|
His wind wasn’t what it used to be.
And, the annual Apache Flats All-Stars basketball game was just
a week away.
That’s why Hooter was doing what
he’d always swore he’d never do: exercise for the sake getting
into some semblance of playing shape. Given the narrow margin of
victory the last time he and the Apache Flats All-Stars suited
up, it occurred to him that experience and treachery might have
their limits, though.
Hooter was about a half-mile from
the house, somewhere between an energetic walk and slow trot on
the caliches road when he heard the familiar sound of Aunt
Pinky’s car approach. She honked a couple of time and slowed
beside him.
“Thatta’ boy!” shouted Aunt
Pinky, even before the electric window hit bottom. “I’m proud of
you. Keep that up and you’ll have at least an extra five years
in the old folks home.” Then she cackled and spurred her Lincoln
into overdrive.
Hooter just kept up his pace,
what there was of it, spitting dust and bits of gravel as he
went. He knew she had a point. It wouldn’t be the end of the
world if the legendary All-Stars lost, but…
Coaching Legends of Yore
“I’d love to, Cuz, but I’m running dark to after dark like
you. There’s not much time to spend with the kids as it is,”
cousin Charlie had said when Hooter tried to recruit him and the
other members of the All-Stars to join him in an effort to be
better prepared for the game.
It started almost 30 years ago.
Hooter and the boys were freshly graduated from high school.
They never won the state championship, but they were a tough out
for anybody. Hooter was the point guard and cousin Charlie
played the off-guard. Lonnie Johnson was a husky and fairly
athletic power forward with a mean streak. Delmar Jacobs, tall
and gangly as he was, could rebound with anybody and shoot. Then
there was Izzy. He would never win a tip, but nobody could budge
him in the paint, and the picks he set had sent more than one
opponent to the hospital.
They were coached by Ezekiel
Grant, the only basketball coach they’d ever had, the only round
ball coach anyone at Apache Flats had for close to four decades.
Everybody called him coach Granite.
He was tougher than tough, a
World War II Marine who saw the world in terms of right and
wrong, black and white, do or die, win or lose. When an opposing
coach complained to the state authorities about the physical
play of the Apache Flats Wildcats, the state commission sent a
wormy young investigator for a hearing. Before the questioning
began, Coach Granite said simply: “We’re not out to hurt
anybody, but we are out to beat everybody so bad they never want
to set foot on our court again. My boys play fair. When they
have to foul I tell them to make it count. And we don’t back
down to anybody. Any more questions?”
“No sir,” was all the
investigator could manage
Coach Granite retired when the
Hooter and the gang graduated, not because of the boys, or
because he wanted to. The powers that be decided it was time to
hire Coach Granite’s successor as an assistant, so they could
learn for a few years before taking over. When informed of the
plans, Coach simply got up, punched the school board president
in the mouth and walked out.
So it was that some of the
coach’s supporters—pretty much the entire county—had suggested a
game between Wildcats alumni and the current varsity team as
kind of a warm-up for new season, and as a fund-raiser.
Hooter and the boys gladly took
to the court again, with a point to prove. It was no contest.
The Apache Flats All Stars were born. Every year for 20 years,
Hooter and the boys played in that game and won, even though it
evolved to where it was past alumni all-stars playing against
Hooter and the boys, rather than the current high school team.
In 2000, though, the All-Stars said 20 years was long enough.
They still got together every now and again to play threes or
cutthroat, but nothing organized.
Then, the alumni game committee
reckoned that the 30th anniversary game had to feature the
original All Stars. “Besides,” said Becky Sue Bentley, the
Homecoming Queen of their graduating class, “It’s not like you
boys are getting any younger.”
“I never thought about that until
I heard your third husband say that about you,” said Lonnie,
glaring at her. He was husband number one. It was Lonnie who had
told her that yes the All-Stars would play, and no, they weren’t
over the hill.
Catching up with Want-to
The boys were 100% behind Lonnie’s decision. They knew
they’d lost a step, but were willing to do whatever it took.
What they hadn’t reckoned on was how much busier each of them
had become in the last 10 years. All of their plans for training
gave way to reality. One month blended into the next until there
wasn’t much time left. They’d gotten together a few times to run
plays they knew by heart and work on their timing and
passing—their arrow-like passes were still artwork in motion.
Then it was game time.
The All Stars knew things were a
world different as soon as they entered the gym and saw lots of
unfamiliar faces on the opposing bench.
“And to launch our new
invitational format…” roared the announcer…
“Invitational? Who said anything
about invitational?” asked Charlie.
Sticking her head into the huddle
and looking squarely at Lonnie, Becky Sue said, “Isn’t it
exciting? All-stars from all around against our very own
All-stars.”
Losing is a Sissy Sport
“That doesn’t seem fair,” said Delmar, giving his shoelaces
an extra tug, eyeing the opposition who looked to be somewhere
between college and a felony crime.
“Neither is life, but you still
play, don’t you,” said Lonnie.
The tip-off was less than
promising. The opposing center tipped it as expected. For it to
go to a runner who made a layup before any of the All-Stars
barely got past half-court, was at least a little shocking. As
was the full-court press that came afterwards.
The All-Stars did get the ball to
their end of the court on the next possession. Charlie found
Delmar for an open look at the basket. But Delmar missed badly.
Just like that, the other team
had raced down the court to score again. On his way past Lonnie,
the opposing forward threw an elbow into his ribs and laughed.
Hooter saw what was going on and tripped Lonnie, who was in hot
pursuit.
Hooter hollered to Izzie and
Lonnie to stay on the defensive end of the court. Charlie
inbounded to Lonnie, who found Hooter at half-court, who found
an open Delmar, who was promptly squashed by his defender. At
least he made the free throws.
The other team streaked back,
like Hooter knew they would. Both Lonnie and Izzie were waiting
this time. The same one who elbowed Lonnie before caught him
full on the chin, before dishing the ball to a teammate for an
easy lay-up. The refs called a foul on Lonnie, who was still
trying to get off the floor.
“It’s OK, Pops. You don’t have to
call a foul on them,” said the cocky young man to the ref.
“Oh yes you do!” Lonnie shouted. “See if that human elbow there
can sink a free-throw.” As it turns out, he couldn’t.
So it went. Surprising to some,
the All-Stars were still in the game at half-time, down by only
10. It felt lots worse, though. Never before as a team had they
been pounded so completely by the opposition. If it wasn’t for
the other team’s lax defense and poor shooting, the boys knew
they’d be getting blown out.
Sprawled across the locker room
bench with Gatorade, lots and lots of Gatorade, Lonnie said, “If
that punk elbows me for no reason one more time, I’m gonna’
plant him on the baseline,” growled Lonnie.
“Yeah, if my guy drives over the
top of me to draw a foul one more time, I’ll join you,” said
Charlie.
“Still trying to find my shot,”
Delmar muttered apologetically. “They leave me open pretty much
all of the time.”
“And, the steps. Lord, how many
steps are the refs giving those guys?” wondered Izzie.
Hooter looked at his battered and bewildered teammates. “You
remember what coach always said when we went up against a team
that played dirty?”
The team was too winded to
breathe, let alone think. Hooter continued, “Coach always told
us, these are the rules. Play by them or you’ll be picking
splinters out of your backside for the rest of the season. And
he’d hold up that thick rule book, remember?”
“Yeah?” wheezed Lonnie, “And
we’re playing by the rules, but they aren’t. So what’s your
point?”
“He’d throw that book on the
bench and say, ‘Those are the rules. But you let the other team
define what those rules mean to them, then you play according to
their interpretation. Savvy?’” said Hooter. “We always played
our game because we could and win. Especially in this game, it
was always high school kids and a few older brothers on the
other side. We all knew each other and played by the book. And
we’re playing these guys the same way.”
“An eye for an eye?” asked Charlie.
“You let the other team define
what those rules mean to them, then you play according to their
interpretation,” repeated Hooter with a grin. “Savvy?”
“But nothing flagrant,” cautioned
Peetie. Then seeing that Izzie was trying to define what might
be considered flagrant, Coach Peetie added, “Nothing real
noticeable.”
To be continued…
|
