by T. R. Kelly
The entire week before “state,” newspaper reporters, radio and television stations descended upon the tournament-bound towns, providing daily features on players, coaches, and fans to their hometown readers, listeners and viewers. It seemed I was constantly posing for pictures and being hounded for interviews. Then, it was on to the tournament site, where coverage was magnified.
The teams in the 3A title game were dramatically different in how they carried themselves on and off the court. My underdog Washington squad was a mix of unassuming athletes with one extraordinary player. Flintridge High, led by Elliott, Justin, and Teddy Beach (“The Beach Boys”) strutted undefeated into state tournament week. The Jackrabbits had no intention of losing to a bunch of kids from the west side of the state. It was an east-west thing. People east of the mountains view westsiders as soft, big-city suburbanites who spend their Saturdays sipping Chardonnay in Lacoste polos, trying to determine the proper way to slice brie. West of the Cascades, eastsiders are seen as booted, bumbling hayseeds who swap their straw farmers’ hats for felt about the time they switch from beer to booze.
Elliott was the coach and father of Justin and Teddy. Justin was a tough, squatty, boisterous senior guard who was out to intimidate with his ever-present black whiskers; Teddy was a quiet sophomore swingman with long “surfer” hair always magically in place on the court. Coach Elliott—a sly, erstwhile hippie—attempted to bring some slickness to the rural region east of the Cascade Mountains. He once said he “missed most of the sixties” and refused to ride the team bus to and from games. Rumors were rampant that “Ol’ El” was expected at a local watering hole long before the bus arrived back at school and that he fired up something stronger than Lucky Strikes in his Ford van on the way home. He predicted a state-title victory—even confided to coaches in his league that he anticipated a “cakewalk”—and suggested in the newspaper that the proprietor of Flintridge’s Fine Cuisine put the champagne on ice.
“This game has got the community of Flintridge bouncing,” Elliott proclaimed. “Can you think of another event when you would get out the champagne? This team has worked hard. This is our time. Flintridge time.”
It was no cakewalk, but I’m told the drinks were on the house at Flintridge’s Fine Cuisine after the game. The Jackrabbit players devoured huge steaks, compliments of the boosters. The cheerleaders and school band paraded around them and high-kicked to their fight song. I saw one of the starters about five years later, and he told me no team member has paid for a meal in the restaurant since that night.
For better or worse, state tournaments often define lives, especially in a small town, and always produce memories that outlast playing days. Each of my Washington players in that painful title game can recall exactly where he was on the floor when Linn Oliver’s last-second jumper failed to go through the net. Parents, boosters, and alumni can tell you exactly where they sat and who was in the row.
**
Like all coaches, I dissected all the “what-ifs” after losing a big game. A state title loss came in a completely different package of hurt and disappointment. I drew mild criticism for not abandoning my man-to-man defense after Teddy Beach penetrated the middle of the Washington defense for three easy baskets late in the third quarter. To hell with a zone defense; Flintridge might’ve picked it apart. I played the percentages, did what I felt was right defensively, and put our club in a position to win the game in the final seconds. I gave the best player in the state the final attempt. Who could argue with that?
“Washington inbounded the ball, and Linn Oliver came off a hard screen at the top of the key,” Greg Smithson wrote in his Seattle Tribune column, detailing the last seconds of the game. “It is stunning that he was so open because everyone in the building knew he would be taking the last shot. It appeared he got a great look at the basket, but he didn’t seem to get both legs under him when he let it go. The Washington star underwent knee surgery last summer but refused to offer any excuses after the game.”
“The team ran the play just the way Coach drew it up,” Linn Oliver told Smithson in the Washington locker room that the reporter described as “soundless.” “That last shot was mine to make, and I just didn’t make it. It didn’t fall. That’s it, pure and simple.”
I cut out Smithson’s piece and stuck it into a large wicker basket in the living room containing my semi-valuables, then flung the remainder of the next-day newspapers into the dusty clawfoot tub where they joined old issues of Sports Illustrated, in easy reaching distance of the toilet. After Cathy passed away, I only used the shower. I simply couldn’t soak in there without her. Tiny bottles of her rosewood bath oils still rested on the ledge above the faucets.
For me, memories of that state tournament lingered far too long. I’m sure it was hell for Linnbert Oliver. I probably faked it better because I was old and calloused. His eyes gave him away. Delight had departed; the glimmer was gone. The weight of that night never truly lifted. I tried to carry that load for him in public, but I only coached the game. I didn’t play in it. The consequences differed for me because I wasn’t on the floor. I didn’t take the shot.
I never saw Linn in his letterman’s jacket again. It seemed that the bright red “W” became his own scarlet letter. While most of his future acquaintances and classmates at the University of Washington had never heard of his school or anything about his hometown, I knew he’d never escape the label of the star player who missed the final shot in the state championship game.
Chapter Eighteen
5 p.m., Thursday, June 21, 1906
Wilhelmina cringed as only part of the dark brown tobacco juice hit its target—a gold-plated spittoon in the corner of her Madrona Resort, packed with shivering vacationers who had scurried inside to dodge early summer hailstones on the north shore of the lake later named in her honor. Bunks along the walls and upstairs overflowed with mud-caked gear, damp blankets, and weeping children.
The spitter, a lean man in a full-length leather slicker, brushed raindrops from his shoulders with his Stetson. “I’ll give a gold nugget for three beds,” said the gangly, unshaven man, who arrived in the middle of the unexpected cold front with his two brothers. “First to speak up can take our place outside under that tree.”
The announcement stunned the Madrona camp and sparked an unruly disturbance among parties who believed they were first to accept the offer. A finely dressed, middle-aged man rose from a wooden bench and ambled toward the speaker. An elderly woman gasped and leaped to follow him but was yanked back by her husband.
“You’ve got plenty of money, Luke,” her husband said, as he pulled his wife close to his side. “Let one of the rest of us who don’t have a big cattle spread have a little piece of gold!”
“You people can all go to hell,” another yelled, strutting to the base of the stairs that led to the second floor. “I was the first to raise my hand and y’all know it. Right? Mister?”
“Tyler, Vance Tyler,” said the cagey, mid-fifties man offering the nugget. “That there is Cody and Alexander. You know, I can’t really say for certain who was first. Maybe you folks ought to settle it yourselves.”
Four men argued in front of the fireplace, determined to say and do what they could to gain the gold nugget. A towheaded Norwegian fisherman not given a chance to state his case threw a punch at a railroad lineman from Vancouver. Kurri intervened and separated them, grabbing fistfuls of their shirts while straining to keep the combatants at arm’s length. The fisherman froze, shoved Kurri’s hand from his chest, and left the cabin without a word. A young couple, heads down, immediately followed.
During the commotion, Wilhelmina watched as a young girl broke from her father’s side. She climbed the stairs and calmly removed bedrolls and clothing from three bunks at the far end of the room. The girl piled the gear at the top of the stairs, then marched down and rejoined the anxiety below. The youngster gathered her silky hair behind her head with both hands, zigzagged through the adults, and stared up at a start
led Vance Tyler.
“OK, mister,” the little girl shouted. “I’ve cleared you your three beds. Now you give that gold nugget to my daddy!” The room turned quiet. Kurri took a step toward Tyler, but Wilhelmina gently raised her hand, signaling him to wait.
The eldest Tyler formed a fresh tobacco plug deep in his string pouch, lifted it gingerly without dropping a strand, and fingered the wad into the side of his cheek. “Well, now, little lady,” Tyler grumbled. “Looks like you got more brains—and guts—than any man in here.” He reached inside his slicker and plucked a small gold chunk from the side pocket of a battered vest, his filthy yellow-brown fingers pushing the nugget into her pale right palm. Eyes glowing, she cupped it tenderly like a tiny golden egg and edged slowly toward her parents, never looking away from her treasure. “It’s yours now,” Tyler said. “You do with it like you damn well please.”
Wilhelmina observed how the five members of the little girl’s family nuzzled together, trying to balance the delight and worry brought by their newfound prize. The mother snipped a square from the corner of her blanket and stitched it inside the forearm sleeve of her husband’s extra shirt. When her daughter nestled the nugget into the protective pocket, her mother immediately sewed the flap closed as her two tiny sons questioned aloud the need for the unusual procedure.
“I’d make my man wear that shirt day and night,” said an older woman, prone on an upper bunk. “Gold does strange things to people. Even in a friendly place.”
The nugget-winning couple tucked their children into bed. The father then slipped to his knees, huddled close to the floor, and pulled his shirt over his head. His wife handed him the altered garment. As he buttoned the shirt over his bare chest, Wilhelmina spotted the small hump on the right sleeve. The man gently brushed the area with his left palm like a wary winner attempting to determine all the possibilities of his new prize, then lay back in his bed and stared at the ceiling. When Wilhelmina returned at first light, it appeared he had not moved nor closed his eyes. The family soon departed with most of the other guests, much to the chagrin of Wilhelmina, who had planned an afternoon of games and crafts for the children.
After two more consecutive days of hard rain and no fishing, Wilhelmina watched the Tylers become more and more restless. She overheard Vance and Cody say they planned to move on, setting out to break ground on a new mining site east of Birdsview and a mile from the Skagit River. They told the youngest brother, Alexander, to stay behind for a meeting with a Seattle banker scheduled to arrive in North Fork aboard a commuter steamer.
“You are the only one of us who can understand what that banker will have to say,” Vance told Alexander. “Find out what the gold and the other bags are worth in Seattle and Vancouver. Me and Cody need to go stake this new claim. Now.”
Dubious about its safekeeping at the resort, Alexander buried a large burlap sack containing several smaller packets of gold nuggets and gold dust at the base of a madrona tree at the west end of the sandspit. He hid a leather satchel deep in an old beaver hole at the base of a stump near the outlet creek.
Eager to explore the lake area after the rain clouds moved east, Alexander packed his climbing gear and headed southeast for Mount Higgins, a sheer rock face that towered above the magnificent valley named for the local Stillaguamish Tribe. His body, nearly picked clean by cougars and black bears, was discovered by deer hunters a week later on a shelf near the base of the mountain and brought to the Madrona Resort.
When word of his death reached his brothers up on the north Skagit, they hurried back to the lodge at the lake and nearly dismantled the building, seeking the precious possessions they had left behind with their younger brother. The Tylers interrogated Kurri and Wilhelmina, incensed that there were no specific instructions about their missing belongings. Bitterly disappointed, the two Tyler brothers eventually set out for Seattle to search for a particular banker.
Chapter Nineteen
8 p.m., Friday, February 4, 1982
Some of the referees and coaches I planned to call next about Linn were actively involved in the night’s prep games. Most of them gathered at a popular tavern afterward, so I had some time to kill. I decided to catch the second half of the O’Dea-Roosevelt showdown in O’Dea’s stifling bandbox of a gym.
I stood under the entry doors waiting for a stoppage of play to take a seat. Maroon and gold banners declaring Metro Champions in every conceivable sport wrapped the walls. Several boasting State Champions were mounted strategically above the baskets. I spotted one of the few remaining seats in the top row of the bleachers above the Roosevelt bench, and worked my way up during a timeout, trying not to step on jackets, shoes, and small children. I checked the ancient scoreboard as the seconds ticked down to the third-quarter horn. Two of the tiny red lights were out in the visitors’ side “8” so that I had to look twice to make sure it wasn’t a “3.”
I smiled at the defect, knowing it was part of an imperfect package that made a cramped high-school gym so enticing. Since I left the classroom and full-time coaching, this was the type of place I chose to be on Tuesday and Friday nights. Witnessing how different coaches handled particular strategic situations became an intriguing chess match. How did the style of play in Seattle’s Metro League compare with the hard-nosed rebounders in the Seamount League? Did the refs on the west side let the kids play, or were they control freaks? Did coaches respect their players, fans, and peers?
Gus Gables, the crotchety O’Dea coach, loved the old-school, tenacious man-to-man defense almost as much as me. Play rock-solid defense, block out under the boards, get the ball to the open man, take good shots, then get your ass back on defense and blanket your guy.
A whistle blew and so did Gus. “Baseline, Rocky! Do NOT give up the baseline!” On one knee, the coach turned to his players on the bench; a teaching moment. “The baseline is your FRIEND. It’s like another defender. Take advantage of it and never give it up!”
I smiled in agreement and then was nearly knocked over by a man who tried to wedge his way into the seat next to me. “The program lists that Taylor kid at six-six but he is only about six-four.” The comment tweaked a tender nerve, and I had a feeling the speaker knew it. I’d been known to list my players taller than they actually were in the state tournament program. He sat and shoved my shoulder.
“Doug Willis, the pride of Puyallup. I should have known.” I stretched for a quick handshake.
“If it ain’t Old School Ernie,” Doug said. “How goes it?”
Most of Doug’s hair had been gone for years. The few thin strands remaining composed one of the more talked-about comb-overs in coaching. His black leather bomber jacket was brand-new and carried a few raindrops.
“We’ve been lucky, Ernie,” he said. “Won a couple of games we had no business winning, but made some free throws down the stretch. For some reason, the schedulers gave us a bye tonight. This might be one of my last real chances this year do a little scouting.”
I’d been in Willis’ position countless times—a night off in the middle of the season and a chance to check out an upcoming opponent. Generally, I tried to hit a contest that matched two teams I would meet in the near future so that I could return home with scouting reports on both clubs. I knew his school, South Hill, faced challenging road games at O’Dea and Roosevelt the last week of the league season, so Willis was killing two birds with one stone.
We watched and talked about the game for a while. Then Doug asked, “Do you have a few minutes to come down to the tavern after the game? Got a couple a things I’d like to talk with you about.”
My day felt longer and harder than a triple-overtime loss. The hot gym drained what was left of my energy, and I was thinking about bagging the bar idea. But the potential for additional information about Linn coupled with my growling stomach sealed the deal.
“Sure, I’ll come down,” I said. “Save me a seat. I missed dinner and might get your take on something that’s come up.”
**
The cozy spot featured ice-cold Rainier beer on tap, well-placed televisions, pool tables with “shorty” sticks for shots close to the wall, lottery tickets, pickled pigs’ feet, peanut shells on the floor, and the legendary Hazel’s Special—a hot corned-beef sandwich on fresh rye bread.
But there was a different kind of emptiness in my gut. The longer I heard nothing to the contrary, the more I wondered, Did Linn Oliver drive his car on—then jump off—that ferry?
For all my fact-gathering, I felt I was no closer to an answer.
The immediate area surrounding the M&J smelled like the intersection of Deep-Fried Fish and Chips and Flame-Broiled Hamburgers. The particular combination conjures up a saltwater boardwalk with bikini clad-women or a minor-league ballpark on a hot summer day. The M&J is the only place able to pull it off in winter with ugly men wearing heavy clothing. This scent drifted from the kitchen and pulled me down the dark hallway leading from the spring-loaded back door that slammed and announced every new arrival.
When I reached the L-shaped main room, I felt like Johnny Carson walking onto the Tonight Show stage. Old friends greeted me with cheers and whistles; some stood to shake hands or slap me on the back. I raised a casual index finger to the bartender, and a frosty schooner of beer appeared seconds later. Frankie Laine belted out “Rawhide” from the jukebox near the antique pool table in the far corner.
