No More No Name
Page 1
No More No Name
Tim Tingle
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Tingle, Tim, author.
Title: No more No Name / Tim Tingle.
Description: Summertown, Tennessee : 7th Generation, [2017] | Sequel to: No Name. | Summary: Life is better for Choctaw teenager Bobby Byington as he returns to the basketball team, helps teammate Lloyd and neighbor Faye through some difficulties, and sees his family drawing close again.
Identifiers: LCCN 2017017315 | ISBN 9781939053176 (pbk.)
Subjects: | CYAC: Basketball—Fiction. | Friendship—Fiction. | Choctaw Indians—Fiction. | Indians of North America—Oklahoma—Fiction. | Family life—Oklahoma—Fiction. | Fathers and sons—Fiction. | Bullying—Fiction. | Oklahoma—Fiction.
Classification: LCC PZ7.T489 Nn 2017 | DDC [Fic]—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017017315
© 2017 Tim Tingle
Cover design: John Wincek
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced by any means whatsoever, except for brief quotations in reviews, without written permission from the publisher.
7th Generation
an imprint of Book Publishing Company
PO Box 99, Summertown, TN 38483
888-260-8458
bookpubco.com
nativevoicesbooks.com
ISBN: 978-1-939053-17-6
22 21 20 19 18 17 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9
Contents
Chapter 1: Road to Recovery
Chapter 2: Bully Girl Heather
Chapter 3: Basketball, Yes!
Chapter 4: The Kicking Tree
Chapter 5: Shattered Glass on the Court
Chapter 6: Nice to Meet You, Left Hand
Chapter 7: Lloyd Plants a Kiss
Chapter 8: More than Broken Windows
Chapter 9: Under the Spell
Chapter 10: Coming Off the Bench
Chapter 11: Jump Shooter Lloyd
Chapter 12: Cops in the Stands
Chapter 13: Building the Bridge
Chapter 14: Whimpering Dad
Chapter 15: Panthers Celebrate
Chapter 16: Popcorn in the Hair
Chapter 17: Night in Jail
Chapter 18: Burgers for the Boys
Chapter 19: What Hideout, Where?
Chapter 20: Schoolin’ the Old Man
Chapter 21: Good Times, Bad Times
About the Author
CHAPTER 1
Road to Recovery
“Sure you’ll be hoke?” Dad asked. He and Mom, for the first time I can remember, were going grocery shopping together.
Now that Dad had stopped drinking, everything changed. Well, not everything. At least not right away. Dad was still nervous and fidgety, and I knew it was not easy for him—staying away from the bottle.
“You sure you’re hoke by yourself?” Dad asked.
“Thanks for asking, Dad. I’ll be fine. Take your time and bring something good home for supper,” I said, spinning my new leather basketball on the fingers of my left hand.
Yeah, it’s a little show-offy, but I’d rather Mom and Dad laugh when they think of me, instead of worry.
A month has passed since I drove my friend’s car through a metal fence and into Lake Thunderbird, almost drowning.
As I lay in my hospital bed, with burning lungs and unable to talk, I had thought of “No Name,” the old Choctaw story. Coach Robison, himself a Choctaw, had told me the story to give me hope in dealing with my dad.
The boy in the story is a good kid, but he doesn’t excel at anything. So he hasn’t earned a name. And his father is so ashamed of him, shouting and shoving and making the boy—No Name they call him—want to crawl into a hole.
In so many ways I was like the boy in the story. As I struggled to survive, I realized I wanted, more than anything, for my father to respect me. He treated me like I didn’t exist. Like the boy in the story, I hadn’t earned a name by being good at something, especially something Dad would respect.
I promised myself that if I got through this alive, I’d tell him, “No more No Name, Dad. I am your son, Bobby, and I deserve to be heard.”
And now? I am making a name for myself on the basketball court. No more No Name for me! And since I am alive, I have to convince the adults in my life that I can still play basketball.
So that’s my goal. Happy parents, together again, and happy me—firing away three-pointers. And happy Coach Robison if some of my shots actually hit the bottom of the net.
After a few weeks stuck at home, I am on the “road to recovery,” as it’s called. From walking to jogging to slapping the backboard, I am now allowed to dribble and shoot free throws and set shots.
“But no jumpers and no scrimmaging. That’s doctor’s orders,” said Coach Robison on my first day of basketball practice.
“I understand,” I said. I couldn’t wait to be on the court again.
“Bobby?” he asked, with a tilt of his head.
“Yes, Coach?”
“I am as excited as you are to have you back. We lost three games we could have won while you were gone. But no risks! We want this to work. Understand?”
“Yes, Coach Robison, I promise. No risks.”
I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it, so I waited till my teammates were dressed and on the court. When I heard the pound of a ball on the court and the ughs and tugs of under-the-basket battles, I stepped from the dressing room.
I looked to the floor and carried the ball under my left arm, casual and quiet. Did not work. As soon as Johnny saw me, he shouted, “Yo! Give it up for Bobby Byington!”
This had to be preplanned.
The whole team turned my way and started stomping the floor and cheering in unison: “Bob-EEE, Bob-EEE, Bob-EEE!”
Hoke, I gotta do something. I took three easy dribbles and launched a twenty-foot set shot from the corner. In a dream world, it would have hit nothing but net, and the cheers would be heard all the way to the NCAA finals. Wherever that might be.
But this is no dream world. I missed everything. Air ball.
The cheering stopped. But we Indians stick together. My buddy Johnny—my Cherokee buddy Johnny—snatched the ball as it flew under the goal and laid it in the basket.
“Nice dime,” he shouted. “Now, your turn—on my dime.”
He tossed me the ball.
I caught it in stride, then took three quick dribbles till I stood at the head of the three-point line. I took one more dribble, stepping back to maybe twenty-seven feet from the basket, and took a high, arching shot.
Total silence.
Till the basketball split the cords.
Bobby was back.
Cheers and backslaps and handshakes from everyone, and I said a little prayer of thanks to whatever Choctaw ancestor guided my shot to the basket. Choctaw habits never go away.
Finally Coach Robison blew his whistle and walked to center court. “Quite a welcome home, huh, Bobby?”
“Thank you, guys,” I said. “Glad to be back.”
“Now, let’s get back to work, boys. Bobby, you can watch or shoot at a side basket. Just remember what we talked about.”
I nodded and dribbled to the end of the gym to shoot free throws. When practice was over, Johnny joined me, and we shot our usual ten free throws. He made seven, and I hit all ten.
“Aww, man,” he said. “I been working all year on my shot from the line. So you’ve been on your back for a month, and you still beat me?”
“Some got it, some don’t,” I said.
“Oh yeah? Let’s do double or nothing for a dollar. All you gotta do is make one more. You make it, you win. You miss, I get the dollar.”
“I
’m guessing you’ve got enough gas money to get home, ’cause I’m taking your greenback,” I said.
I stepped to the line, and Johnny lined up as if to rebound. As if. I took my usual two dribbles, then shot the ball to the basket, holding my follow-through and pointing to the sky.
As if. Johnny two-stepped into a crouch before rising a foot above the rim with his fist knotted. He slammed the basketball across the gym and into the bleachers.
“Keep your dollar, young man,” he said, strutting to the dressing room. “Use it to buy a slice of humble pie on your way home.”
“Welcome back, Bobby,” Coach Robison said as I passed by the open door to his office. “Just so you know, I think Johnny missed you more than anyone. You saw the last game, didn’t you?”
“Yes, and I thought we were gonna come back and win it.”
“You saw how rough it was for Johnny to get the ball under the basket. They double-teamed him the whole game.”
“What can I do about that, Coach? I’m a guard.”
“Yes, and when you are hitting the long shots, they can’t double-team Johnny.”
I nodded and smiled. This was a good day. Achukma.
CHAPTER 2
Bully Girl Heather
When I left the gym, Mystery Lady Faye was waiting on the sidewalk. My newly arrived next-door neighbor from North Carolina, Faye was more than a friend.
“Are you waiting for me?” I asked.
“Yes. I just wanted to see you,” she said, turning away so I couldn’t see her face.
Uh-oh. This always means trouble. Well, not always. She has this crazy way of flirting, and sometimes I can’t tell romance from problem.
“You’re worried about my first day of basketball practice and wanted to check up on me, right?” I knew it was a lie.
“Sure, Bobby. You know what a big fan of sports I am. Isn’t basketball where you kick it through the goal?”
We walked a few minutes without saying a word. A cloud hung over us, and I had no idea why.
Finally, as we passed a park bench, she spoke. “Do you know Heather?” she asked.
“Sure, she’s been in my grade since elementary school. We both used to give teachers a hard time, till they started putting us in separate classes.”
“Well, she’s not picking on the teachers anymore.”
I stopped and looked at Faye, and this time she lifted her face and let me see the pain she was feeling.
I took her hand and led her to the bench, in the shade of a maple tree. “Why is she giving you a hard time?” I asked.
“She gets mad when I make good grades.”
“Yeah, that never happened to her,” I added sarcastically.
“No, and she won’t leave it alone. I’m a ‘silly little Southern girl who likes books more than boys.’ She says it every time she sees me in the hall. She flips her hair and prances, mocking me up and down the hall.”
“And her friends surround her, laughing and pointing at you.”
“Sounds like you’ve been there before,” she said.
“Oh yes, me and Johnny both. You maybe noticed there aren’t that many Indians in high school here.”
“How did you stop the teasing?”
“This might sound crazy, but Johnny and I took the same road to respect.”
“What road is that? Can I join you?” she said. Her voice sounded like she was about to cry.
Please. I do not want to comfort Mystery Lady Faye in a public park. Please.
“Sure, you can join us, but it might be too late.”
“Too late to protect me. How can you say that?” Now she did start crying, quietly and hoping I wouldn’t notice.
“Hey, Faye. I’m your friend, and I’ll help you any way I can. You know that. You’re always there for me when I need you.” I wrapped my arm around her shoulder.
“Thank you, Bobby. I needed that. But why . . .”
“Faye, Johnny and I play basketball. We are both starters on the team, and we’ve worked hard since we were little kids to get where we are. Even the biggest school bullies can’t pick on athletes. The other players, the Nahullos, the white guys, won’t allow it.”
“So sports—football, basketball, baseball, volleyball, track and field—that’s the answer to racism? Oh, I almost forgot swimming.”
That’s Faye for you. Digging deeper and asking the kind of questions that earn those A’s in every class she takes.
“No,” I said, “it’s not that way everywhere, but that’s how things work here.”
“Are you telling me that if you weren’t a star on the basketball team, you would be pushed around and bullied in the hallways?”
I leaned forward and dribbled a few times on the grass, till the ball hit a stone and rolled a few feet away.
“Yes,” I whispered, and for the first time in my life, I realized what Johnny and I had accepted. We snuck through the door because we are ballplayers. Something is wrong with that, way wrong.
We sat on the bench for a long while without speaking.
“Things were better when I was invisible and nobody knew me,” Faye said. “It all started in English class when Mrs. Lee talked to me before class about my favorite books.”
“I’m guessing you didn’t tell her The Cat in the Hat.”
“No, Bobby, but I wish I had. Maybe she wouldn’t have embarrassed me by bragging in class about ‘the new girl who loves to read.’”
“She said that? Man, talk about a target. ‘The new girl who loves to read.’ Yeah, I can hear Heather making fun of that.”
“I have to admit, she’s good at it. She walked behind me in the library yesterday, and I thought she might leave me alone, but she couldn’t do it. She leaned over the table and talked loud enough for all her friends to hear.”
“What did she say?” I asked.
“She didn’t say it, Bobby. She screamed it. ‘We know you love your books, but the rules say “No making out in the library!” ’ I wanted to vanish.”
“No way!”
“Yes, Bobby. And I know what you’re thinking. It’s kinda funny unless you’re the one she’s making fun of.”
“What I’m thinking is how to make your life less miserable, Faye. You’re my, uh, best friend. You know?”
She took my hand and said in her sweetest Southern voice, “I care for you almost as much as I love John Steinbeck, Bobby.”
“John who?”
“Never mind.”
“Hey, I’m kidding! I know who John Steinbeck is.”
“So, any ideas about how to make my life less miserable?”
“Not gonna be easy,” I said. “Wouldn’t work for a Choctaw boy to say something to a pretty young Nahullo.”
“Bobby, it helps just having you on my side. At least somebody cares.”
We were making jokes now, but I had a sudden thought. Faye was crying just a minute ago. “You’re not telling me everything, are you?” I asked.
Faye closed her eyes and lowered her head to her chest. “No,” she said. “I don’t want to make you mad.”
“What did she do? Tell me. I promise I won’t do anything foolish, but I’ve got to know.”
“When I ignored her in the library, she pulled my hair and jerked my head around. Even her friends stopped laughing and moved away.”
I stood up and felt my heart pounding in my chest.
“You promised, Bobby. No trouble. She’s not worth it.”
What happened next flowed like a river in heavy rainfall, unstoppable and fierce. I wrapped my arms around her and pulled her close, then I kissed her with a feeling I had never known before.
CHAPTER 3
Basketball, Yes!
“I’ve got to go,” I said, as I stood up and backed away from the bench. Faye was still in shock.
“Hey, I meant that,” I said. “That . . . you know. I just have to be alone.”
“I know where you’re going. Is it because of me?”
I took a deep breath and d
id my best to relax. “Yes and no,” I said. “It is because I care for you and want to think this thing through.”
“Do you want me to join you later?”
“No, Faye. Please understand. I just need some alone time.”
“I could use some myself, Bobby.” As I turned to go she cleared her throat, in that loud and funny way that means “I have something else to say.”
“What?” I asked, turning back to her.
“I was going to say ‘Oh, Bobby, please don’t forget me,’ but I decided not to.”
“No you weren’t,” I said. “You’re not that dumb.” Before she could reply, I took off running. And I ran hard and I ran fast, through the field in back of our neighborhood. I had to take it easy in front of Coach Robison, but I also had to get in shape. When he called my name, I wanted to be ready. I had a lot to prove.
As Faye had guessed, I dashed to my backyard, to the underground hideaway I had dug last summer—to get away from my dad. I pulled the door aside and leapt into my hidden home, sliding the door over my head.
“Did you miss me?” I asked.
It had been several weeks since I’d been here. I almost expected a deep voice to reply, “Welcome home, Bobby Byington.”
But no, only silence. Sweet, blessed silence. At last. I wrapped myself in my old Choctaw blanket and let sleep have its way. I dreamed of the night that changed everything.
My first basketball game as a varsity starter. For the first few minutes, I shiver—feeling out of place and uncomfortable. Then I have the ball in my hands and my confidence soars. One shot drops through the net, and the crowd roars.
I’ve never heard anybody cheer when I make a shot! I like this. The next shot also hits nothing but net, and by halftime I’ve scored fifteen points to lead my team. No more No Name!
“Bobby! Are you down there?” My eyes popped open, and the cheering crowd disappeared.
“Yes, I’m here. Is that you, Johnny? Why all the pounding?”
Johnny flung back the door and jumped into my room.
“Your mom and dad came to the gym looking for you. I told ’em you left half an hour ago.”