A Perfect Shot

by Robin Yocum

  “What else could I buy?” Duke asked. “You sell chewing gum, newspapers, and cigars that smell like horse turds. I get the paper delivered at home, and I don’t smoke. That leaves chewing gum.”

  Ignoring the smart remark, Carmine removed his specs, folded them up, and slipped them into his front shirt pocket. “Did you read the sports page, yet?” he asked, pointing at Duke’s Ohio Valley Morning Journal.

  “I scanned it before I left the house.”

  “Uh-huh. Did you happen to see the score of last night’s game?”

  “No.”

  “The Kansas City Chiefs beat the Denver Broncos—fifteen to seven.”

  Duke’s brow furrowed, and he took a long moment to digest the comment. “Okay, Carmine, I’ll bite. Why should I care about the Broncos and Chiefs game?”

  “Because that loser-head buddy of yours took Denver and spotted the Chiefs twelve and a half points. In case you’re not a mathematics wizard, in the gambling world that makes the final score twenty-seven and a half to seven in favor of Kansas City. And, as usual when he owes me money, which is virtually all the time, there’s no sign of his sorry ass. You seen him?”

  Duke grinned and feigned ignorance. “Which loser-head buddy would that be, Carmine? You’ve just described about every friend I have.”

  “You know which one, goddammit—Collier. When that sonofabitch wins, which ain’t often, he’s in here at six o’clock in the morning, bustin’ my chops for his money. He loses, and I don’t see his ugly puss for a week, sometimes two, sometimes three. I’m getting tired of his shit.”

  “Carmine, it’s only seven fifteen in the morning. He’ll show. Moonie’s good for his debts.”

  Carmine waved an empty hand in the air. “That guy is a bum. A bum. I swear to Jesus, why you waste your time playing wet nurse to that idiot is beyond me.”

  Duke tore open the pack of gum and slipped a stick into his mouth. “I know he drives you crazy, Carmine, but Moonie’s a good guy at heart. Granted, he’s not the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he’s loyal to a fault.”

  “Yeah, see how far that loyalty thing takes him. One of these days, that clown will be sitting in here playing rummy with the rest of the bums,” he said, gesturing with his head toward the foursome. Three of the men ignored him, or simply couldn’t hear him through the thick crop of hair growing from their ears. The fourth played a run of sevens, looked briefly up from his cards, and said, “You’ve become a terribly agitated old man, Carmine DiBassio.”

  Carmine rolled his eyes and shook his head.

  “How much does he owe, Carmine?” Duke asked, snatching his lunch box and paper from the counter.”

  “Two bills.”

  Duke’s eyes widened and his mouth dropped. “Two thousand dollars!”

  “Two grand. He’s lost the last three weeks. I’m tellin’ ya, the sonofabitch is the worst gambler I know. He lost eight hundred the first week and I carried him, four hundred last week and I carried him, then yesterday the dumb ass lost another eight hundred bucks. I can’t carry him for another week, Duke. I got people I got to answer to. You know that, and you know they are extremely humorless individuals. Either he pays up, or I gotta make a call.”

  Duke knew where the call would be going. “He can’t work if his fingers are broken, Carmine.”

  “That ain’t my concern; you know that. I got people breathin’ down my neck, and they expect me to keep the books balanced, and if I don’t, it’s my fingers that get broken. I ain’t no math genius, but I know I can’t balance the books if I’m two bills in the hole.”

  “Okay, okay. Don’t call anyone, yet. Let me talk to Moonie first. We’ll get it straightened around. All right?”

  Again, Carmine swatted at air. “Yeah, all right. You talk to that dunderhead, and tell him I better be hearing from him, and soon.”

  Carmine was still grumbling as Duke pulled the door shut and stepped onto the sidewalk that runs along Commercial Street. “Moonie,” he said aloud, shaking his head. It was 7:20. There was still time to stop by the restaurant before punching in at the mill. He cut across the street and headed north. The morning coffee drinkers were seated at the bar at Isaly’s, and the smell of bacon on the griddle seeped out the door. Despite Carmine’s outburst, Duke knew Carmine wouldn’t give up Moonie. Not for a while, at least. The old man didn’t care for Moonie Collier, but he despised Joey Antonelli and Tony DeMarco.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The city of Mingo Junction is wedged hard between the Ohio River and the Appalachian foothills that encase the valley. It is a rough, dirty, beer-and-a-shot steel town that wears the grime of the mill on the face of its downtown buildings. Steel mills are tough on the flesh and the soul. For the European immigrants that settled the Upper Ohio River Valley, the mills were a grand opportunity. For those who dreamed of a life beyond the valley, they were a prison. The mills lured in young men with promises of good money, benefits, and security. Once a steel mill put its hooks in a man, there was no escape. Soon, there was a car payment, and a wife, a mortgage, kids, and a cough that never quite went away.

  The die was cast.

  Sports and athletic scholarships were tickets out of town and an escape from the mills. Fathers stood on the sidelines and watched with the fervent hope that their sons’ athletic talents would take them far from the heat and the fire and the smoke. But, mostly, they didn’t. Sons ended up toiling next to their fathers in the mill.

  Duke Ducheski was no different.

  He was raised by a single father who worked at the open hearth at Wheeling-Pitt. Del Ducheski chain-smoked Marlboros, drank Iron City Beer from the can, could barely make a tuna-fish sandwich, and never got over the death of his wife, who died of bone cancer as the hyacinths bloomed when Duke was in the first grade. Duke couldn’t remember much about that year, except his mother, Rosabelle, rarely left the quiet confines of her bedroom. Occasionally, she would emerge and walk unsteadily across the living room, her bones and skin as dry as sand, moving her hands from chair to chair for balance as she maneuvered her way to the couch. When she did wander out, her only son would curl up beside her and she would tuck him under an arm, or allow him to sleep with his head on her lap. Not long before, she had been a beautiful woman with flowing blond hair and a strong chin, and she had smiled and laughed and smelled like springtime. But she withered and wore a red bandana around her head to hide her baldness, and her ribs felt like the flutes of a washboard. She smelled stale and worn out, and occasionally a tear would run off her sunken cheeks and drop on her young son’s head.

  After his mother’s death, Duke’s grandmother Ducheski made sure he got regular meals, had clean clothes, and made it to school on time. Until she died on Christmas Eve of his senior year in high school, Duke spent more nights at her home than he did in his own. For years, his dad was just a shadow, lost without his beloved Rosabelle. He no longer kept after the house; the paint peeled, and the gutters filled with grit from the mill and sprouted maple saplings each spring. He left each morning with a tin lunch pail containing two cans of Iron City, and an apple, or a banana flip, or maybe a can of sardines. At night, he trudged back up the hill, slouching as though the entire weight of the Wheeling-Pittsburgh Steel Corporation rested on his shoulders.

  He would sit down in the kitchen and pry off his work boots, sucking for air, the walk up the hill having drained a pair of lungs battered by the mill and his Marlboros. At least once a week, he lifted himself out of his chair and said, “Study hard, boy, and don’t sell yourself short. This ain’t no life.”

  Duke grew up tall and lean, topping out a little over 6’3” and a hundred and ninety pounds. He wasn’t much of a student—more a lack of effort than a lack of brains—but he was a good athlete, and in the Ohio Valley that was the more treasured and respected trait. He never had a single person pat him on the back for a good grade card, but he received lots of accolades for the things he did on the basketball court.

  Growing up, Duke spent untold
hours at the playground, shooting baskets. He would wear the pebbles off a basketball in a month. When there was no one to play, he would practice his signature move—the “jigger and trigger.” He would feint a move to the hole—the jigger—then dribble once behind his back as he set up for a fade-away jumper—the trigger.

  He was christened Nicholas Wayne Ducheski, but most everyone in Mingo Junction had forgotten that long ago. He was anointed the Duke of Mingo Junction for a feat he performed on a Saturday evening in March 1971. It took just sixty-three seconds, a mere blip in his forty-one years on this earth, yet more than two decades later his life was still defined by that seminal event. It was called the Miracle Minute, the last minute and three seconds of the Double-A state championship basketball game between the Mingo Indians and the Dayton St. Andrew Blue Jays. Red Kilpatrick of WSTV-AM in Steubenville sent it back to the Ohio Valley for the handful of people who hadn’t made the trip to Columbus. Bootleg recordings of the broadcast were pressed into 45 rpm records, one of which could still be heard by pushing the buttons G-6 on the jukebox at Welch’s Bar. Many people in Mingo Junction could recite the broadcast of the Miracle Minute as easily as they could recite the Lord’s Prayer or the Pledge of Allegiance.

  (For the record, Duke’s last name was pronounced “Du-sheski.” However, throughout the broadcast Kilpatrick pronounced it “Du-kesky,” which spawned the nickname. In retrospect, Duke said this mispronunciation was fortuitous, as otherwise he would have been forever known as the Douche of Mingo Junction.)

  Foster off the glass, good, 67-55, Dayton St. Andrew. Mingo calls time-out with sixty-three ticks left on the clock, and it appears the Indians’ bid for a state title is falling short as the Blue Jays are in command.

  Back to the action. Jarrod Ferwerda inbounds to Ducheski, who races up the floor—jumper from the top of the key, Ducheski with a clutch shot. Jays up, 67-57. White inbounds to Foster, and Ducheski steals the ball and lays it in, 67-59—forty-two seconds left. White inbounds across court to Duda, and Ducheski steals it again. He drives, shoots—good, and fouled by White. Mingo refuses to quit. Forget what I said a minute ago, we’ve got a ball game here.

  Ducheski eyes it up, good, 67-62 St. Andrews, and the Jays call time-out. I’m telling you, St. John Arena is rockin’. The Mingo faithful are fired up by the heroics of Nick Ducheski. Duda inbounds to White, who heads down the right side, across half court, tied up by Hornyak, White back to Foster and, backcourt! Backcourt! Indians’ ball. J.J. Piatt inbounds to Ferwerda, who kicks it out to Ducheski. Twenty-footer . . . yes! Ducheski cuts the lead to three, 67-64. Castro inbounds to White, and he’s fouled by Ducheski. Seventeen seconds left. White goes to the line, shooting one-and-one. If he sinks these, it’s just about lights-out for the Tribe. He shoots, misses, loose ball. Ferwerda passes to Ducheski up the left side, behind the back dribble, shoots, got it. He got it. Time-out, Mingo. Nick Ducheski has single-handedly given the Indians a shot at the state title. Ten seconds left, and the Indians trail by one, 67-66.

  Duda takes the ball out of bounds for the Jays. White breaks deep. Ducheski fights through a pick, long pass. White and Ducheski go up, it’s out of bounds, off White’s hand—Indians’ ball. White is upset. He thinks he was fouled. Ducheski went into White as the ball arrived, but the referee ruled both players were going for the ball.

  Eight seconds left. Piatt inbounds to Ferwerda, to Ducheski breaking for the basket. Five seconds. Across the lane, three seconds, the jigger, behind his back, the trigger, from fifteen feet, the horn, the rim, it’s up and, in! It’s in! The Mingo Indians have done it. What an incredible finish. Ducheski scores thirteen unanswered points to lead Mingo to the state championship.

  That was a miracle minute, something never to be forgotten. If anyone’s left back home, turn on the lights and put out the welcome mat. The champions of all Ohio are heading home with young Nick Ducheski—the Duke of Mingo Junction.

  Young boys asked for his autograph. He got fan letters delivered to the high school. His number 23 jersey hung in the trophy case. He was named captain of the Ohio Valley Morning Journal’s All-Valley team, and first team All-Ohio. In the cocoon that was Mingo Junction in 1971, Duke had little reason to believe that scholarship offers weren’t going to pour in. However, when your universe doesn’t extend much past the Appalachian foothills, you don’t realize how many kids outside of Mingo Junction can play the game of basketball. He didn’t know there were kids in Harlem who could jump so high their elbows were above the rim, or that a 6’8” Indiana farm boy was out there running like a gazelle and rippling the nets from twenty-three feet. How was he to know? John Phillips, the sports editor of the Steubenville Herald-Star, had written, “Duke Ducheski is one of the finest basketball players I have ever seen, and one of the best to ever grace the hardwoods of the Ohio Valley.” Well, hell, didn’t that count for something?

  Duke believed his own press clippings and assumed that UCLA or North Carolina would be calling with scholarship offers. Ashland, Findlay, West Liberty, and a few other small schools that he had never heard of offered him scholarships, but the big schools never called.

  He was crushed.

  On a Saturday in late April of his senior year, Duke’s father stared at him across the kitchen table, letters from a half a dozen small colleges in his hand. In a voice that resonated like coal running down a tipple, ground down by five thousand days at the open hearth and tens of thousands of Marlboros, Del pleaded for Duke to accept one of the offers. “Son, it doesn’t matter that it isn’t UCLA. It’s a free education. It’s a chance to get out of this valley and be more than I ever was. Call one of these coaches and go.”

  Sometimes, your stars align.

  For most of his life, Duke’s stars looked like they were tacked across the sky by laser beams, an arc of electricity rolling across the heavens. He didn’t know it that Saturday in early May when he arrived at the junior-senior prom in a tuxedo of white crushed velvet, but his stars were about to look like a spilled bowl of Cheerios. That night, Duke and his girlfriend, Nina, were supposed to go back to his house to change for the after-prom at Sunset Lanes. Instead, they slipped into his grandmother Ducheski’s house, slipped out of their clothes, and slipped between the sheets in the guest bedroom. So much slippage. They slipped in, out of, and between, but Duke wasn’t smart enough to slip on a condom.

  Six weeks later, just as Duke was grudgingly about to commit to Ashland College, Nina showed up at his house, mascara-tainted tears running down her face and soaking into the collar of her Mingo High cheerleader T-shirt. She didn’t have to say a word. Duke knew she was pregnant. A blast furnace of fire erupted in his testicles, rolled up his chest, and consumed his neck and face. Any thoughts he had of a world beyond Mingo Junction ended that instant. All his life, he had been running at ninety miles an hour, top down, the wind in his hair. His motor was running so hard that he didn’t hear the lug nuts coming loose and paid no heed to the warning lights, because the rules had never applied to him. He was the Duke of Mingo Junction—eighteen and bulletproof. The world was his oyster and everyone else just a bit player. That’s what he had always thought, but by the Fourth of July, he was married and living in his grandmother’s old house, and sweating alongside his father at Wheeling-Pitt.

  To those whose lives were swaddled in the insular stretch of bottomland on the western banks of the Ohio River, Duke Ducheski was the luckiest man in the world. He rarely bought his own beer, and he was much beloved in his hometown, an iconic hero who had brought glory to the halls of Mingo High School and the gritty streets of the city. But to those fortunate enough, or determined enough, to have escaped the fires and ash of the steel mill, he was a pathetic caricature of the former high school star who never grew beyond his press clippings.

  This realization came to Duke late on the evening of his twentieth class reunion at the Knights of Columbus Hall. Angel, Moonie, and Duke—bachelor, divorced, and scorned—attended the reunion together. As a class, they had done pr
etty well. There were a couple of doctors; some lawyers, teachers, and nurses; and three or four accountants, including Angel.

  And there he was—the mill rat. He had watched his dad struggle home from the mill each afternoon and vowed it would never happen to him. But on that night, his hands carried the permanent grime of a Wheeling-Pitt veteran. He was still the hometown hero, and those who had gone to college and left Mingo Junction patted him on the back and made a little small talk. But once the conversation extended beyond the halls of Mingo High School, they had nothing in common. When the conversation became awkward, they would say, “Great to see you, Duke,” and move on.

  Duke went home that night and sat alone at his kitchen table, the darkness infused with the hazy orange glow from the slag dump at Wheeling-Pittsburgh Steel, and reflected on the two decades past, during which he had accomplished not one damn thing. There was not a single triumph that he could point to and say, “See! I told you I could do more than play basketball.” He had not intentionally stayed locked in 1971, but that’s where he was, trapped, the seminal moment in his life fading into the era of disco balls and platform shoes.

  His life was a cyclonic mess. He was in a dead-end job. His wife loathed him, and his girlfriend was quickly losing her patience. His son was lying in a bed, lost within a shell of a body, most likely unaware that he even had a father. Yet, on the streets of Mingo Junction, Duke was always smiling and projecting an air of royalty. It was an odd dichotomy. His local fame was also his bane. He treasured the memory of that night in Columbus and did not want to lose his identity. He was, after all, the Duke of Mingo Junction. How many people would love to be so idolized, even in a gritty little steel town? A fair number is the answer.

  By the time the sun peeked over the West Virginia hills the morning after the reunion, Duke had started to formulate a plan. It was in this dawn that he vowed he would not go to his grave having his only earthly accomplishment be something he did on a basketball court when he was eighteen years old.