No More No Name Read online

  Go, Panthers, go!

  Final huddle. I took a seat near Coach Robison, and the starters took to the court. Tip-off. Here we go!

  Johnny lost the tip to a tall, skinny post man from the Rattlers. He tipped the ball to a quick guard, who waited for his teammates to settle into their offense.

  “Hoke,” I thought. “Looks like a slow-down offense, not a lot of fast breaking.”

  First play was a lob-in to the skinny post man, and Johnny was ready for the pass. He stepped in front, stole the pass, and hit Lloyd as he dashed down the court.

  What happened next was hard to believe, but Coach Robison showed no surprise, almost like he had drawn the play up. Lloyd tossed the ball to Johnny at the free-throw line. Johnny turned to his defender like he was about to drive to the basket. Instead, he flipped the ball over his shoulder, back to Lloyd.

  Nobody ever tossed the ball back to Lloyd. He never scored!

  But things were different now. Lloyd took two quick dribbles to his left, then changed direction and drove hard to the free-throw line. He stopped on a dime, jumped high, turned to face the basket in midair, and shot the smoothest jumper I had ever seen in my young life. It floated in slow motion to the basket and rocked back and forth gently in the bottom of the net before falling to the floor.

  No one expected this little guy to shoot, so no one even went for the rebound. The crowd went crazy. “Panthers, Panthers, go, go, go!”

  I spotted Lloyd’s mom and dad in the stands, and his dad was on his feet, shaking his fists to the ceiling.

  Coach Robison leaned over and whispered to me. “You might have to wait awhile tonight, Bobby. Looks like your replacement has earned his spot.” He let me shudder in shock for a moment.

  “Only kidding, son. But you gotta admit, he’s come a long way. With your help.”

  On the Rattlers’ second trip downcourt, Jimmy blocked the skinny dude’s shot, and the ball sailed out of bounds. That seemed to be their offense. Henry Lobstock, nicknamed Skinnyboy, was their leading scorer. We knew that.

  And their offense centered around passes to the post. He was taller than most high school players and averaged over twenty a game. But our frontcourt was strong and quick, and tall enough. Jimmy, Johnny, and Darrell played tough defense around the basket. They blocked out and rebounded.

  The problem in our losses was never our defense. Scoring—that was the problem. But not any longer. Coach Robison let me know he was counting on me for fifteen to twenty points per game.

  And now we had a real scoring surprise. Lloyd the jump shooter! I was so happy, watching Lloyd come alive before our eyes. And if I ever had doubts about confidence being an important part of the game, Lloyd’s play was proof.

  Our time together, our mornings at the gym, had given Lloyd the confidence he needed.

  We led by seven points at the start of the second quarter, 18–11. And how many points did I score in the first quarter of my first game back? Zero.

  How many minutes did I play?

  The same. Zero. Was I upset? Not for a minute.

  “Bart, take a breather,” Coach said. “Bobby, you and Lloyd will be our backcourt. Let’s go with a full-court press and speed up the pace. When you get the ball, let’s run. And Panthers,” he said with a pause, making certain he had everyone’s attention, “let’s have some fun, hoke?”

  He waved his arms, bringing us all together in the circle.

  “Yes!” we shouted, lifting our arms to the rooftop.

  CHAPTER 12

  Cops in the Stands

  Before play began, Johnny sidled up behind me. “You hoke?”

  “I’m fine,” I said. “Ready to play, but I’m way cool with sitting out the first quarter. And so, I’m sure, is Lloyd’s dad.”

  “How about yours?”

  “My first basket will be for him.”

  Johnny surprised us all and outjumped Lobstock, tipping me the basketball. I took two dribbles and passed the ball to Lloyd.

  “NOW!” shouted Coach Robison, and we both knew what that meant.

  Lloyd drove hard to his right, stopped quick, and pivoted around, with his back to the defender. I ran to the free-throw line.

  “You can do it, Lloyd,” I said to myself. “Fire that pass!”

  And fire it he did, with his strong left hand. I caught the ball and popped a jump shot from fifteen feet.

  “Nice dime,” Jimmy said, high-fiving Lloyd on his way downcourt. But Johnny stayed behind, waving his long arms at the Rattler guard taking the ball out of bounds.

  They were not ready for a full-court press.

  The inbounds pass sailed high downcourt, and Jimmy outran Lobstock for the steal. A quick pass to Johnny for a lay-up. We were now up 22–11. The cheerleaders tossed each other around and in the air, leading the chant “Panthers, Panthers, go, go, go! Poor little Rattlers, no, no, no!” as our fans rocked back and forth to the rhythm.

  That’s when all Hades broke loose. (Out of respect for Mom, both Dad and I stopped saying “hell.”)

  A fight broke out in the stands. Ten rows up, people were grabbing two girls and pulling them apart. With everybody standing and trying to get a look at the commotion, it was impossible for me to see.

  I did see one girl swinging her fists. The referees blew their whistles to begin play, but all eyes were glued to the fight in the stands. This had never happened at a high school game.

  A hush fell over the gym as two campus policemen pushed and shoved their way through the crowd. They took a screaming girl by the arms and waved onlookers away.

  “Take her and leave me alone!” she shouted, pointing over her shoulder. “Get your hands off me! She started it! Arrest her!”

  On and on she went.

  I looked at Lloyd. He was slumped to the floor, his head buried in his hands. Our biggest game of the year and Heather was being dragged out of the gym by campus police.

  A local newspaper reporter, here to cover the game, was snapping pictures as they exited the gym. The refs blew their whistles again, once the court was cleared and ready for play.

  “Focus!” shouted Coach Robison. “Lloyd, are you hoke?”

  “Yes, Coach, I’ll be fine.”

  We all gave him a shoulder slap, and Jimmy said, “We got your back, Lloyd. Stay cool.”

  I took one more look at the stands and wished I hadn’t. Lloyd’s mom and dad seemed to be arguing. Easy to guess why. Something about Heather.

  Please don’t let Lloyd see.

  Prayer answered. Lloyd tossed me the ball, and the game began. Again. The Rattlers were already in their tight zone defense.

  “Keep up the pace,” Coach shouted, waving his arms and urging us to hurry. Lloyd threw a pass to Johnny, posting up on the free-throw line. Johnny faked a pass to me in the corner, then bounced the ball to Jimmy under the basket for a lay-up.

  We had them where we wanted them now, no doubt about it.

  Guard the shooters or guard the post? Pick your poison, as Dad would say.

  The cheerleaders danced across the gym, waving their pom-poms and doing their best to get the crowd into the game. But they’d lost their bling. Anybody could see that. And during the next time-out, called by the Rattler coach to stop the bleeding we were giving them, I noticed that our troop of eight cheerleaders was now reduced to six.

  “I guess Heather still has a few friends,” I thought. “Following her to jail. Or wherever she’s headed.”

  Johnny must have read my mind. “Man,” he said, “we could score a hundred, and nobody’s gonna even remember the game tomorrow. Except the brawl.”

  Oh yeah. The score. Thirty-one to fifteen, Panthers with a solid lead.

  “Nice going, men,” Coach said as we gathered around him. “Good hustle, way to move the ball. No standing around. You know the rules.”

  We all nodded and struggled to catch our breath.

  “Bart,” Coach said, “give Lloyd a break. Bobby will take over at point guard.” He tapped a senior post pla
yer on the shoulder and turned to Johnny.

  “Johnny, you’ve earned a break too. Nice dime.”

  We all had to smile at that one.

  Nice dime?

  Coach Robison was talking the talk!

  I knew why. He was following that old Choctaw creed. Find laughter in the midst of tragedy. It helps you to survive. He would do anything to get our minds off what we had just witnessed.

  But for me, the worst was yet to come.

  CHAPTER 13

  Building the Bridge

  Without even thinking, I gave a quick glance to the stands, to Mom and Dad. Dad sat with his elbows on his knees and his head buried in his hands. Even from that distance, I swear I could see the veins in his neck, swollen and red. Mom sat by his side, hugging Faye close to her. Faye was wiping her eyes, so she had to be crying.

  “Bobby,” said Bart, tossing me the inbounds pass. Too late. It bounced off my forehead and out of bounds.

  As I sprinted downcourt to play defense, I saw Coach walking to the end of the bench. I knew exactly why.

  Looking for my replacement.

  “Coach,” I said as I passed him by, “give me one more chance. Please. One more?”

  Coach turned to me with a big smile on his face.

  “One more, Bobby,” he said, holding up one finger.

  Hoke, so even I had to laugh now. I knew I would never hear the last of it from Johnny. We could be eighty years old and treating our grandkids to ice cream, and Johnny would tell them all about the time “your grandpa dribbled the ball with his head! Ask him to do it again.”

  I made it up, hopefully, on the next play. As my man dribbled to the top of the circle, I fake-lunged at the ball. He did a cool crossover dribble and switched hands to his left, then turned around and slowly backed up. Closer and closer to the basket.

  He looked over his shoulder and gave a small nod of the head.

  “He’s signaling the post man,” I thought. “He’s about to lob it into the post.”

  Some call it luck, but if you don’t take chances, the luck never happens. I remember hearing Clyde Drexler, a former star of the Houston Rockets, say that once, talking about Russell Westbrook. So I took the chance. And I was lucky. I timed my jump just as he picked up his dribble and threw an over-the-head pass. I swatted the pass away, grabbed it as it bounced behind him, and streaked to the basket.

  That was Chance Number One, and it worked.

  Chance Number Two was even riskier. No one stood between a wide-open lay-up and me. But instead of taking the two points, I stopped at the three-point line.

  “Take it, Bobby,” Jimmy shouted. As I leapt into the shot, my mind did a time tumble, back to the first day I met Jimmy, Bart, and Darrell, at the park near my house. That was the day Jimmy busted Johnny’s lip, elbowing him in the mouth.

  “I know you can play dirty,” Johnny had said, with his lip bleeding all over his shirt. “I want to know if you can play basketball.”

  And that was how we earned the respect of our future teammates.

  I remembered my first shot that afternoon. Bart was guarding me when I took a long shot from the corner. It ripped the nets clean.

  Something about the memory of that summer game at the park made me relax. I even smiled, and Coach later asked me what I was thinking.

  But right now, my three-pointer hit nothing but net, and the gym erupted.

  Panthers, Panthers, go, go, go!

  We now led 34–15, and at the first chance, Coach called a time-out. “Everybody gather around,” he said. While we huddled around him, he drew a play on his clipboard. Johnny, Lloyd, and I looked at each other, and it was hard to contain our excitement.

  Coach had drawn up the play we’d talked about but never practiced. Lloyd drives hard to his right, then spins and fires a pass—with his left hand—to a teammate who’s wide open on the free-throw line.

  “Johnny, go back in. You’ll be setting the screen on the baseline for Darrell’s man. Darrell, you bump your man off and run to the free-throw line.”

  “Lloyd, remember what to do?”

  “Yes, sir, Coach, “Lloyd said. “I pivot around and hit Darrell with a pass.” As if he read our minds, Lloyd lifted his left hand and gave Darrell a high five.

  The referees blew their whistles for play to resume.

  “Go get ’em, guys,” I shouted, and took a seat next to Coach.

  Jimmy threw the ball inbounds, at the far end of the court. The Rattlers’ defense was already in place. Bart dribbled across midcourt and tossed the ball to Lloyd at the top of the key. Lloyd faked a pass to Johnny at the free-throw line.

  “Now we see how much he has improved in the past week,” I said quietly. Coach heard me and patted my knee. We both wanted so badly for this to work.

  Lloyd drove to his strength, as expected. He dribbled hard to his right and his defender overplayed him. But to the surprise of everybody, including Lloyd’s dad, he stopped suddenly and pivoted, turning his back to his defender. He threw the pass with his left hand, just as we had practiced every morning for a week.

  Johnny had already run to the baseline, setting the screen on Darrell’s man.

  The ball arrived at the same time Darrell did, fifteen feet from the basket. Darrell caught the perfectly thrown pass—chest high—and arched a high jumper into the net.

  “Panthers, Panthers, go, go, go!”

  In the eyes of casual fans, it was just another field goal, extending our lead. But our serious fans, those who knew our team, were flat-out stunned. There’s no other word for it. They were stunned!

  I’d never seen Coach jump out of his seat before, but he did, and he waved his fists at the gym roof. Anyone watching would have thought we had just won the state title. The feeling swept from one end of our bench to the other. We were celebrating.

  And for Johnny and me—and Coach Robison too—we had something else to celebrate. In a quiet but important way, we were celebrating the building of a bridge. Coach Robison had built a bridge from start to finish.

  He had shown the toughest parent of a Nahullo basketball player that he was fair. And that he could forgive. This tough-minded Nahullo had busted his window and threatened him with a metal folding chair, waving it in his face.

  Yes, this was a night of revelations, and I had another one.

  Oh man. There’s a lot more going on between Coach Robison and Lloyd’s dad than I thought. It’s like what happened with my dad. Why didn’t I see that?

  Dad and I felt closer than ever after my accident. What happened tonight, that simple play we’d all seen, was a breakthrough moment. Lloyd’s dad and Coach were on the same side. And for the first time, Lloyd’s dad knew it. No denying it.

  I glanced to the stands, and Lloyd’s mom and dad were both on their feet. But while everyone around them cheered and clapped, his parents stood at attention, more of a quiet honoring of their son.

  “Maybe this is what games are really all about,” I thought.

  CHAPTER 14

  Whimpering Dad

  As soon as I had that thought, I had another. We still had Heather to deal with. And as happy as Lloyd was about tonight’s game, he had to be worried.

  To start the second half, Coach let the first teamers rest. That included me, since the Panthers now had six men as our starting five. I sat next to Lloyd. I knew Cherokee Johnny would understand. Besides, he was busy making friends with Darrell and Jimmy, his frontcourt teammates.

  “You have any idea how scared I was when Coach drew up our play?” Lloyd asked me.

  “Man, if you were scared, you sure didn’t show it.”

  “I faked it good, huh?”

  “Real good, Lloyd. I was sure glad Darrell made the shot.”

  “Yeah, that would have changed things,” Lloyd said, “if he threw up an air ball.”

  “Oh, I dunno. Johnny would have swatted the ball to you, and you could have scored.”

  “Right,” Lloyd said. “I coulda thrown up a three-pointer
with my left hand.”

  We looked at each other and laughed like the friends we were becoming. I didn’t want to spoil the mood, but I also wanted Lloyd to know I cared about him on and off the court. As the game drew to a close, I noticed he kept looking to the stands. I leaned over and whispered, so only he could hear.

  “She won’t be back tonight, Lloyd,” I said.

  He jerked his head around in surprise. Then he took a deep breath and tried to relax. “Is it that obvious?” he asked.

  “No, not at all. But I know how I felt when my dad showed up drunk at the game,” I said. “Remember?”

  “Yeah. Man, I felt so bad for you. We all did.”

  “Same for you, Lloyd. You got nothing but friends on this team.”

  Lloyd hung his head and didn’t say anything for the longest time. When he finally spoke, his voice changed. He looked at me with a smile and slapped me on the shoulder.

  “Let’s drop it for now,” he said. “We have a victory to celebrate. Hoke?”

  “You bet, Lloyd,” I said. “We have quite a few victories to celebrate. Did you see how proud your folks were? They stood up to honor you, Lloyd!”

  “You serious?”

  “Oh yeah. Everybody around them was cheering and clapping. But they kept hugging each other and staring at you. I’m not kidding.”

  “Alright,” Lloyd said. “Let’s keep quiet about that too. Do you mind?”

  “You got it, Lloyd,” I said, laughing my head off.

  With the game over and all the dressing room towel-popping antics complete, we stepped to the lobby of the gym. More parents than usual greeted us. Everyone got to play tonight, we won, and almost everyone had scored.

  So parents welcomed their boys—to the embarrassment of many.

  “We want to take you out for pizza!” said Harold’s mom. Harold was a junior and almost never played.

  “Dad?” Harold said, pleading with his old man to get him out of this. He had his own car and plans for the night. After all, it was a Friday. No school tomorrow.

  “Oh, don’t worry, son,” his mom said. “You can sleep in late tomorrow. And you have all weekend to do your homework.”