The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (19 page)

"We have Arnold Spirit," Coach said.

"Me?" I asked.

"Yes, you," Coach said. "You're starting tonight."

"Really?"

"Really. And you're going to guard Rowdy. The whole game. He's your man. You have

to stop him. If you stop him, we win this game. It's the only way we're going to win this game."

Wow. I was absolutely stunned. Coach wanted me to guard Rowdy. Now, okay, I was a

great shooter, but I wasn't a great defensive player. Not at all. There's no way I could stop Rowdy.

I mean, if I had a baseball bat and bulldozer, maybe I could stop him. But without real weapons—without a pistol, a man-eating lion, and a vial of bubonic plague—I had zero chance of competing directly with Rowdy. If I guarded him, he was going to score seventy points.

"Coach," I said. "I'm really honored by this. But I don I think I can do it."

He walked over to me, kneeled, and pushed his forehead against mine. Our eyes were,

like, an inch apart. I could smell the cigarettes and chocolate on his breath.

"You can do it," Coach said.

Oh, man, that sounded just like Eugene. He always shouted that during any game I ever

played. It could be, like, a three-legged sack race, and Gene would be all drunk and happy in the stands and he'd be shouting out, "Junior, you can do it!"

Yeah, that Eugene, he was a positive dude even as an alcoholic who ended up getting

shot in the face and killed.

Jeez, what a sucky life. I was about to play the biggest basketball game of my life and all I could think about was my dad's dead best friend.

So many ghosts.

"You can do it," Coach said again. He didn't shout it. He whispered it. Like a prayer. And he kept whispering again. Until the prayer turned into a song. And then, for some magical reason, I believed in him.

Coach had become, like, the priest of basketball, and I was his follower. And I was going to follow him onto the court and shut down my best friend.

I hoped so.

"I can do it," I said to Coach, to my teammates, to the world.

"You can do it," Coach said.

"I can do it."

"You can do it."

"I can do it."

Do you understand how amazing it is to hear that from an adult? Do you know how

amazing it is to hear that from anybody? It's one of the simplest sentences in the world, just four words, but they're the four hugest words in the world when they're put together.

You can do it.

I can do it.

Let's do it.

We all screamed like maniacs as we ran out of the locker room and onto the basketball

court, where two thousand maniac fans were also screaming.

The Reardan band was rocking some Led Zeppelin.

As we ran through our warm-up layup drills, I looked up into the crowd to see if my dad was in his usual place, high up in the northwest corner. And there he was. I waved at him. He waved back.

Yep, my daddy was an undependable drunk. But he'd never missed any of my organized

games, concerts, plays, or picnics. He may not have loved me perfectly, but he loved me as well as he could.

My mom was sitting in her usual place on the opposite side of the court from Dad.

Funny how they did that. Mom always said that Dad made her too nervous; Dad always

said that Mom made him too nervous.

Penelope was yelling and screaming like crazy, too.

I waved at her; she blew me a kiss.

Great, now I was going to have to play the game with a boner.

Ha-ha, just kidding.

So we ran through layups and three-on-three weave drills, and free throws and pick and

rolls, and then the evil Wellpinit five came running out of the visitors' locker room.

Man, you never heard such booing. Our crowd was as loud as a jet.

They were just pitching the Wellpinit players some serious crap.

You want to know what it sounded like?

It sounded like this:

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

We couldn't even hear each other.

I worried that all of us were going to have permanent hearing damage.

I kept glancing over at Wellpinit as they ran their layup drills. And I noticed that Rowdy kept glancing over at us.

At me.

Rowdy and I pretended that we weren't looking at each other. But, man, oh, man, we

were sending some serious hate signals across the gym.

I mean, you have to love somebody that much to also hate hem that much, too.

Our captains, Roger and Jeff, ran out to the center circle to have the game talk with the refs.

Then our band played "The Star-Spangled Banner."

And then our five starters, including me, ran out to the center circle to go to battle against Wellpinit's five.

Rowdy smirked at me as I took my position next to him.

"Wow," he said. "You guys must be desperate if you're starting."

"I'm guarding you," I said.

"What?"

"I'm guarding you tonight."

"You can't stop me. I've been kicking your ass for fourteen years."

"Not tonight," I said. "Tonight's my night."

Rowdy just laughed.

The ref threw up the opening jump ball.

Our big guy, Roger, tipped it back toward our point guard, but Rowdy was quicker. He

intercepted the pass and raced toward his basket. I ran right behind him. I knew that he wanted to dunk it. I knew that he wanted to send a message to us.

I knew he wanted to humiliate us on the opening play.

And for a second, I wondered if I should just intentionally foul him and prevent him from dunking. He'd get two free throws but those wouldn't be nearly as exciting as a dunk.

But, no, I couldn't do that. I couldn't foul him. That would be like giving up. So I just sped up and got ready to jump with Rowdy.

I knew he'd fly into the air about five feet from the hoop. I knew he'd jump about two feet higher than I could. So I needed to jump quicker.

And Rowdy rose into the air. And I rose with him.

AND THEN I ROSE ABOVE HIM!

Yep, if I believed in magic, in ghosts, then I think maybe I was rising on the shoulders of my dead grandmother and Eugene, my dad's best friend. Or maybe I was rising on my mother and father's hopes for me.

I don't know what happened.

But for once, and for the only time in my life, I jumped higher than Rowdy.

I rose above him as he tried to dunk it.

I TOOK THE BALL RIGHT OUT OF HIS HANDS!

Yep, we were, like, ten feet off the ground, but I was still able to reach out and steal the ball from Rowdy.

Even in midair, I could see the absolute shock on Rowdy's face. He couldn't believe I was flying with him.

He thought he was the only Indian Superman.

I came down with the ball, spun, and dribbled back toward our hoop. Rowdy, screaming

with rage, was close behind me.

Our crowd was insanely loud.

They couldn't believe what I'd just done.

I mean, sure, that kind of thing happens in the NBA and in college and in the big high

schools. But nobody jumped like that in a small school basketball gym. Nobody blocked a shot like that.

NOBODY TOOK A BALL OUT OF A GUY'S HANDS AS HE WAS JUST ABOUT

TO DUNK!

But I wasn't done. Not by a long shot. I wanted to score. I'd taken the ball from Rowdy and now I wanted to score in his face. I wanted to absolutely demoralize him.

I raced for our hoop.

Rowdy was screaming behind me.

My teammates told me later that I was grinning like an idiot as I flew down the court.

I didn't know that.

I just knew I wanted to hit a jumper in Rowdy's face.

Well, I wanted to dunk on him. And I figured, with the crazy adrenaline coursing through my body, I might be able to jump over the rim again. But I think part of me knew that I'd never jump like that again. I only had that one epic jump in me.

I wasn't a dunker; I was a shooter.

So I screeched to a stop at the three-point line and head-raked. And Rowdy completely

fell for it. He jumped high over me, wanting to block my shot, but I just waited for the sky to clear. As Rowdy hovered above me, as he floated away, he looked at me. I looked at him.

He knew he'd blown it. He knew he'd fallen for a little head-fake. He knew he could do

nothing to stop my jumper.

He was sad, man.

Way sad.

So guess what I did?

I stuck my tongue out at him. Like I was Michael Jordan.

I mocked him.

And then I took my three-pointer and buried it. Just swished that sucker.

AND THE GYM EXPLODED!

People wept.

Really.

My dad hugged the white guy next to him. Didn't even know him. But hugged and kissed

him like they were brothers, you know?

My mom fainted. Really. She just leaned over a bit, bumped against the white woman

next to her, and was gone.

She woke up five seconds later.

People were up on their feet. They were high-fiving and hugging and dancing and singing.

The school band played a song. Well, the band members were all confused and excited,

so they played a song, sure, but each member of the band played a different song.

My coach was jumping up and down and spinning in circles.

My teammates were screaming my name.

Yep, all of that fuss and the score was only 3 to 0.

But, trust me, the game was over.

It only took, like, ten seconds to happen. But the game was already over. Really. It can happen that way. One play can determine the course of a game. One play can change your

momentum forever.

We beat Wellpinit by forty points.

Absolutely destroyed them.

That three-pointer was the only shot I took that night. The only shot I made.

Yep, I only scored three points, my lowest point total of the season.

But Rowdy only scored four points.

I stopped him.

I held him to four points.

Only two baskets.

He scored on a layup in the first quarter when I tripped I over my teammate's foot and fell.

And he scored in the fourth quarter, with only five seconds left in the game, when he

stole the ball from me and raced down for a layup.

But I didn't even chase him down because we were ahead by forty-two points.

The buzzer sounded. The game was over. We had killed the Redskins. Yep, we had

humiliated them.

We were dancing around the gym, laughing and screaming and chanting.

My teammates mobbed me. They lifted me up on their shoulders and carried me around

the gym.

I looked for my mom, but she'd fainted again, so they'd taken her outside to get some

fresh air.

I looked for my dad.

I thought he'd be cheering. But he wasn't. He wasn't even looking at me. He was all quiet-faced as he looked at something else.

So I looked at what he was looking at.

It was the Wellpinit Redskins, lined up at their end of the court, as they watched us

celebrate our victory.

I whooped.

We had defeated the enemy! We had defeated the champions! We were David who'd

thrown a stone into the brain of Goliath!

And then I realized something.

I realized that my team, the Reardan Indians, was Goliath.

I mean, jeez, all of the seniors on our team were going to college. All of the guys on our team had their own cars. All of the guys on our team had iPods and cell phones and PSPs and three pairs of blue jeans and ten shirts and mothers and fathers who went to church and had good jobs.

Okay, so maybe my white teammates had problems, serious problems, but none of their

problems was life threatening.

But I looked over at the Wellpinit Redskins, at Rowdy.

I knew that two or three of those Indians might not have eaten breakfast that morning.

No food in the house.

I knew that seven or eight of those Indians lived with drunken mothers and fathers.

I knew that one of those Indians had a father who dealt crack and meth.

I knew two of those Indians had fathers in prison.

I knew that none of them was going to college. Not one of them.

And I knew that Rowdy's father was probably going beat the crap out of him for losing

this game.

I suddenly wanted to apologize to Rowdy, to all of the other Spokanes.

I was suddenly ashamed that I'd wanted so badly to take revenge on them.

I was suddenly ashamed of my anger, my rage, and my pain.

I jumped off my white teammates' shoulders and dashed into the locker room. I ran into

the bathroom, into a toilet stall, and threw up.

And then I wept like a baby.

Coach and my teammates thought I was crying tears of happiness.

But I wasn't.

I was crying tears of shame.

I was crying because I had broken my best friend's heart.

But God has a way of making things even out, I guess.

Wellpinit never recovered from their loss to us. They only won a couple more games the

rest of the season and didn't qualify for the playoffs.

However, we didn't lose another game in the regular season and were ranked number one

in the state as we headed into the playoffs.

We played Almira Coulee-Hartline, this tiny farm-town team, and they beat us when this

kid named Keith hit a crazy half-court shot at the buzzer. It was a big upset.

We all cried in the locker room for hours.

Coach cried, too.

I guess that's the only time that men and boys get to cry and not get punched in the face.

Rowdy and I Have a Long and Serious Discussion about Basketball

A few days after basketball season ended, I e-mailed Rowdy and told him I was sorry that we beat them so bad and that their season went to hell after that.

"We'll kick your asses next year," Rowdy wrote back. "And you'll cry like the little faggot you are."