A Name Earned Page 6

  “Faye,” I said, “I’m not saying you’re the smartest girl I’ve ever met. And I’m not saying you’re the craziest. No need to say it.”

  “Will you kiss me and make it all better?”

  In the hallway, without even looking around to see if anybody was watching, I planted a sweet kiss on Mystery Lady Faye’s lips. A quick kiss, since we were already late for class.

  CHAPTER 14

  Elbow to the Face

  Then came Friday.

  “Toughest team we’ve faced all year,” Coach Robison said as we prepared to take the court. “But you men have overcome so much in your lives, on and off the court. I have faith in you. Have faith in yourselves.”

  Lloyd and I were both on the starting five now, along with Jimmy, Johnny, and Darrell.

  Panthers, Panthers! Go! Go! Go!

  Johnny lost the opening tip, and we soon learned Coach was right. These guys were tough. A quick pass to the corner, a man cut to the basket and faked a short bank shot. Darrell’s feet left the floor to block the shot, his man ducked under him, scored the basket, and was fouled. Ten seconds into the game and we were down by three.

  Didn’t get much better. They were ready for everything we tried. When Lloyd drove hard to his right, then spun for the pass to the free-throw line, my man dropped off and intercepted the pass.

  They sped downcourt, and I was facing a three-on-one fast break. I stopped the dribbler on the baseline and he lobbed it over my head for a lay-up.

  Down by 5.

  This was our final pre-district game, against a larger school near McAlester. And they were tall, fast, and skilled. They played a double-post offense, with one post man on the free-throw line and the other under the basket. Their toughest under-the-bucket player rotated from one baseline to the other.

  With the score Eagles 9–Panthers 2, Coach called our first time-out. He did everything he could to settle us down. “They play city ball,” he said. “They will shove and push—more than you men have seen. They’ll foul hard and complain when the refs start calling it. So be ready.

  “We need to get some points on the board. We play best at full speed, so don’t slow it up. But if they’re back on defense, run your plays. Drive and kick it out for the jump shot. And Bobby, don’t be afraid to launch some threes. Even if you miss, those long bounces give us a better chance at the rebound. Now, I want everyone’s attention.”

  Coach paused, waiting for that powerful moment when we moved to the same heartbeat. “Never doubt yourselves,” he said. “You are skilled and intelligent basketball players. Do your best.”

  We leaned in and offered our hands.

  “Yeah!” we shouted, then took the court.

  Following Coach’s advice, we felt a new determination. And we also noticed a touch of attitude from our opponents. Lloyd dribbled across midcourt and tossed me the ball near the sideline. I fired a three-pointer and scored. The crowd now had something to cheer about. Eagles 9–Panthers 5.

  But the Eagles let me know right away they were not impressed. I played tight defense on my man as he set up their play with a slow dribble. He threw a quick pass to a post man and cut to the basket. I stayed tight on him, and he didn’t like it.

  He also didn’t like that I’d scored on him. He gave me a slight push, and when that didn’t free him, he gave me an elbow to the jaw. Coach Robison saw it, but the refs let it go. He caught a quick pass and scored. Eagles 11–Panthers 5.

  Coach called a time-out and motioned for both referees to join him on the sideline. He spoke respectfully, but his message was clear.

  “You missed a deliberate foul, an elbow to the face of my player right after he hit the three-pointer. Did you not see it?”

  Both men shook their heads, and the lead ref said, “We call it as we see it, Coach, and we don’t want anyone to get hurt.”

  Coach Robison gave them each a strong look and turned to the bench. “Are you hoke, Bobby?” he asked.

  “Yes, I’m fine.”

  “Need a break?”

  “No, sir, I’d like to play.”

  “Good, I was hoping so. Gather around,” he said. “Men, I called a time-out to let the refs know I’m not happy with the dirty play. And also to let you all know that I will not tolerate any retaliation. We play clean and hard, is that understood?”

  “Yes, sir!” we said, as the buzzer sounded and we took to the court.

  I never expected what happened next.

  As if to make a point, the entire Eagles team picked up the attitude. When Lloyd began his dribble-drive, the man guarding him made a swipe at the ball. As Lloyd drove by him, he stuck out his leg and tripped him. Lloyd fell hard to the floor.

  The referee blew his whistle and called a non-shooting foul. The Panthers crowd grew silent. I ran to Lloyd, who was rolling on the floor in pain, trying to get up.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw his dad slowly stand. The security guard was no longer sitting by him.

  Not good, I thought. Mr. Blanton pushed his way through the crowd, stepping down from the bleachers to courtside. He glared at the referee nearest the play. Even from across the gym, I could see the anger in his face, the tension in his muscles. His fists were clenched. I was reminded of my dad, a teenager lying on the sidewalk in front of the courthouse. Struck by his father.

  Please, no. Lloyd does not need this.

  Dad was watching Mr. Blanton too. He caught him before he stepped on the court, taking him by the shoulder in a firm but friendly way. I don’t know what Dad said to him, but as Lloyd was carried off the court and to the dressing room, his dad followed.

  My dad walked between Mr. Blanton and the referees, preventing any real trouble.

  CHAPTER 15

  Win One for Lloyd

  The head referee blew his whistle and waved his arms as he dashed to the sideline.

  “Personal foul on number 32 of the Eagles, and a technical foul also,” he said, raising his hands high and making the T sign. He motioned for the coaches to join him in front of the scorer’s table.

  “Coach,” he said, addressing the Eagles’ coach, “you need to warn your team that any more conduct like this and we’ll send players to the locker room.”

  “I think we have already reached that point,” Coach Robison said. “He deliberately tripped my player, and he is out for the remainder of the game, maybe longer. He is hurt.”

  “Officials’ time-out!” shouted the head referee.

  The referees waved the coaches away and huddled together for a moment of private conversation.

  When they emerged from their discussion, the head referee stepped to center court. A strange hush floated over the gym. In a voice loud enough for all to hear, he announced, “Number thirty-two of the Eagles is expelled from the game and will be removed from the court. The Panthers will shoot two shots for the technical foul and take the ball out of bounds.”

  The home crowd stood up and clapped, and the cheerleaders even tried to fire them up with “Panthers, Panthers! Go! Go! Go!”

  Didn’t happen. What rose from the wooden bleachers was a quieter cheering and clapping. A serious cloud of worry hung in the air.

  How is Lloyd?

  “Jimmy, you knock down the free throws,” Coach said. “Bart, take Lloyd’s place and let Bobby bring the ball downcourt. They’re not gonna want to foul, so let’s throw the ball inside. Jimmy, Darrell, we need you two to be monsters around the basket. Go up hard and fight for every rebound. Let’s cut into that lead, men!”

  “Yeah!” we shouted.

  “Let’s win this game for Lloyd,” I said in a soft voice.

  Coach Robison stepped back and stared at me like he was seeing me for the first time. His eyebrows rose and he nodded, giving me a look of pure pride.

  “I like that,” Coach said. “What do you say, Panthers? Gimme your hands again. On three, let’s shout—for everyone in the gym to hear—win this one for Lloyd!”

  “One. Two. Three. Win this one for Lloyd!�
�

  Now the crowd picked up the cheers. The gym was rocking with excitement, and for the first time, we believed we could actually win this game.

  Jimmy did hit both free throws to cut the lead to 11–7.

  We quickly learned who was their go-to guy when they needed a bucket. Danny Mack, the big man for the Eagles, and he was not a typical high school post player. He was not long and lean like Cherokee Johnny, who stood six foot two. He was taller than Johnny by several inches—six foot five, I’m guessing.

  He had good spring in his legs. We all saw that he dunked his lay-ups during warm-ups. He had a powerful chest and muscled-up arms for pushing his way to the basket or clearing space for a rebound.

  “It’s going inside,” Coach Robison hollered.

  Johnny nodded. He stepped in front of Danny so the pass was lobbed over his head. Darrell left his man, and when Danny grabbed the ball and turned to shoot, Darrell swatted it away.

  Danny didn’t like that. He threw his hands in the air and looked to the ref. “What? No foul?” he shouted.

  While he argued with the referee, Bart and I played pitch and catch, fast-breaking downcourt. I stopped at the top of the circle and took one dribble to ease into my jump shot. The lone Eagle back for the break stopped and waved a hand in my face.

  I never intended to shoot a three. This was Bart’s basket. My dime and Bart’s lay-up. I threw him a nice bounce pass and he banked it in.

  Eagles 11–Panthers 9.

  Now the crowd was into it. Big time. And for once the cheerleaders added a new line.

  Panthers, Panthers! Go! Go! Go!

  Eagles fly but way too slow!

  The Eagles’ coach called a time-out. Coach Robison had a smile on his face, but he shook his head in the direction of the cheerleaders.

  “If they weren’t upset before, they will be now!” he said. “Hoke, men, good hustle. And I hope you learned something about complaining to the refs when the ball is in play. If anyone complains, it will be me. That’s my job, understand?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Good. I expect them to keep going to the post. Danny is strong, and he won’t lose the ball like that again. Darrell, slide back and you and Johnny double-team him the next few times downcourt. Let’s see if he’ll give up the ball.”

  “Let’s go!” shouted the lead referee, and the Eagles threw the ball in to begin play.

  Coach guessed right. The Eagles’ plan was to get the ball to Danny. My man threw a pass to the corner, and Danny muscled his way in front of Johnny. He caught the ball less than ten feet from the basket and took two dribbles, backing into Johnny. Darrell left his man for the doubleteam, but Danny was too quick.

  Easy bank shot. Eagles 13–Panthers 9.

  As we hurried down on offense, Coach called Darrell over. “Don’t be afraid to leave your man,” he said. “We need to see if he’ll give up the ball. Something tells me he won’t.”

  Now that Danny had quieted the crowd for a moment—and now that Lloyd’s injury seemed a thing of the past to the Eagles—that attitude returned. Johnny was the next victim.

  I threw the ball to Bart in the corner, expecting a return pass for another three-pointer. Instead, he lobbed it into Johnny. Danny backed off, daring him to shoot. Johnny was only eight feet from the basket, an easy bank shot.

  As he rose to release the ball, Danny stayed on his feet. Instead of trying to block the shot, he put his hand on Johnny’s chest and shoved him hard. The shot flew over the basket, and Johnny rolled to the floor.

  I will never forget what Johnny did next. My mind flew back to that day on the playground when Jimmy and Darrell and Bart showed up—to challenge us and give us a hard time. Jimmy had elbowed Johnny in the jaw, a deliberate and dirty move. As the blood dripped to the concrete court, Johnny had said, “I thought you came to play basketball.” That day, Johnny and I earned the respect of our future teammates by not fighting.

  Just like that first day on the playground, Johnny didn’t let it bother him. He leapt to his feet. Even as the crowd booed and waved their arms at the dirty foul, Johnny turned and waved to our fans with a smile on his face.

  I hope his dad is watching this.

  CHAPTER 16

  Clean, Hard Basketball

  “Stay seated, men,” Coach Robison said, moving quickly up and down the bench. “I know you’re upset. So am I, but let’s give the referees a chance. That’s what they’re here for.”

  He then turned and faced the court, folding his arms and staring at the refs.

  “You’re gone!” shouted the lead referee, pointing to Danny and moving to the scorer’s table. “Technical foul, number fifteen of the Eagles,” he said, making the T sign for the second time in less than five minutes. “Shooting foul, also number fifteen.”

  Approaching the Eagles’ bench, he said, “Coach, take number fifteen to the dressing room and see that he does not return to the gym tonight. He is not to sit in the stands or be anywhere in the gym, is that understood?”

  “Yes. I’ll take care of it.” The coach turned to his assistant and spoke briefly, then had a serious but short talk with Danny as he walked him off the court.

  The referee blew his whistle and called an officials’ time-out. He spoke to the other refs, and his assistant came to our bench. “We need to settle down and play,” he said. “I have been informed that any more violent episodes and players will be suspended for several games, not just tonight. Is that clear?”

  “We’d like nothing better than to play a clean, hard game,” Coach said.

  “Good. That’s what we want to see.”

  We gathered around Coach Robison, waiting for instructions. Some of the crowd had sat back down, but many of our fans were still booing and waving their disapproval at the Eagles’ bench.

  “Hold on a minute,” Coach said. He stepped on the court, turning his back to us and facing the crowd. He lifted his arms, palms up, to the ceiling, then motioned for everyone to have a seat.

  The entire crowd—every man, woman, and child—showed their respect for Coach Robison. A sweet hush settled over the gym as everyone took their seats.

  “Wow,” Jimmy said. “I have never seen anything like that before. Ever.”

  “You’re not the only one,” Bart said, and we all voiced our agreement.

  But the show wasn’t over.

  As Coach turned to the bench, he spotted a young man and his parents standing at the door to the dressing room—Lloyd and Mr. and Mrs. Blanton. Lloyd’s dad had his arm wrapped around his son’s waist, helping him walk to the bench. Mrs. Blanton walked beside her son and spoke quietly to him.

  Coach clapped his hands and pointed to the Blantons.

  Once more the crowd responded. They slowly rose to their feet, but this time it was to cheer the return of their newest favorite son, Lloyd Blanton. He never missed a practice, never made an excuse, always striving for a starting role. Striving to please his dad.

  And now he was a hero.

  “Lloyd,” Coach said, “welcome back. I’ve been saving a place for you. If you’ll sit next to me I’d be honored.”

  “Come on, Coach,” Lloyd said with a shy smile.

  “Son, take him up on it,” Mr. Blanton said. “We’ll sit right behind you, one row up in the bleachers.”

  “Let’s play ball!” shouted the lead referee. “Who’s shooting the technical foul shots, Coach?”

  Coach tapped Jimmy on the shoulder, and he hit both shots.

  Eagles 13–Panthers 11.

  Next, we lined up as Johnny stepped to the line for his two free throws. Eagles 13–Panthers 13. Tie game!

  We got the ball at midcourt because of the technical foul. The ref blew his whistle, tossed Bart the ball, and with one minute and forty-five seconds remaining in the first quarter, play began again.

  With tough-man Danny gone for good, the fight drained out of the Eagles. They were still taller than we were. Still highly skilled basketballers.

  But fight is
everything.

  Good, clean fight.

  Their coach did all he could to inspire his players, hollering orders and running from one end of the bench to the other.

  “Block out! How can you get a rebound if you don’t block out!”

  We threw a full-court press at them, and they were not ready. Jimmy stole an inbounds pass for an easy lay-up. Then Johnny jumped in front of their post man, grabbed the pass, and hit me running down the sideline.

  If there was any doubt about Johnny’s health, it quickly vanished. He outran all nine players, Eagles and Panthers both, and caught my lob pass for a dunk shot.

  By halftime we were up by eight.

  Panthers 35–Eagles 27.

  As we trotted to the dressing room, I ran beside Jimmy. He was, after all, our senior leader. I wanted to show him some respect. “Pretty cool, huh?” I said.

  “More than cool. Unbelievable. But we do have one big problem,” he said, in a serious tone of voice.

  “Yeah, we’ve got to keep the pressure on,” I said. “Game’s not over yet.”

  “That’s not what I’m talking about.”

  “What, Jimmy?”

  “After we kick hiney big time in the second half, there’s no way we can have a team-only party after the game. Our parents are gonna have to join us. They’ll follow us wherever we go. Get ready for some sentimental mom and dad hugs.”

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right,” I said laughing. “I never thought about that.”

  We were ready for Coach’s talk. “I’m prouder of every one of you than you will ever know,” he began. “You did not respond to their taunts, their dirty play. You played hard, clean basketball.

  “And you are showing your maturity. Bart,” he said, turning to the shyest senior on the team. “What have I not said?”

  Bart stood up before he answered. “We can’t be overconfident,” he said, and his voice grew louder as he continued. “We won the first half, but the game is far from over. We have to hustle and fight and carry this win home!”

  “Yeah!” we all shouted, as Bart looked at Coach for approval.

  “I couldn’t have said it better myself,” Coach said.