench? Why I—”
“Help us win.”
Grandma put one hand over her heart as though she were short of breath and regarded Sam with astonishment. She was about to cry. Sam struggled to fight the emotion he felt betraying him. Blinking back tears and clearing his throat, he attempted to chuckle and failed miserably, coming out with a teen-age croak.
“As you know, there’s lots of room on
our
bench.”
“Can I bring Tripod?”
“Sure, if you’ve got some way to hide him.”
“No problem, right inside my jacket. He’s been to more games than I have this year, what with that dang flu.”
“Then you’ll do it?”
“I guess so. I’ll be a mighty sorry sight on the bench.”
“One thing,” Sam said.
“What’s that?”
“I can’t put you in the game.”
She laughed. “That’d be the day. What’ll I wear?”
“Anything you want.” Sam stood.
“When do you want us up there today?”
“Oh, that’s one of the things I wanted to tell you. We won’t be needing you to scrimmage anymore, since we have too many banged-up boys. Most of our practice the next two days will be in our heads, besides a little shooting. Olaf can’t stand on the ankle at all and Tom needs to stay off that knee and—”
“You don’t want me settin’ picks or—”
“No… there’ll be no more scrimmaging for any of us.”
Grandma put her hand to her mouth. “You
know.
”
“What?”
“Did Hazel tell you?” she asked with a plaintive note.
Sam slid back into the chair. He stared at the sports page upside down, filled with their happy news. He tightened. She was going to make him look into the elephant’s eye.
“Poor Hazel,” Grandma said, “I don’t blame her. I wish she’d never had to know.” She reached across the table and touched Sam’s hand. “You know, don’t you, Sam?”
Sam nodded.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” she said as though it were Sam who was terminally ill.
He could not speak. He looked up and across the table, into her gentle eyes, a small boy in line to ride the elephant, hearing his mother shouting,
You get on and ride. I paid good money.
She patted his hand.
“It’s all right. It will all turn out all right, don’t be sad. I’m the luckiest woman on God’s earth.”
Sam looked into his lap and tried to gather himself.
“I don’t want anyone to know.
Did Hazel tell anyone else?”
“I don’t… I don’t think so.”
“Can I trust you with it?”
Sam regarded her and nailed the words.
“To my grave.”
She smiled slightly.
“To mine will be enough.”
At that moment he wanted to embrace her and ask her to set stone cairns on the shores of eternity so he could find his way, but he dared not. He gripped the sides of the chrome and vinyl chair.
“You’re a helluva woman.”
“You’re not so bad yourself, Sam Pickett.”
“I know where Peter got his steel,” Sam said.
“That boy has come up with some of his own. Wasn’t he a sweetheart last night, weren’t they all? I’ll be honored to sit on the bench with them.”
“It’ll be ours to have you there.”
O
N HIS WAY
back to school Sam tried to shake the sadness insulating his excitement. How much longer could he glue the wings on? Two days to practice, to prepare, to heal. And then they faced the Wibaux Long-horns. All Sam knew was that they had compiled a 20–4 record. Had they ever faced the likes of Olaf? Their center sat in each class with his foot up on a chair and pillow, their hopes and destiny fermenting in the multicolored fluids cooking between his strained tendons and ligaments.
D
URING
S
AM’S BREAK
Wednesday morning, Truly stuck his head in Sam’s classroom.
“Do you have a minute, Sam?”
“Yes,” he said, rising from his chair with a tremor of dread.
Truly signaled for him to follow. They descended the stairs and went out the front door into a mild sunlit morning, where grade schoolers were enjoying recess with jackets open or strewn on the ground. Truly walked briskly in his all-business manner to the little carrot-colored bus parked in front of the school. When they reached the stubby vehicle, Sam saw that the hood was covered with a green canvas tarp. The superintendent walked to the front of the bus and stopped, taking a hold of the heavy tarpaulin.
“Something wrong with the bus?” Sam said, relieved that it was nothing to do with the boys.
Truly stood posed, as though he were launching a ship, holding on to the edge of the canvas, his nose twitching.
“Sam… I haven’t always been… well… helpful this year. I wanted to do something for you and for the team.”
Truly choked up. He pulled the tarpaulin from the bus. There, in large glistening black letters, was Truly Osborn’s gift to Sam, professionally painted along both sides of the hood.
ROZINANTE.
Sam was momentarily overcome. Both men stood there without the wherewithal to speak, teacher and superintendent, employee and boss, stranger to stranger. Sam swallowed hard and managed to find his voice.
“How did you know—”
“I have my ways,” Truly said, still holding the corner of the canvas in one hand.
“Thank you, it will mean a lot to the boys, it means a lot to me.”
“I regret I wasn’t more supportive while you and the boys were struggling so hard. I hope you bring that championship back to this one-horse town. It’ll be the biggest miracle
I’ve
ever seen.”
Sam gazed at Rozinante, the name of Don Quixote’s faithful horse, and felt he’d just seen one.
“The school board and I have been negligent,” Truly went on, “expecting you to drive the bus when you have so many other more important things to be thinking about. They’ve agreed to have Harold drive you to the games this week. It won’t interfere with his regular schedule and you can leave that worry to him.”
Sam was overwhelmed by Truly’s gesture and sentiment, but something didn’t feel right about having Harold Bottoms, the route driver, take them to the games. “Thank you, but I’m kind of superstitious. I’d rather not change anything at this point in our season, I really don’t mind driving the bus.”
“Are you sure?” Truly twitched his nose.
“Yes. Thank the board for thinking of it, but let’s stick with what’s working for us. Besides, Rozinante might not take to another rider.”
Truly smiled thinly. “Very well, Sam, you carry on the way you feel is best.”
The superintendent folded the tarp neatly and Sam inspected the perfect lettering more closely. Then Truly, with the tarp under arm, looked at Sam with his head slightly cocked.
“You know, when you came and told me you wanted to coach for another year, I thought you’d lost your marbles. I thought you were crazy.” He laughed. “Now I see… crazy like Einstein.”
With its name emblazoned proudly on its stubby hood—to the delight and surprise of the boys—Rozinante carried them along the interstate Thursday morning. Besides the team and Scott, Diana and Axel were aboard. She wore a bulky peach-colored sweater, a gray full skirt, and her crimson matador hat. Axel tested the seams on a navy blue suit he’d long past outgrown. Snow on the Spanish Peaks reflected the morning sun to the south, and Sam was trying to keep the cap on it, the excitement, the blood-pumping thrill of it. They were going in to work out on the Montana State University field house floor, to be given a locker room, to get the feel of the place.
The team was scheduled to work out from nine-thirty to ten-thirty. The first game would be at two. When they finished, it would be better to drive back the thirty-six miles to Willow Creek and relax on home ground rather than have the boys rattle around Bozeman all day in their jittery bones and nervous stomachs. Gus Holland, the MSU trainer, had examined Olaf’s ankle on Tuesday and proclaimed it “playable.” He assured Sam that Olaf wouldn’t damage the ankle by playing but it would probably hurt a lot. It had responded to treatment, and Olaf could put weight on it now, though Sam had him stay on the crutches. He decided he’d have Olaf sit out this morning and not test the ankle until they warmed up before the game.
“Are there any of you who haven’t been in the field house?” Sam asked as they approached Bozeman.
“I haven’t,” Dean said.
“Me neither,” Curtis said.
“How about you, Olaf?” Sam asked, glancing at him in the rearview mirror.
“No, I have not been going there.”
“I’ve never been there,” Pete said, “but I’ve been in the Metrodome in Minneapolis.”
“I’ve been to the rodeo there,” Tom said.
They navigated through Bozeman and parked in a lot beside the field house where hundreds of students’ cars and pickups shined in the shards of sunlight. It was nine-fifteen. As they entered the outer lobby, the boys carried their duffels with one hand and their golden, freshly dry-cleaned uniforms with the other. A large athletic-looking young man hurried across the concrete toward them. He wore an MSU blue and gold sweatshirt, blue sweatpants with bobcats printed down one leg, and white running shoes.
“Are you the team from Willow Creek?”
“Yes,” Sam said.
“Welcome to MSU. I’m Greg Morris, I’ll show you your locker room and get you set up for tonight.”
“Thanks,” Sam said. “I’m Sam Pickett, the coach. This is Diana Murphy and Axel Anderson, part of our staff.”
“Nice to meet you,” the tall, well-built student said and nodded at each of them. He regarded Olaf, who didn’t appear quite as imposing when hunched over the metal crutches. “Ankle?”
“Ya, sprained.”
“Will you be able to play?”
“I am playing.”
The boys stood gazing at the photos of former MSU players and the dozens and dozens of trophies displayed around the large lobby. Their welcoming guide seemed in no hurry. He stood, noticing the boys’ interest.
“You boys going to take one of those home?”
“Yeah,” Pete said without balking. “The big one.”
“That’s the attitude to have,” the young man said.
Then they stood there. No one knew what more to say. What were they waiting for? Sam checked his watch. Greg Morris checked his watch. They should be getting on the floor. Finally Greg spoke up.
“Ah… will the rest of the team be here soon?”
The boys looked at each other and smiled.
“This
is
the team,” Dean said, about to giggle, his Kamp Implement cap riding sidesaddle.
“This is
it
?” the dumbfounded athlete sputtered.
“That’s right,” Sam told him. “We’re all here.”
Greg scratched his head and made a quick mental count, sizing up knotty little Dean in magnifying glasses, skinny, lop-eared Curtis, and the bewildered-looking Norwegian on crutches. Then he spoke with a note of awe in his voice.