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Authors: Don Coldsmith

BOOK: The Long Journey Home
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L
ate in the fall football season, Carlisle's squad traveled by train to Massachusetts to play a team at Springfield College, a professional school for youth leaders and clergy. This college, the coach warned, was at the forefront of physical education in America. Many of the instructors and coaches in the widespread programs of the Young Men's Christian Association were receiving their training at Springfield.
“We can expect to be competing against some top athletes,” warned McGregor. “These folks are hardworking and innovative.”
This prediction proved true. Although friendly and accommodating, the men of Springfield College proved to be tough on the gridiron. There were new formations and maneuvers, as well as brute strength. As the shadows grew long, the game seesawed back and forth, the lead and the momentum changing several times. The clock ran out with the game tied, 35—35.
Carlisle would spend the night before traveling home, and there was entertainment planned. After a friendly banquet with a lot of good-natured fun, it was announced that there would be a special demonstration at the gymnasium. A new game … An activity for the winter months when the weather prevented outdoor sports, and young athletes needed something to keep in shape. They moved to the gym, and a young instructor, James Naismith, from Canada, explained how it had originated, mostly by accident.
As a graduate assistant at the college, Naismith had been working part time at another job at the downtown YMCA, with younger boys. At the end of the
class sessions, it was sometimes difficult to induce the students to return the soccer balls to the storage boxes without a lot of delay and horseplay. The instructor had decided to make it a contest, dividing the class into two teams: Who could put the equipment away faster?
From there, things began to change rapidly, and somewhat unexpectedly. Several of the youngsters found that they could speed the process by throwing the soccer balls into the bins from a distance. At this point, many instructors might have stopped the fun, but to Naismith it was merely another challenge. Why not make that a part of the game? With a storage box at each end of the gym, he had announced the game of “box ball.”
A few rules evolved, and sometime later, he conceived another idea. Around the balcony of the YMCA gym was a running track, banked at the turns, for the track-and-field runners to use in inclement weather. Why not fasten the boxes to the rail of the balcony? Someone stationed above at either end could retrieve the ball after each score, to hasten the game along. He had requested the custodian to find two uniformly shaped boxes, but none were immediately available. The custodian suggested that perhaps a pair of bushel baskets might suffice. Always flexible, Naismith quickly agreed. They could, he observed, change the name of the game to “basket ball.”
The game could be played, Naismith continued, with almost any number of players. They had experimented with as many as twelve to fourteen on each side. However, it had proved more practical and a more open and exciting game, if there were no more than five or six on each team.
Rules were evolving. No body contact. No walking or running with the ball, but it could be bounced repeatedly … . The students were calling this a “dribble.”
After the brief explanation, the demonstration began, with six on each team. The game was amusing—sometimes hilarious—as the ball moved back and forth, up and down the floor.
John admired Naismith's ingenuity and managed to visit with the young coach for a few moments after the game. An idea was forming in his mind. Until now, he had really not begun to visualize any long-term goals for his life. He was enjoying his athletic activities, but had really not thought seriously beyond his years in school. After that, what?
Now, he was being exposed to a group of professionals, teachers of athletics. They were interesting, interested in their student athletes, honest, hardworking. They had been good to him … .
Maybe I could learn to be a coach
, he thought.
 
On the train back to Pennsylvania, he pondered considerably about it. He was lost in thought, staring sightlessly out the window at the passing countryside, when the coach slipped into the seat beside him.
“You're looking mighty serious, John,” said McGregor. “Something wrong?”
“No, sir. Just thinking.”
Neither spoke for a little while. There was little conversation in the entire squad, with tired athletes dozing in the comfort of the sun-warmed railroad car.
“You played a good game,” said Mac.
“But we lost,” John answered.
“No, it was a tie.”
“That proves nothing, though.”
“On the contrary, John. It proves that two teams are equally skilled.”
“It's better to win,” protested the young man.
“Of course,” smiled the coach. “It's a lot more fun. A better feeling than almost anything. But it's not all about winning.”
“
It's not
?” John asked in surprise.
“Not entirely. There are things more important. Winning is not as important as how you played the game. Whether you did your best, whether you played fairly, or tried to cheat. Respect for your opponent, as well as whether you earn
his
respect.”
John sat, pondering. A matter of
honor
…
“Remember,” the coach went on, “the team we played, where their field was a bit sandy?”
John remembered it well. The opposing players, on their own turf, had sometimes found occasion to kick or scuff sand into the faces of the linemen as the ball was snapped. They also seemed to be prone to infractions of the rules when the referee was not watching.
“But we beat them,” John protested.
“Yes … but you didn't respect them. They hadn't earned your respect. Now, can you remember teams we've played when we were beaten, but still respected the other?”
“Yes.”
He thought of a couple.
“John,
you'd
never throw sand in the opposing player's eyes, would you?”
“Of course not.”
“Why?”
“Well … There would be no honor in it.”
“Exactly. That's what I meant. Winning is not as important as how you play the game … with honor and respect.”
Somehow, John thought of his father. Yellow Bull had once tried to talk to him about this. He had faced enemies in battle, rather than on the playing field. He spoke of “worthy opponents,” and of some for whom he had no respect. John had not understood the words of Yellow Bull then, when he spoke of men “with no honor in them.” He wished that his father had lived longer, to help him understand some of these things.
And there was this other thing, too. “Coach,” he blurted, “do you think I could learn to be a coach?”
McGregor smiled, pleased.
“John, this time
I'm
honored. In answer to your question, yes, of course. Not only that, I think that you could be a great coach. An example for students. You have pride and honor, as well as skill.”
“But I'm not … I don't—” He started to mumble in protest, but the coach interrupted him.
“That's exactly the point, John. You're good at what you do, and you know it. But you don't flaunt it. You know what I mean?”
John's mind drifted back to some of his earliest memories, among his own people, when his father had been still alive. One of his father's friends had been a powerful leader, a medicine man. Someone had referred to him as a holy man, and the leader had denied it.
“No, I am nothing special. I do a little medicine … that's all.”
Little Bull had questioned his father later.
“Is he not really a holy man?”
“Of course he is!” Yellow Bull had chuckled. “He has the gift of a very powerful medicine. But to admit it would be boasting. That would weaken his medicine, so he must deny it.”
Pride without boasting.
“It is sometimes called modesty.” Coach McGregor drew John back to reality. “Some have it, some don't.”
 
From that time on, John noticed that the coach asked him to help some of the younger athletes.
“John, come over here a little while. Can you give Edward, there, some hints about the javelin?”
This gave him a great deal of pleasure and pride. Even so, he tried to be modest about it.
“Tilt the point just a little bit higher, Ed. I find I can get a little more distance out of it that way. You might try starting your stride just a bit earlier … . See how that works for you … .”
Soon the younger students seemed to feel that it was an honor to have John Buffalo comment on their workouts.
He found that such activity also improved his own performance. He saw the reason. If he was forced to study in depth the factors which improved performance in others, they could also be applied to his own.
Some of the other physical instructors and coaches began to ask his help, too, and John's self-esteem soared. He tried hard not to show it. “It was nothing … . I try to notice things … .” He must not misuse what he was beginning to see as a gift.
But the idea in his head was becoming more well-defined. This would help him to become a successful coach. He talked to McGregor about it, and was pleased with the coach's reaction.
“I don't see why not, John. You have a few more years of schooling, but … Well, let's keep it in mind.”
 
Toward spring, John received the letter with Senator Langtry's official seal on the envelope. It was an invitation to spend a weekend at The Oaks, the home of the Senator and his family, in the eastern part of the state and near the Maryland border. The Senator promised an opportunity to see and ride some “fine horses,” and to discuss John's progress and his future.
“I am also contacting the office of Carlisle's administration,” the letter continued. “The Dean of Students there will help you with arrangements and with acquisition of train tickets,
et cetera
… .”
It was a great surprise. John had expected that possibly he would be asked , to accompany the Langtrys back home after a ball game or some other visit. But this …
He was still pondering it when a message arrived, hand-carried by a wide-eyed student assistant secretary.
“You're to report to the office,” said the young man. “Are you in trouble, John?”
“I don't think so.”
He tore open the envelope and read the simple request:
Please report to the office of the Dean
.
“Wait,” he said. “I'll walk back with you.”
J
ohn stepped from the train, carrying his small suitcase. He was somewhat uncomfortable in his new clothes: “gentleman's clothes.”
 
His roommates had teased him considerably as he prepared to leave, but the Dean had been quite specific. The Senator had requested that John Buffalo be outfitted properly to attend a weekend at The Oaks, and had also funded the shopping trip.
“You do clean up pretty good, for an ignorant savage,” teased Little Horse.
“Stop it, Horse. It wasn't my idea.”
“You probably won't even speak to us when you get back,” chided Will Clark.
“I just hope he don't give Carlisle a bad name and embarrass us all by fartin' at dinner or somethin',” Charlie Smith said soberly.
“He won't do that,” said Will. “He'll be holdin' his cheeks too tight, thinkin' about that girl.”
“Stop it, fellas!” protested John. “I've been asked to go, and—”
“Yeah, somebody's got to do it,” moaned Horse in mock sadness. He shook his head. “John's willing to sacrifice himself. We do appreciate it, John.”
 
Now he stood on the platform, wondering what to do next.
“Mr. Buffalo?” a deep voice asked.
He turned to see a uniformed Negro coachman in a red swallow-tailed coat with gold buttons. The man was wearing a black silk top hat and shiny black knee-high boots.
“I'm John Buffalo,” the young man said cautiously.
“Yes, suh.” The coachman smiled. “I'm to carry you to The Oaks. Here, I'll tote your bag, suh.”
John was taken completely off guard by this tone of deference. He relinquished the valise, and the two walked toward an area where there were several coaches and buggies with waiting horses.
“How are you called?” he asked the black man clumsily.
“I'm Henry. Work for the Senator.”
“Yes, I figured,” said John. “I'm John.”
“Yes, suh,” said the darky. “I figured.”
Both grinned.
Henry placed the valise in the rear and opened the door for his passenger. John looked inside at the opulent fittings and velvet upholstery. There was no one else present.
“I … Can I ride up there with you?” asked John.
“Reckon so.”
 
The rolling hills drifted past the carriage, bright green in their spring splendor. Neat, well-kept farms nestled among the small patches of timber. There were large barns, painted a dull red, close to white houses whose appearance seemed to radiate a warm comfort … . A good spirit, unafraid of hard work. Many of the barns were ornamented with one or more circular designs, in bright colors and geometric symbols. It reminded him of some of the designs painted on the lodge covers among his own people.
The People
… Now, that seemed a lifetime ago.
The coachman noticed his interest.
“Ever see them before?” he asked. “Them signs on the barns?”
“No, sir.”
“Them are hex signs. Askin' for health an' prosperity an' all …”
“You mean like a prayer?”
“Huh! Well, maybe so. Dutch use 'em … . Bring good luck, they figure.”
They moved on, leaving the young man to wonder anew at the strange ways of the white man. As many and as different as among the red man, it seemed. And the countryside continued to flow backward past the carriage.
 
A half hour's ride on a well-traveled road brought them to a lane where the team turned in almost without reining. An arched gate of wrought iron proclaimed “The Oaks” over the drive, which was lined with well-spaced old oak
trees. White fence rails separated green pastures on both sides from the white gravel drive. On their left, a trio of yearling colts pranced and trotted alongside the coach as it traveled toward the house. Barns, sheds, and corrals sprawled behind the house, which was one of the most magnificent that John had ever seen. It rose three stories into the air in majestic dignity, white and pristine. All of the other buildings wore the same pure white. The wide front porch, which reached completely across the front of the mansion, boasted a series of massive columns, like those pictured in some of the books in the Carlisle library. More of the great oaks flanked the house and shaded some of the smaller structures.
“This here's the big house,” Henry explained as the horses trotted smartly around the long, curved drive toward the porch.
There was a twinkle of amusement in the eyes of the coachman as he watched the reaction of his passenger.
“I figured,” said John.
Three people now emerged from the doorway to greet the coach as Henry brought the team to a stop at the steps. John recognized the Senator and Mrs. Langtry, but his attention was riveted on the third figure.
Jane
… What a beautiful name. One befitting the angel who bore it. Odd … He had thought and dreamed many times of her radiant beauty, but now … Ah, his memory must be faulty … She was even more beautiful than he had expected. John tried not to stare.
He stepped down from the coach, to a stone platform which ran along the center portion of the broad steps to the porch. He realized the convenience of such a structure. Persons seated inside the coach could step out at the same level with no difficulty.
“Senator … Mrs. Langtry … Miss Jane,” he greeted clumsily. Or, at least, he felt so.
“John! Good to see you, my boy!” boomed the Senator, extending a hand. “Come! How was your trip?”
“Just fine, sir,” John said self-consciously.
A servant came from inside the house.
“I'll take your valise, sir,” the man said. His complexion was somewhat lighter than that of the coachman, but his face displayed some negroid characteristics. Yet his voice lacked the deep-throated resonance of Henry's rich accents.
“Thank you, Reuben,” said Mrs. Langtry. “Just put it in the east guest room.
Reuben nodded deferentially and stepped back into the house. John was embarrassed. At least, he could have carried his own suitcase. This was an entirely new world for him. He had a difficult time understanding why he, John Buffalo, né Little Bull, was considered superior in some way to Henry, the coachman, or to Reuben, whose status was still a bit unclear. Both were men
of middle age. It was not that John failed to enjoy the special attention and honor that now befell him. He was flattered … . It
felt
good. But it was uncomfortable. He had done nothing to earn the attention and honor that was coming his way. Among his own people, at this stage in his life he would be seeking the advice and counsel of such men. Their life experience could be quite helpful to a young man trying to find his way. Well, he never would cease to be amazed at the ways of whites. He'd try to relax and enjoy the extra attention.
“Come, let us sit,” said Mrs. Langtry with a sweeping gesture toward a white wrought-iron table on the broad veranda. “We'll have some lemonade!”
She picked up a tiny crystal bell from its place on a doily in the center of the table and gave it a gentle shake. A young woman in a black and white frilled dress, and with a white lace cap on her hair popped out the door.
“Yes, ma'am?”
“Some lemonade, Carlita, if you would.”
“Yes, ma'am.”
The girl darted back inside, and the Langtrys and John seated themselves at the table. The Senator fumbled with the heavy gold chain that looped across his vest and pulled a large gold watch from its pocket.
“Mmm,” he mused. “Still early … Let's have lemonade, and then I'll show John around the stables. Still time for that before dinner.”
“But Papa,” protested Jane. “He'll want to change for dinner.”
“Of course, my dear!” boomed the Senator. “Still time for that, too. But I want our guest to see … Oh, yes! I understand … Well, of course you may come along!”
“I'll defer,” said Mrs. Langtry. “I need to check on things in the kitchen. Oh … Here's our lemonade, now.”
 
The tour of the stables was a thing of wonder. Barns and stables, so clean and orderly … John had
lived
in far worse places. Stalls and paddocks were clean and dry, the animals well groomed. The small pastures, too, were immaculate, trimmed and fenced with white-painted posts and planks.
The horses were magnificent. The Senator talked at great length about breeding and bloodlines. These were horses bred for racing on the track, he explained. Much of it, John did not understand. There were sires several generations ago, it seemed, which had greatly affected the white man's racehorses. Senator Langtry talked of the Byerly Turk and the Godolphin Arabian, and something called a Barb. There were stallions brought from some other part of the world to England, where they sired colts from English mares. The families had been intermixed now, but the Senator was proud of the Arabian strain in his own horses.
One stallion in particular, a magnificent gray called Thunder, was the Senator's
pride and joy. He recited the animal's pedigree for three generations back with a great sense of accomplishment.
Thunder, whose name was actually Blue Thunder, was out of Gray Lady, by Blue Cyclone, by Trade Wind …
“There's a bit of Barb a little further back,” the Senator continued. “On the dam's side, of course.”
Much of this was lost on young John Buffalo. Still, he did understand lineage was important. His father, Yellow Bull, had been especially proud of his buffalo runner, Owl Dung, so named because of white spots on the glossy black rump. Owl's sire had been obtained in trade from some Blackfeet, who claimed to have stolen the animal from someone farther west … Shoshones or Nez Perce. The story was garbled … completely lost, now. It no longer mattered.
Little Bull, son of Yellow Bull, stood gazing at the stallion, and it was good. He had not realized how much he had missed the contact with horses these past few years. He loved the familiar smells, the warm, not-unpleasant ammoniac scent of sunlight on a well-ordered paddock.
Thunder nickered softly as the party turned to move on. John glanced back. Somehow, the animal's presence reached out to him as a kindred spirit. It had been a long time since John had communicated with a horse, and it came as something of a shock. He had almost forgotten … . It was the white man's way to ignore, or even to deny such things. He had fallen into many of the white man's ways of thinking because it was easier than trying to explain or to understand. He had determined to be successful in the white world, but was it to result in the loss of something else?
May it go well with you, my brother
! He directed the thought toward the stallion, feeling clumsy with the unaccustomed effort. He was greatly pleased, then, when a similar sensation came back at him.
And with you …
 
“Well,” said the Senator, “let's go back and get ready for dinner. You like horses, eh, son?”
“Yes, sir,” said John. “I was raised among them.”
The Senator laughed. “Yes,” he agreed, “I'd assume so.”
John was unsure whether it was a compliment or a criticism. Maybe he'd never know.

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