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Hooter and the boys—the Apache
Flats All Stars—were 10 points down at halftime, but it felt
worse. Rather than playing
against other alumni in the 30th annual charity basketball game,
organizers had made it an invitational. That meant the opposing
team—the Quad-county Pirates—was comprised of younger players,
several with at least junior college experience, but all with
Division I egos. Hooter and
his former high school team were more than a step slower than
the opposition, which they anticipated. They were also in
abysmal game playing shape, which was also a given considering
their age, working schedules and the vagaries of biology.
What they hadn’t counted on was the
arrogance and dirty play of the opposition, the flagrant elbows,
pointless shoves, jersey holding, all of the tricks their high
school coach Ezekiel Grant would never have tolerated. The
legendary Coach “Granite” respected the game too much.
The opponent’s unsportsmanlike
tactics were so egregious, that even the normally reserved
Peetie Womac had been assessed a technical. Older than the rest
of the boys, Peetie had been a long-time favorite and friend of
Coach Granite’s; the only one Coach ever allowed on the bench as
an assistant. At the end of his life, Coach handed Peetie his
ever-present Bobcats ball cap with the simple instruction:
“Don’t screw up.” Peetie
was wearing that same cap on the sideline, serving as the All
Stars coach. After several warnings about yelling at them, one
of the referees came over to stare Peetie down. Borrowing from
another legendary coach, Peetie said calmly, “Can you give me a
technical for what I’m thinking?”
“Of course not,” replied the baffled
ref. “Good,” said Peetie,
“Because I think the way you’re calling this game stinks.”
Loud, long whistle—technical foul.
Even so, when Hooter reminded his
beleaguered teammates at half-time that Coach would tell them to
let the other team interpret the rules and play accordingly,
they all knew that meant doing so within certain bounds.
The Short End of Long Ball
So it was that the Apache Flats All Stars entered the gym
for the second half with renewed spirits and game plan. Any
doubts they might have had vanished when they heard one of the
opposition announce to his teammates coming out of the tunnel,
“Press these geezers; they’re about out of gas.”
As it turned out it was the same
young man flapping his arms wildly, yelling like a banshee as
Hooter attempted to inbound the opening possession. Hooter
looked clear down court, reared back and rocketed the ball
square into the defender’s face.
“Owwwww!” cried the defender falling
to his knees, blood gushing from his nose, teammates running to
his aid. “That’s a foul,”
yelled one to the referee.
“He can’t do that,” complained another.
Hooter smiled calmly. “Good job,
Slick. You blocked my pass. It was out on you, though, so still
our ball.” Everyone looked
to the referees: “All Stars ball.”
When play resumed, the same defender
who’d caught the previous pass with his nose made a big show of
waving his arms and screaming again. Hooter head-faked him,
sailed a full-court pass into Izzy’s waiting paws, who easily
scored.
All Stars down by 8.
Mr. Nosebleed was inbounding the
ball. Hooter was standing right in front of him. Hooter knew
exactly what was going to happen. So, did Cousin Charlie
standing about 10 steps behind him. Sure enough, seeking
revenge, the young man tried to look nonchalant about slinging
the ball at Hooter’s face. Hooter ducked, Charlie caught the
pass in full stride and scored an easy bucket.
“It takes practice,” Hooter
whispered to the bewildered Pirate on his way back down court.
All Stars down by 6.
Tilting the Tide
If luck made rather than hoped for is the handmaiden of destiny,
then timing is surely a first cousin.
Both teams played even for the next
several possessions, until another young man guarding Hooter
suddenly took off after him, screaming and swinging his fists.
He was promptly ejected. On his way to the free throw line,
Hooter explained to Lonnie Johnson, “I simply told him that we
played against his daddy in high school, and we were proud to
see that he’d gone on to have kids, which proved he apparently
wasn’t nearly as light in the sneakers as we’d suspected.”
Hooter made both free throws.
Pirates down their reserve
player. All Stars down by 4
points.
More even play resumed for the
next several possessions.
The Pirates had the ball beneath
the basket. Spindly Delmar Jacobs was putting his long arms to
good use, valiantly guarding a bulkier opponent. In fact, Delmar
was guarding so completely that the frustrated opponent spun
toward the basket while hooking Delmar into the second row of
spectators, losing the ball out of bounds in the process. The
usually unflappable Delmar had to be restrained by his
teammates. To the crowd’s disbelief, the referee assessed
technical fouls to both players. At least the All Stars had the
ball.
By now, the Pirates had long since given up their full-court
press. So, Hooter dribbled his way up court without traffic.
Just as he got to half-court, he winked at Delmar and seemed to
make an errantly weak pass in his direction. Hooter dove after
the ball as did two Pirates, then Delmar after them.
Just like that, both Pirates
bounced up, one with the ball.
Just like that, both pirates crashed
back to the floor, shoe laces flapping, ball lost. Delmar’s
current knot-tying prowess was apparently even more lethal than
in high school. All Stars
down by 2 points. The
Pirates were looking more like the Pillaged as the clock and
their lead trickled away, while their elder opposition seemed to
be gaining steam. That
might be why the Pirate guard fell so easily into the trap the
All Stars called their cage pick. Like everything else to do
with round-ball, they’d learned it from Coach Granite. In slow
motion, the cage looked simply like three defenders surrounding
the ball handler. At game speed, though, and executed properly,
it created a human pinball machine as the guard ran into one
pick, changed direction, ran into a another pick and so on.
An easy steal and pass down court to
Lonnie. Game tied.
Time running out.
The largest Pirate who had been
cheap-shotting Lonnie the entire game was bringing the ball up.
When he got to Lonnie, he forgot the ball and shoved him to the
ground from behind. Lonnie
was holding the defender by the throat, against the wall and off
the floor when both were ejected.
“It was worth it,” growled Lonnie on
his way to the showers.
Both teams down to four players.
All Stars with the ball.
“Ladder!” yelled Hooter.
Though they hadn’t seen it in
decades, a few of the elder spectators knew exactly what was in
store. The Ladder pay was a
sort of inverted fast break, combined with the football hook and
ladder.
hoever had the ball dribbled as
fast and far as they could up the center of the court. As soon
as he encountered a defender, he simply bounced the ball
backwards where one of three trailing players picked up the ball
to continue in like fashion. This was repeated until the ball
was lost or they were in scoring position.
It worked to perfection.
All Stars win by 2.
Crowd goes wild.
There’s a satisfaction in besting an
opponent you’re not supposed to that goes beyond the win column.
That’s what the boys seemed to be contemplating in exhausted
silence, collapsed in the locker room, aching and gleeful.
“You now how I said a few weeks ago
we needed to get in better shape because when it came to
overcoming youth and exuberance, age, experience and cunning had
their limits?” asked Hooter. “Apparently, I was wrong.”
Amid the ensuing shouts of victory,
a misty-eyed Peetie raised Coach Granite’s weathered cap above
the din: “Coach would be proud.”
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