Amazed by her Grace, Book II

by Janet Walker

  * * *

  Copious sweat rolled down the sides of Tracy’s face, slipping between her lips and tasting of salt, dripping from her chin in tickling drops. Entering her eyes and stinging them. The sweat was the result of physical exertion and the heat in the old gym, heat that emanated not from the central heating system in the building, for it was faulty and the place drafty, but from the hot bodies of the hot-tempered people who crowded the stands and booed each time she scored a point. The people from Area Place. Her people. The Christmas tournament was held each year in the gymnasium of Armstead-Jackson High School because of its central location and because everyone thought that Haines was too hostile an environment, and the old Beck gymnasium too small, for the hotly contested battle. For the 1990 Christmas event, Grace Gresham-Nelson had petitioned to move the tournament to Beck’s new sports complex, but other coaches protested and, for once, she lost a battle with tradition.

  So now, Tracy Sullivan found herself sweating at the free-throw line before a rowdy crowd, half of whom were not pleased by her presence. Tracy could not bear to look at them as she stood at the line and bent forward, hands resting above her knees in a gesture of weariness, a posture Miz Grace had warned the girls never to assume. But Tracy’s limbs and head were heavy, and it took much effort to stand erect. The weariness had penetrated her mind, leaving it strained and fragile, as if she had studied all day for a hefty vocabulary exam. Her head itself throbbed with pain that pressed outward against the skull. Throbbed, as it did when beaten repeatedly by Mama’s fists. Throbbed, as it did when she was eight and sat for hours in a locked closet, while from the other side of the door came the thick smells of burning cigarettes and reefer and the loud sound of country blues. Throbbed, and felt on the verge of exploding, as it had felt when Mama covered her mouth and nose and refused to let go. The combination of tender mind and pounding head rendered Tracy unable to concentrate on the basket before her. In fact, she had been unable to focus on anything all evening. Everything seemed a blur of frightful confusion. Colors flashed around her and the gym screamed with sound. Streaks of Haines orange, blobs of Beck burgundy, moved around her. The vibrations of hundreds of feet stomping on wooden bleachers made her belly tremble. She had repeatedly jumped at the nearby shrill blast of a referee’s whistle and responded absently to the signals he displayed with his hands. She missed baskets more often than not; her wrists felt like jelly. Determined faces, dripping with sweat, challenged her at every step.

  And courtside, sitting on the first row of bleachers with the Haines crowd, was Jinya Daggett.

  Throughout the game, Tracy kept glancing at the tall mannish girl, and each time she did, Jinya stared intently back at her, a small smile on her lips. For most of the game, Jinya’s friend Berta, number 32 for the Jaguars, pushed her sweaty bulldog countenance close to Tracy’s face, a frightening reminder to Tracy of the warning Berta had given at the beginning of the game. Jinya gotta bet on this game and she say she gon’ git you if y’all win. She gotta gun, too.

  Shouts of discouragement hurtled from the stands. And then there was the chant, which they sang whenever Tracy made a basket or went to the foul line. Like now.

  “O-ree-oh! Oh-ooooh-oh!"

  Boomp bah-boomp bah-boomp!

  BOOM!

  The referee stood under the basket, whistle between his lips, ball in hand, waiting for Tracy to indicate she was ready to receive the ball. She nodded once. When he bounced the ball to her, she caught it but hardly felt its textured skin against her palms. She dribbled. Was vaguely aware of the row of girls on either side of her, waiting, bent forward at the waists in readiness, arms stretched above their heads, faces turned in her direction, eyes darting back and forth between her and the basket.

  And at the sidelines, Jinya Daggett watched with piercing interest.

  Tracy bounced the ball again. The chant, the stomping of the bleachers, shot through to her bones. She bounced again.

  “Miss it, miss ehhhhht!” sang the Haines cheerleaders, while Haines fans shouted insults.

  Oreo!

  Number Twenty-Four, you a sell-out!

  Somebody trip that redbone!

  Tracy glanced nervously toward the voices, even though Miz Grace had instructed them to act deaf to insults. But she couldn’t help looking, because the remarks hurt. She ran her palm over the ball, lifted it above her head, and shot.

  It did not go in.

  In fact, the ball didn’t reach the basket but fell back to earth in a weak arc, inches away from its target, hitting the floor with a thud before one of the waiting players captured it and threw it back to the referee. The Haines side of the gym exploded in jubilation, sending a knob of emotion to Tracy’s throat. She swallowed hard and pressed her lips together, fighting the urge to cry. She had another shot attempt, so she looked at the ref for the ball. However, instead of bouncing it to her, he blew his whistle and, with fingers together and straight, balanced the palm of one hand on the fingertips of the other. A few seconds passed before Tracy realized he was signaling a timeout. She followed her teammates off the floor to Miz Grace, who had called for the break.

  As Tracy approached the bench, she searched the coach’s face for signs of disapproval or anger. There were none. In fact, Miz Grace did not even look at her but conducted herself the way she always did courtside: serious, distant, all-about-business. This was a different Miz Grace, Tracy observed, than the woman with whom she had spent the day at Gracewood; it was The Coach, and for some reason her presence was a relief to Tracy at that moment. The benchwarmers yielded their places on the bench to the starters, and Tracy sat with the four seniors. Team helper Monica snatched a chair from courtside and placed it before the bench, and in this Miz Grace sat and faced the starters, leaning toward them in earnest. The rest of the team gathered around her chair, sitting or squatting. Tracy searched, but there was still no readable emotion in the coach’s eyes.

  The other players knew why Miz Grace had called the timeout. Tracy Sullivan, after an impressive month of play, was performing horribly tonight. So far in the first half, she had managed to score only seven points, all in the opening minutes, shooting thirty percent from the field. She had also derailed three team plays; failed to see an open player under the basket who could have scored an easy lay-up; and hesitated on two fast breaks, costing the team at least four points. And now, the missed free throw. With the score at 13-30, the seniors had known Miz Grace would interrupt play, if only to prevent further humiliation. Now, as they huddled, the veterans watched the woman closely. They knew that even though Miz Grace never shouted at a player in anger, she was not above directing a sharply spoken reprimand at even a well-liked player, especially one whose performance was jeopardizing a game. So the veterans were surprised when their coach said nothing to Tracy Sullivan but proceeded to speak to all of them as she always did.

  “All right.” Grace made a calming gesture with her hands. “We’re not looking good right now but don’t worry about that, we still have time to make this happen. Just go back out there and relax. Ignore the crowd. Do what I taught you to do. You are the same athletes who beat one of the best college teams in the country just a few weeks ago. So don’t fall apart now. These girls have nothing on you. Just a bunch of loud fans and bad attitudes, but don’t let them get to you. Don’t—let—them get—to you. You’re not playing for them, you’re playing for me. Okay?” She looked around at all of them and nodded. “Understood?”

  They mimicked her nods with their own and murmured, “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Now, if Sullivan misses this second shot, Pat, Toni, I expect you to crash that board and crash it hard. All right? Stop giving away our rebounds.”

  The two forwards nodded obediently. “Yes, ma’am,” they mumbled.

  The four seniors shot quick glances at Tracy when they knew she wasn’t looking. They believed that her off night was the result of her being too inexperienced, after all, to handle the pressure of competition. Added to that, they kn
ew she was nervous about playing in her home territory before a crowd that considered her a traitor. And although they sympathized with her, they did not speak to her, for they were put off by the slight redness of her eyes. They were not sure if it was caused by the sweat from Tracy’s brow or by the stress of physical exertion—or whether it was the result of a desire in her to burst into tears. Because they weren’t sure, they refrained from saying anything that might turn the redness into a flow of tears.

  Grace stood, so the twelve stood and huddled in a circle. The woman stretched out her hand, palm down, into the midst of the players, and they immediately responded by laying their hands on hers. It was an unspoken contest among them, especially among the benchwarmers, to see who could move the fastest and get the opportunity to touch the pretty hand of the aloof woman. This time, the honor went to Vanessa Willis, who received envious glances from her benchmates, who knew that participation in the touch-Miz Grace’s-hand game would likely be their only opportunity to effect strategy that evening.

  With their hands in a stack, Grace delivered a sweeping gaze around the circle of bodies and locked gazes, in the end, with Dent. “Let’s do it,” she urged, looking at the captain but speaking, they knew, to all of them.

  “Lady Ly-ons! What we want!” cried Captain Dent, to which everyone shouted in unison, “Our best! To fight! To win!”

  The blow of a ref’s whistle signaled the end of time-out just as the Lady Lions broke huddle. Girls from the two teams scattered over the floor, with its black-and-red Devil mascot painted at center court. The Grace Girls wore their handsome burgundy uniforms. Set against the dark color, in velvet tan trim, was the name BECK ACADEMY on the jersey’s front and the player’s number and last name on the back. In contrast, the uniforms of the Haines players were golden-yellow with black trim. Stitched on the front and back of each jersey was the player’s number in black rayon. There was no surname, and above the number in back were simply the initials LCH.

  Tracy headed for the free-throw line and realized she was more relaxed than she had been a moment ago. The timeout had helped because as the group broke huddle, as the pile of hands disassembled, Tracy felt fingers grasp and firmly, though gently, hold onto her wrist for an instant. She looked. The reassuring eyes boring into hers were those of Grace, not of Miz Grace, and just as quickly as they exchanged glances was as quickly as Tracy saw Grace retreat, to be replaced, before anyone noticed her presence, by The Coach. Tracy came away from the huddle with a sense of relief. Miz Grace had not appeared angry or disappointed, as Tracy had feared, but was a good friend and patient coach who deserved to win this game, so Tracy returned to the foul line with the determination to make that happen. Gold and black alternated with burgundy and tan along both sides of the free-throw lane, while three players lingered around center court, ready to catch a thrown rebound. The crowd had quieted down during the time-out, but now it started again with the Oreo chant, only without the stomping. Tracy heard the singing threat, was well aware of her surroundings and her purpose for being on the floor, and when the ref blew his whistle and bounced the ball to her, she gripped it, bounced once, looked at the basket, pulled the ball over her head, and launched it.

  It bounced twice against the inner surface of the ring before tumbling through the net.

  There were no boo’s from the Haines crowd this time, for despite Tracy’s one free point, there were only 17 seconds left in the half and their team was up by eight possessions. So rather than continue to taunt the Lady Lions, the Haines fans burst into cheers and stomped their feet in a maniacal frenzy as the clock wound down. The Lady Jaguars put a freeze on the ball, passing it between them and keeping it out of the hands of the Grace Girls. Shouts of encouragement flew from the crowd until the glaring red 10 appeared on the scoreboard.

  “Ten! Nine! Eight!” shouted the Haines fans, announcing the countdown jubilantly. “Seven! Six! Five!…”

  With two seconds left, the Jaguar captain hurled the ball from the top of the key. It sailed through the air toward the basket but missed as the buzzer sounded to end the half. At the miss, the home crowd moaned in disappointment and Tracy looked up at the score. Because of her, the Grace Girls were behind by an embarrassing sixteen points.

  Twelve sullen ball players, one grim assistant coach, and two reluctant team helpers followed Grace Gresham-Nelson off the floor. The Haines side of the gym was an explosion of cheerful black-and-gold excitement.