No More No Name

by Tim Tingle

  “Is anything wrong?”

  “No, I think they just wanted to see how you did at basketball practice. They’re probably worrying about you. Get your hiney to supper, you Choctaw caveman.”

  “Yeah, hoke, Cherokee flagpole, I’m on my way,” I said, as Johnny lifted me up and I rolled to the ground above. Through the window I saw Mom setting the table and Dad sipping his evening coffee.

  “Thanks, Johnny,” I said. “See you tomorrow.”

  “If you’re lucky!” he shouted over his shoulder.

  Supper was as good as it gets: pan-grilled pork chops, corn on the cob, and mashed potatoes and gravy. And I didn’t ask, but I saw something hidden under a covered dish on the stove. Dessert, no doubt.

  “Your mom knows how to make a man happy,” Dad said, wiping his plate clean with a hot buttered biscuit.

  “Bobby, will you get the ice cream from the freezer?” Mom said. She lifted the cover and placed a bubbly-hot cherry pie in the center of the table.

  “Hoke, Mom, is this taking the place of Christmas, or what is going on?” I asked.

  “Bobby, your dad and I want you to know how happy we are to be together.”

  “For the first time, truly together,” said Dad, smiling and nodding his head at Mom.

  I was slicing my spoon through a scoop of vanilla ice cream sitting atop the cherry pie, when the doorbell sounded. We all looked at each other, and then looked at the wall clock, thinking the same thing. It’s a little late for a visitor.

  “I’ll get it,” I said, hopping up and dashing to the door. “Coach Robison, what brings you here?”

  “Bobby,” Dad said, “show some respect.”

  “Uh, sorry, Coach. I mean, come right in. Would you like some coffee?”

  “That’s better, son,” Dad said, then turned to his old friend and my coach. “Coach Robison, what brings you here?” he asked.

  “Dad!”

  Everybody laughed as Coach took a seat on the sofa and I brought him a hot cup of coffee. Mom soon appeared, carrying a saucer of cherry pie with melting ice cream on top.

  “I should come over more often,” he said, spreading his arms and smiling. We waited for his answer to the question hanging in the air. Dad laughed quietly as Coach Robison enjoyed a spoonful of Mom’s best dessert ever. He took a long sip of coffee, wiped his face with his napkin, and sat up straight.

  “Guess I’d better tell you why I came. Hoke, my plan was to let Bobby know he could begin practicing with the team . . .”

  Then he paused. My heart pounded loud enough for the whole neighborhood to hear.

  “When?” I asked.

  “I was thinking after Christmas.”

  “Coach, that’s a month away! I want to play now! I am in shape and healthy, and I don’t want to wait another day.”

  Mom looked at Dad. Dad looked at Mom. They decided to let Coach Robison take charge.

  “Now, wait a minute, Bobby,” Coach said. “You need to listen. I clearly said it was my plan that you practice with the team after Christmas. It was my plan. But after talking to the team about it, my plan has changed. We want you to join the team for full workouts starting tomorrow.”

  “Yes!” I shouted, leaping high and slapping the ceiling fan. It was turned off, but the wooden fan blades seemed to echo my cheers, spinning and dancing above us.

  “Unless you lose a few fingers celebrating,” Coach said, “in which case we might have to wait till Friday.”

  Mom was clapping and Dad laughed out loud.

  “You’re a good man, Robison,” Dad said, fist-bumping Coach’s shoulder. “A good man.”

  The grown-up fun talk and celebrating continued till Coach Robison finished his pie and coffee. “Time for me to get home,” he said. “Bobby, get a good night’s sleep. I hope you’re in as good a shape as Johnny says, or you’ll have a tough day tomorrow.”

  As he eased his car out of the driveway, I saw Johnny standing across the street. I stepped outside and waved to him.

  “Thank you, Johnny. Yakoke,” I said.

  “Dime back atcha,” he answered.

  I was glad to share the moment with Johnny. But the one person I wanted to tell more than anybody in the world was next door—crying herself to sleep.

  “I’ll make it right, Faye,” I whispered. “I don’t know how, but I’ll make it right.”

  CHAPTER 4

  The Kicking Tree

  I had never walked anybody to school before. I had already decided I wasn’t going to wait for her on the sidewalk in front of her house. Too embarrassing for everybody.

  So I waited for her by the park bench (yes, that park bench).

  “Maybe I’ll make a joke about it,” I thought. When I saw her coming, I stepped behind the tree, where I could still keep an eye on her. Nobody else was near—good thing there.

  I couldn’t believe what happened next. As she neared the tree, she actually slowed down. She stared at the tree and brushed the hair from her cheek. She had no idea I was watching her. I finally spoke, in the weirdest deep voice I could muster.

  “Have you ever read a book about a talking tree?” I growled.

  “Ooooh!” she shouted, dropping her books and stepping back so fast she almost fell off the curb.

  I quietly walked around the tree. Without looking at her, I began picking up her books from the sidewalk. Faye was breathing hard and trying to recover. I could feel her look burning the back of my neck.

  “I hope you’re not mad at me,” I growled.

  Faye began laughing, quietly at first, then louder and louder, shaking her head.

  “I’m so mad I don’t know whether to kick you or . . .”

  “Hey, don’t say it!”

  “I wasn’t going to,” she said.

  “But you thought it.”

  “How could I not?” she said, still laughing. “We’re here by the tree.”

  “We need to give this tree a name,” I said.

  “Whatever we name it,” Faye said, “it can’t begin with a K.”

  “Why not? We can call it Kicking Tree.”

  More head-shaking laughter. “I like it, Bobby. I like it a lot,” she said. “In fact, that can be your Indian name. From now on, I’ll call you Bobby Kickingtree. And that’s final.”

  “Hey! Don’t I at least get a naming ceremony?”

  “Of course, Bobby. But that will have to come later, after you’ve killed the growling monster.”

  “Hoke, I don’t mind waiting,” I said. We looked at each other and smiled. I handed her the stack of books. I wanted to say, “You really do love books,” but decided against it. Instead I asked, “Mind if I walk you to school?”

  “Not at all,” she said. We walked almost a block in silence. Happy silence.

  I broke it. “You know I’m Choctaw? We used to have a naming ceremony.”

  “I didn’t mean to make fun of you, Bobby.”

  “I know that, Faye. But someday I’ll tell you a story about a Choctaw boy with no name.”

  “I’d love to hear it,” she said.

  “You know we are avoiding something. It has to do with what you told me at the Kicking Tree,” I said.

  “I know, Bobby. That’s why I waited for you, hoping to see you before school. Any ideas?”

  “Yeah. We keep an eye out for each other and don’t make a big deal about our feelings. And we keep our eyes and ears wide open. The answer will be there, right in front of us; we just have to see it.”

  “Wow. You sound like a true believer in good beats evil.”

  “And forgiveness helps it along,” I said. “That’s part of the Choctaw way, Faye. Stay on the good road.”

  “You’re about to make me cry again,” Faye said. She stopped walking, and I watched as she slowly lifted her hand. She reached behind her head and touched the place where Heather had grabbed her hair. “Not easy to forgive or forget,” she whispered.

  I took her hand in mine. “I’m here for you, Faye. It’s gonna be alri
ght. Now, we better get to school. Growling Monster hates it when we’re late.”

  She gave me a good-natured slap on the shoulder and whooped a loud laugh. “You’d make a joke if your house was burning down.”

  “No, that happened to my great-great-granddad,” I said. “But later on that. Let’s get a move on.”

  “Wait! I forgot something.”

  “Faye, we have five minutes to get to school. I’m not waiting.”

  She ignored me, of course. She gave me her books and scrambled through her purse for a pen and paper. “We’ll make it,” she said, as she wrote in a fury.

  “Growling Monster is angry,” I growled.

  “Here,” she said, slapping a note in my palm. “It’s my class schedule. I don’t want you to walk me to class. Not even. But just so you know when I’ll be where.”

  “Got it,” I said. “But for now, Faye, you’re on your own.” I gave her hand a quick squeeze and took off running.

  I’ve never hurried so much between classes in my life. Trips to my locker, dashing to Faye’s hallway, making sure she was still alive, then lowering my head like a mad bull and barely making it to my own class before the bell rang.

  All day long.

  Man, if I wasn’t in shape before school, I sure was by the time basketball practice rolled around.

  Oh yeah. That. My first day of basketball practice since I drove Johnny’s car into Lake Thunderbird.

  As any ballplayer knows, the real action takes place off the court. I had only started one game, which we won, and the team was 4–3. Four wins and three losses. I knew Coach Robison expected me to start, but I was the young Choctaw kid. Maybe everybody didn’t go along with the coach, since he’s Choctaw too.

  I dressed in a hurry, keeping to myself. Then I saw him. Lloyd Blanton, a senior who now had my starting role. Shooting guard.

  He was a good shooter, but the three-point line was a little out of his range. And since he moved only to his right, the turnovers piled up. Once his defender caught on, double-teams on that side of the court became a real problem.

  So why was he a starter?

  He hustled like his life depended on every play. I had to respect that. As he opened his locker and pulled out his shorts and sneakers, I eased up beside him.

  “Hey, Lloyd,” I said. “I’m coming back today, you know.”

  “That’s what I heard.”

  That’s all he said. That’s what I heard.

  He didn’t look at me. He just kept putting on his playing gear.

  “I hope we both get some playing time,” I said. “You’ve earned your spot. You hustle your butt off. And, you’re the upperclassman.”

  Lloyd laughed and turned to face me. “Hey, Bobby. We need to win some games. I just wanna be on the court if you ever miss a shot. Your Cherokee buddy can’t get every rebound.”

  “Thank you,” I said, holding out my open hand. He looked at it, gave me a senior smile, and we shook hands like old friends.

  You never know when a small moment will mean so much in your life. I will never forget Lloyd’s handshake.

  CHAPTER 5

  Shattered Glass on the Court

  “Boys, get on the court. Now!” Coach Robison stuck his head out the door of his office and yelled so loud we knew something was big-time wrong. “Now!”

  Those of us still in the dressing room hurried past the office and to the court. Mr. Blanton, Lloyd’s dad, stood behind Coach Robison, and from the look on his face, he was not happy.

  “I guess he’s heard you’re coming back today,” Johnny said, joining me on the far end of the court.

  We grabbed balls from the rolling rack and started shooting. I dribbled a few times away from the goal, and Lloyd snuck up behind me. He slapped the ball in mid-dribble and sent it rolling crosscourt.

  “Yeah, welcome back, Bobby!” shouted another senior. “We got your number!”

  But the good-natured fun of teammates didn’t last long. We heard a loud crashing sound and froze. Shattered glass flew from the coach’s office and onto the court.

  Mr. Blanton still held the chair he used to break the window. He turned and faced Coach Robison. “You might think everybody’s happy with a wild Indian coaching our kids, but you’re wrong!” he shouted, waving the chair back and forth in front of our coach.

  We stood and stared, the whole team, unable to move, not knowing what to do. Coach Robison kept his hands at his sides. He never lifted them to protect his face.

  He knows Mr. Blanton will never hit him.

  But Lloyd thought differently. He pushed his teammates aside and ran into the office. His dad didn’t see him, and Lloyd was able to wrestle the chair from him and toss it out the door.

  “Dad, what are you doing?” he said. “Coach Robison is the first coach to give me a chance. I’ve been on the starting team now, my senior year. That’s what you said you always dreamed about.”

  “You don’t know him, Lloyd,” his dad said. “He’s about to bench you for that Indian boy—Indian like him,” he added, pointing to Coach.

  “Tell him, Coach,” Lloyd pleaded. “Tell him I still get to play.”

  “Get to play is not good enough! You are a starter, now and for the rest of the season. And when you want to shoot, you take your shot, son. I am on your side here.”

  “No you’re not, Dad. You’re not fighting for me. You’re doing this for yourself, so you can brag to your drinking buddies at the bar. That’s what this is all about.”

  “You little smart-mouth!” Mr. Blanton said, raising his fist to Lloyd’s face. “If we weren’t on school property, I’d knock your teeth out.”

  Coach Robison had watched from the sidelines long enough. Seeing Lloyd threatened, he stepped between the two. He took Mr. Blanton’s fist in his own and lowered it.

  “I will make you a promise,” he said, looking Mr. Blanton square in the eyes. “But you must promise me something in return.”

  Mr. Blanton squinted his eyes and sneered at Coach. “Your promises don’t mean nothing to me.” He spit on Coach Robison’s desk, grabbed Lloyd, and turned to go.

  “If you leave now, I’m calling the cops,” Coach Robison said. “Your choice.”

  For the first time in the past half hour, Mr. Blanton listened. The word “cops” has that effect on some people.

  “Okay,” he said. “Let’s hear it.” He still held Lloyd by the wrist.

  “For the remainder of his senior season, Lloyd will start every home basketball game. Maybe not on road games—that will be my choice.”

  “What’s gonna hold you to that promise?”

  “My word. I give you my word.”

  “And what do you want from me?” Mr. Blanton asked.

  “I want you to promise you will not lay a hand on your son, for any reason, for the remainder of the basketball season.”

  “You can’t tell me how to raise my son.”

  “And you can’t tell me how to coach.”

  “We have a brave coach,” said Jimmy, another senior. His voice was so quiet only we ballplayers heard him. Johnny nudged me in the ribs and whispered, “Yeah.”

  What seemed like an hour took maybe twenty seconds. Coach Robison stuck his hand out and Mr. Blanton took it.

  “Promise?” Coach asked.

  “Promise,” Blanton replied, and they shook hands, looking each other in the eyes. Mr. Blanton gave Lloyd a fatherly swat on the backside, saying, “Now get to work, son.”

  Lloyd joined us on the court, his head hung in shame. We surrounded him, offering good words and shoulder hugs. But the scene in Coach’s office wasn’t over yet. Mr. Blanton was almost to the outside door when he turned and walked back to the office.

  “Act Two of the craziest play I’ve ever seen,” Johnny said.

  “Coach,” Blanton said as he entered the office.

  “Yes?”

  “You know I run a construction crew? How about I send two men out tomorrow morning to replace your window and repair any
damages. No cost to you or the school. What do you say?”

  “I say that’ll be fine. I’ll have the boys sweep up the glass before we start practice.”

  Mr. Blanton nodded and left the gym. Seeing the look on Lloyd’s face, I’m guessing he knew where his dad was headed—to the nearest bar.

  “Bobby,” Coach Robison shouted as he exited his office. “Why don’t you and Lloyd show how you can work together? There are brooms in the janitor’s closet. We’ll shoot and warm up at the other end of the gym while you two clean up the glass.”

  “Mind if I help too?” Johnny said. “I’m as much a part of the problem as Bobby.”

  “No, you are not, Johnny. Everybody, gather around for a minute. Have a seat,” Coach said.

  We surrounded him, sitting on the floor.

  “Let’s get one thing straight here before we continue. No one is a problem because of who their mother and father and grandparents happen to be. Is that clear? Does everyone understand what I’m saying?”

  “Yes, sir,” we all said.

  “We are a team, and we are about to start winning some basketball games as a team. Are you ready to win?”

  “YES, SIR!” everyone shouted.

  “Good. So let’s get started. We’ve wasted enough time already. Let’s line up for lay-up drills, then baseline jumpers, then straightaway jumpers. No defense, but no slacking off. Drive hard and get ready to play. We’re going full-court today, man-to-man press.”

  Lloyd and I agreed, without saying a word, to forget everything his dad had said and done. We did smile a few times and shake our heads as we swept the floor. We tossed the glass shards into the Dumpster outside and soon took our places in line for the shooting drills.

  I felt great, taking a few dribbles and soaring to the basket, banking lay-ups first on the right, then the left side of the basket.

  The baseline drill involved running around a screen, catching a quick pass, and taking a jumper—ten to fifteen feet from the basket. I missed my first shot, but no others. I relaxed and hit seven in a row, backing up a step or two after every shot, till my last shot hit nothing but net, sweet and true.