Blind Your Ponies (5 page)

But then again, in Willow Creek, if an old brown dog slept in the middle of Main Street, everyone drove carefully around him.

The Painters’ gray sedan pulled up in front of the school and Diana snapped out of her reverie. A blond-headed boy unfolded himself from the passenger seat like a Swiss army knife, and when he straightened himself up he towered over the car. Diana blinked. From the second-story window it was hard to tell just how tall he was, but he was
tall.
The boy sheepishly made his way toward the front door as the kids stopped their playing and stared. They made way for him as though he were royal blood or Freddie Krueger from
Nightmare on Elm Street.

Diana bolted for the hallway and ran the stairs two at a time. Sam had to see this.

S
AM WAS THUMBING
through a dictionary when Diana burst into his classroom.

“Sam, there’s a surprise for you downstairs you’ve got to see!”

He regarded her from behind his wire-rimmed aviator glasses but showed no excitement. Aside from conversing across tables at the Blue Willow when they happened to be eating at the same hour, Sam and Diana hadn’t had much social contact.

“I think I’ve already seen him.” “You have?” she asked, disappointed. Diana wanted to be the first to show the coach his incarnate dream.

“Peter Strong, Grandma Chapman’s grandson, right?”

“Wrong. C’mon, this’ll be fun.” She ran out the door.

Sam reluctantly pushed away from his desk and followed, finally catching up to her at the stairs.

“What’s this little surprise got to do with?” he asked.

“I’d say it’s a coach’s pot of gold.” She laughed.

When they rounded the landing to the second floor, they saw the Painters’ exchange student talking with Bess, the office secretary. Diana and Sam had stopped two steps above the second floor and the boy was at about the same level they were.

Diana stepped down and introduced herself. From ground level the boy seemed to be seven feet tall.

“Hello, I am Olaf Gustafson. From Norway I am coming.”

Students filed past to their classrooms, gawking.

“It’s nice to meet you and we’re glad you’re here in Willow Creek,” Diana said.

Sam stood on the stairway as if he were nailed to the spot.

“And this is Mr. Pickett. He teaches English and coaches the basketball team,” she added.

Sam slowly walked down the stairs and shook Olaf’s huge hand. “Yes, nice to meet you, very nice, but I don’t coach the team anymore.”

“You
don’t?”
Diana felt crushed. After bringing these two together, she thought for sure Sam’s heart would be clicking its heels. She turned to Olaf. “Do you play basketball?”

“Play basketball? No, at sports in my country I am not playing.”

“Have you ever played basketball, just a little?” she asked, probing for some sign of hope.

“No, at soccer I am playing when I am younger, but without the coordination I am becoming.”

Bess said she needed Olaf in her office and Sam started up the stairs.

“Sorry, Sam, I thought your prayers had been answered,” Diana said.

“No. Wrong prayers, but thanks for the try.”

On her way to her room, Diana exchanged good mornings with Mr. Grant, and she wondered what on earth Sam Pickett’s prayers could be.

A hopeful undercurrent trickled through the faculty and student body, spilled over into the community, and collected into the Blue Willow Inn, where speculation ran rampant as to what good fortune the Norwegian giant would bestow on the town. Not to be outdone, Grandma Chapman didn’t allow them to forget about her grandson who, she boasted, had a few gifts himself. What had started as an undercurrent had strengthened into a tidal wave of such dimensions that one needed a wet suit and scuba gear to escape from drowning in the unprecedented optimism and promise.

On the second day of school, Diana caught Olaf as he was leaving her biology class. She hadn’t avoided the overwhelming hope that had spread like the epidemic, and she felt compelled to see what she could do to help bring salvation to this knock-kneed little village.

“Could I talk to you a minute?” she asked.

“Oh … ya, sure.”

The sky-scraping boy stepped aside to let several students scurry out. When they were alone, she hesitated.

“How was the class? Did you understand everything?”

“Ah … some I am not understanding.”

“Maybe after a few days it’ll get better,” she said.

“Ya. A few days.”

She looked up into his boyish eyes and smiled. “Don’t they play basketball in your country?”

“Some play. More and more it is coming.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t play, being so tall. I’d think you’d be quite good at it.”

“No … too fast I am growing,” he said and shrugged as though it were his fault.

“Are you still growing?”

“Ya, still growing.” He smiled. “In the athletics I am not taking part. All elbows and kneecaps I am my father says.”

“Well, we sure could use you on the team and I think you’d have a lot of fun. You’d learn the game and make good friends with the other boys. Playing on a team can bring you closer to others. It’ll be a great way for you to assimilate with your American peers and have fun, win or lose. But I suppose you’ve been hearing that a lot around here,” she said with some apology in her voice.

“Ya, Mr. Painter tells me the basketball I must learn while I am here. For me he has been praying for many years, but I don’t understand. Me he’s not knowing until last week.” Olaf flashed a puzzled smile.

“Well, you think about it. I think you’d enjoy it,” she said.

“Ya, think about it,” he said and he ducked through the doorway.

T
HE FOLLOWING DAY
, after twenty-four hours of brooding over how he had the chance of a lifetime slipping through his fingers, Sam went to get his mail at about noon, something he avoided and did only once or twice a week. Willow Creek’s post office was across the Blue Willow Inn at the entrance of Mavis Powers’ modest two-story apartment building. The post office was so small it couldn’t keep five people out of the rain, and Mavis, with curlers perpetually in her peach-colored hair, was the postmaster. Sam came out of the government outpost, thankful his only contact with the outside world was junk mail.

From his worn-down wicker chair on the porch of the Blue Willow, old Rip called. “Hey, Coach!”

Though his name was Henry Van Winkle, the rawboned man was fondly referred to as “Rip” because of his ninety-two years. Sam crossed the street, then paused in front of the inn.

“Hello, Rip. Holding down the fort?”

“Ya seen the Norwegian kid?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve waited all my life for this,” Rip said with a gummy smile. He kept his dentures in his pocket, except when he ate; Rip claimed it was because they fit poorly.

“He doesn’t play basketball,” Sam said.

“I heard you wasn’t going to coach anymore.”

“That’s right. I’m through coaching.”

“You quit one year too soon.”

Sam nodded and laughed. “Or four years too late. See you later.” He walked up Main Street toward school.

“You quit one year too soon!” the old man called after him. “The kid’ll play!”

His words caught in Sam’s mind. Though there were a few diehards like Rip in the ranks of Willow Creekians, they were generally regarded as quaint or sentimental in their blind allegiance. Every community had fans like that. But most people in Willow Creek regarded these diehards with tolerance and humor because, maybe, secretly, within the most cynical of Willow Creekians, there was a hope that still flickered. Someday they would win a basketball game. Sam recognized that flame somewhere within his being, as well, hidden under a pretense of indifference. Others assumed his cynicism had been hammered into his spirit by eighty-six losses, but his coldness had been there long before Sam ever heard of Willow Creek.

Now it seemed fate had mistakenly blinked for an instant and allowed a shaft of good fortune to shine down upon him. Perhaps guardian angels could no longer bear silent witness to this test of human fortitude and endurance. Maybe they finally had cast their miraculous attention on this creaking Western town with no visible means of support where, through years of utter bravery and silent heroism, these unathletic boys laced on their game shoes and showed up on the court only to be battered and run off the floor.

By the time Sam reached school he had squelched the urge to tamper with the winds of fate that whistle through the open heart of loss.

S
AM HURRIED DOWN
the outside steps and cut across the basketball court in front of school, where he found several kids were taking turns heaving a scuffed-up basketball at the metal backboard and rim. It had been a good day for Sam, a day filled with classes and work, without a moment’s pause.

“Sam! Sam!”

He turned and saw Diana leaning out a second-story window. She waved. “Wait a second, I’ll be right down.”

He paused at the edge of the court, slung his corduroy sport jacket over his shoulder, and wondered what this was about. Curiosity clashed with a growing anxiety in his chest. Although he thought others might consider her face plain—she never wore makeup and it was often hidden under long, maple-sugar hair—Sam had seen her in gym clothes on more than one occasion and tried desperately to obliterate that sensual image from his memory. But he couldn’t deny that his primitive brain stem vibrated at the sight of her, his Paleolithic DNA began a mating dance, and he’d had the notion that that was the path he should take, lose himself in as much carnal pleasure as he could find. Immediately guilt and its many henchmen had shut down all further response, shaming him with Amy’s memory. So he appreciated the fact that at school Miss Murphy dressed as conservatively as a nun.

“Sam,” she called and bounded down the front steps. She hurried across the schoolyard in a full denim skirt and a blue, loose-fitting cotton blouse. “Thanks for waiting,” she said. She paused to catch her breath.

“What can I do for you?” he asked, then smiled.

“I hope I’m not sticking my nose where it doesn’t belong, but I talked with Olaf today and I think he’s seriously considering playing basketball.”

“What gives you that impression?” Sam picked up on the excitement in her voice and he couldn’t help but notice the natural little pout of her lower lip.

“I don’t know exactly. It was something in his tone. I think he’s just afraid of looking clumsy, right when he’s trying to get to know some of the kids. I can sure identify with that. I mean, who wants to be laughed at?” She met his eyes. “Anyway, he’s a little on the defensive, with good reason, but I think he’ll play.”

“Even if he decides to play, he’s never touched a basketball. He can’t learn enough to help much in just ten or twelve weeks,” Sam said.

“Okay, it’s a long shot, I grant you, but take a look around.” She gestured at the town’s old buildings along Main Street. “Look where we’re standing for God’s sake. What else have you got to do? How often in a lifetime do you think you’ll have a seven-foot center to coach?”

“I’m not coaching.”

“I know. And what are you going to do about
that
?”She gazed into his eyes, as though she could see into his heart. Sam ducked from her encroachment by turning to the kids behind them. She took a hold of his arm and squeezed gently. “I hope I haven’t been a busybody, but I just couldn’t let it go without talking to you. Forgive me if—”

“No, it’s all right. Thanks for your interest.”

“I’ve got to run,” she said. “See you tomorrow.”

She hurried across Main and drove away in her black Volvo while Sam stood alone, his thoughts and feelings muddled beyond sorting. From the far edge of the court he smiled at Megan Riley, a sixth grader. She hugged the basketball to her chest.

“Ya want a shot, Mr. Pickett?” Megan asked.

“Sure.”

She tossed him the ball. Sam caught it with one arm and threw his sport coat to the ground. He rolled the scuffed old ball in his hands, took aim, and let it fly. Swish.

“Awesome shot, Mr. Pickett! That’d be a three-pointer for sure,” Megan said with pure adulation in her voice.

“Aw, that’s nothing,” Carol Rudd said. “He’s the
basketball coach.
”

F
RIDAY AFTERNOON, AFTER
the students had boisterously left the building, Sam approached Truly Osborn’s office and found the superintendent at his desk in his typical vest and shirtsleeves, earnestly digging earwax with a paper clip. He hesitated, then knocked on Truly’s open door.

Truly twirled in his wooden chair and recovered quickly into his professional posture. “Yes, what is it, Sam?”

Sam thought Truly to be a sad man, a white dwarf, a star whose light we still see streaming toward us in the night sky long after it has lost all energy. Truly managed the proper manners of a school administrator on the surface while inside, Sam suspected, he had given up on life, had burned out and died. It scared Sam, and he worried he’d share the same fate twenty years down the institutional highway.

“Since I talked with you a couple weeks ago,” Sam said, “I’ve been thinking about the basketball team.”

“The basketball team?”

“Yes. I was wondering if you’d talked to Mr. Grant about coaching?”

“No, I haven’t gotten around to it yet. It’s not as though there’s any hurry, with all this to take care of.” Truly waved the back of his hand at the files and papers stacked on his desk, stacks that had a familiar haphazardness, leading Sam to suspect they were decoys giving the appearance of busyness.

“Well,” Sam said, “I’ve changed my mind, if it’s all right with you and the school board. I’d like to coach for another season.”

“You’d what?” Truly snapped up straight in his chair, startling Sam back a pace. “Why on earth would you want to do that?”

“Ah … I figure I know the routine and all, and the boys … it would be all new to Mr. Grant.”

A haggard grin materialized on the superintendent’s sallow face. “All this nonsense about the Norwegian boy getting to you?”