“Never seen anything like it,” Richard said.
Johnny undressed quickly, hanging his coat on a hook and tossing his jeans and sweatshirt in a pile on the bottom of a locker. His stomach was churning as he pulled on his shorts and slipped the gold and dark blue jersey, number fourteen, over his head. No matter how many times he dressed in his uniform, a feeling of pride filled his heart whenever he put it on. Pulling up his knee-high socks, he tied the laces of his high top Converse gym shoes. Looking in a mirror above a row of sparkling sinks, he flipped the hair from his eyes and followed Richard Amos down the hall toward the gym.
The entrance to the auditorium was a narrow tunnel that was built under the stands. Johnny ran out of the tunnel and across the freshly waxed basketball court to Coach Goodheart. The crowd noise was already loud and his heart thumped wildly.
“Here, Johnny,” Goodheart said, flipping him a ball. “Get the bunny line started.”
As he dribbled across the floor, he looked at the Miles City Mustangs. There were fifteen of them, several over six feet tall. The Miles City team was wearing pale blue uniforms with white letters, and Johnny watched the team flawlessly work its way through a figure eight weave. Tough game, Johnny thought. Going to be mighty tough.
Starting from the mid-court line, he dribbled to the basket and banked in an easy layup. A teammate grabbed the rebound and flipped it to the next St. Andrew Chief. Johnny waited for his turn, hustled in for the rebound and tossed the ball to the next boy.
Three times through the bunny line and he started to loosen up. On the next shot, he passed under the glass backboard and laid in a reverse layup. As he joined the bunny line near mid-court, a blond boy yelled at him from the stands.
“Good shot, Redskin. I didn’t think you Injuns was good at anything but sleepin’ and drinkin’ firewater!” The fans around the youth started hooting and laughing.
Johnny stared at the boy, his face burning.
“Relax, Johnny,” Richard whispered. “Remember, coach said to stay cool.” Richard gently punched him on the shoulder.
Johnny nodded his head in agreement. It was his turn to rebound, so he ran toward the basket.
The gymnasium rapidly filled to its capacity of three hundred noisy fans. Everywhere Johnny looked there were Miles City banners and pom-poms. A dozen girls wearing short blue skirts and white tops with the letter H sewed on the back led the crowd in cheers for the Mustangs. Johnny smiled when he saw the small group of parents and students from St. Andrew enter and take their seats behind the Chiefs’ bench. Father McGlothlin, the younger of the two priests who ran the school and Catholic Church on the reservation, waved to the team. Johnny liked the young priest, although he couldn’t say the same for the pastor, Father Shannon.
The four cheerleaders from St. Andrew ran onto the floor waving their arms, dancing together, and pleading for their fans to cheer on the Chiefs. The girls were wearing jeans and T-shirts with the word Chiefs printed in dark blue across their backs. Watching the cheerleaders was like watching a silent movie—their lips moved but their voices could not be heard over the roar of the Miles City fans. Johnny snuck a peak at Sarah Pretty Feather, the tallest of the cheerleaders, and a girl he always wanted to talk to but never did.
A fan by the Chiefs stood up and yelled, “Get those squaws off the floor and get this old game started.”
Johnny felt the blood rush to his face. He tried to force the taunts from the crowd out of his mind by concentrating on the coach’s pre-game instructions. Finally, the whistle blew and the teams lined up for the center jump, as the noise in the gym grew as loud as the roar of a locomotive. The referee tossed the basketball in the air.
The center from Miles City stood three inches taller than the Chiefs’ center, Michael Taos, and he easily tipped the ball to a guard who dribbled to the basket and immediately banked the ball. Miles City scored the next time they had the ball and then the teams traded baskets for the rest of the first half. The Chiefs were quick and were getting good shots, but the taller Miles City players dominated the rebounding.
Twice, when Johnny shot, he was hit hard with an elbow and knocked to the floor. He felt both times should have resulted in free throws but the referee did not call a foul.
“What do you need before you’ll call a foul?” he shouted at the ref. “He almost murdered me.”
“Button up,” the referee said, “or I’ll give you a technical.”
Johnny glared at the referee as the buzzer sounded, ending the first half.
Goodheart sat the team on the bench at halftime and knelt on the floor, drawing plays with white chalk on the small blackboard. He talked to them as he drew arrows to show where they should run in each play.
“You guys know these plays as well as I do,” he said. “Just work them like we did in practice. Johnny, keep alert for a steal. That guard likes to throw it to your side to start their plays.”
“Okay,” Johnny mumbled, looking down at the floor.
“What’s the matter? You look like you lost your best friend.”
“Jeez, Coach, every time I shoot, those Miles City guys foul the crap out of me.” He threw a towel on the floor.
“Just stay cool,” Goodheart said. “This is Miles City’s home court and the refs aren’t going to upset all these people. Play your best game and everything will be all right.” He patted Johnny on the head, messing his hair with his fingers.
The buzzer sounded, announcing the start of the third quarter. “Let’s say a Hail Mary,” the coach said. The boys gathered in a circle and put their hands on the coach’s and prayed.
“I’m praying to Maheo, too,” Richard whispered to Johnny. “No use taking any chances.”
The referee blew the whistle twice to hurry the St. Andrew team back on the floor. The center jump again went to the taller Miles City center, and the Mustangs worked the ball cautiously through the third quarter, trying to protect their lead. The Miles City crowd was wild, shouting and yelling for their team.
Play grew rougher. An elbow flew under the boards and Mike Taos fell on the floor, bleeding from a cut over his eye. The third quarter ended with Mike slowly getting up and staggering to the Chief’s bench.
“You okay?” Goodheart asked the injured boy. He put his arm on Mike’s shoulder and set him down on the bench.
“Yeah, fine, Coach. Don’t take me out. I’ll be okay.”
Goodheart wiped the blood from the cut off the boy’s eye with a towel and spread a Band-Aid over it. When he was finished, he leaned in near the Chief’s bench.
“All right, boys, let’s play tough!” Goodheart yelled over the roaring crowd. “We’re only down 32 to 28. Go for the ball and take your good shot. We can still beat ’em.”
The Mustangs grabbed the tip at the start of the fourth quarter and missed an easy jump shot. The ball bounced to Richard Amos, who flipped it down court to Johnny. With a Miles City player leaning on his back, Johnny dribbled under the basket and laid in a reverse bunny.
“Do that again, Geronimo,” the boy covering him said, “and I’ll give you an elbow in that red face of yours.”
“Wow,” Johnny said, “you really got me worried.”
As the crowd screamed for the Mustangs, the minutes ticked away. Miles City passed the ball near mid-court, keeping it away from the Chiefs’ press. St. Andrew was trailing by two points when, with thirty seconds left on the clock, a bounce pass came near Johnny. He reached out, flicked the ball toward his basket, and took off after it. When he neared the basket, he left the floor as a Miles City player climbed on his shoulder. The boy reached over him, knocked the ball down, and the two of them crashed onto the stage behind the backboard. Johnny rolled on the floor. He held his head and staggered to his feet.
“Got to make the foul shots,” he mumbled. He walked onto the floor, but the players were running toward the other end. No foul had been called.
Johnny raced after the referee. “He fouled me! He fouled me!” Johnny shouted at hi
m.
“Play ball,” the referee said. He tried to ignore Johnny and watched the action under the basket.
“Play ball, you jackass. He knocked me down, damn near killed me, and all you can say is play ball.”
The referee blew his whistle. “Technical. Bad language.” He made his hands into a T and walked over to the scoring table. The Miles City fans were screaming and waving their arms over their heads. The noise grew louder and louder.
Johnny spread his hands in disbelief. “No foul!” he shouted again. He walked toward the bench and then turned and ran toward the Miles City team.
The player that had knocked him down walked up to meet him. “Too bad, Geronimo. I told you not to try and show up a white boy.”
Johnny swung his right hand from his hip at the boy, hitting him in the nose. As the Miles City player fell to the gym floor, Johnny dove on top of him, punching wildly at his face. The boy covered his bloody nose to avoid the punches raining down on him. Johnny’s teeth were clenched as he aimed blow after blow at the Miles City player.
“How’s that feel, white boy?” he shouted. Two Miles City players jumped on him. He felt a sharp pain in his chest, but he swung back, hitting blindly at his opponents. They rolled on the floor until Johnny felt a hand on his neck.
“Stop it, Johnny. It’s over,” Goodheart told him. “Stop it, dammit.”
“Get him out of here, Coach. He’s done for today.” It was the referee, holding onto a Miles City player.
Johnny relaxed and let Goodheart drag him away from the Miles City players. He pulled himself up until he stood next to the bench.
“Okay, Coach, okay. I’m cool now. I won’t go after them anymore.”
“You feeling okay?” the coach asked. “That’s a pretty nasty looking eye you got there. Is it cut?”
“Naw, I don’t think so,” Johnny said, putting his fingers above his left eye. “It’s just tender.”
“I’ll take a good look at it when the game’s over. Go on down to the locker room and wait for us. The ref threw you out of the game for fighting. Go on, we’ll be down in a minute.”
“Okay, Coach,” Johnny said as he walked into the tunnel. The Miles City fans booed him loudly. He waited a few seconds and snuck back to the entrance. Standing against the wall, he watched as the teams lined up for the technical free throw. The player he had punched was sitting on the bench with his head between his knees, trying to stop his nose from bleeding. A smile crept across Johnny’s face. He had landed a good punch.
The game clock showed 10 seconds as the Miles City guard sank the foul shot. Miles City brought the ball inbounds and passed the ball away from the frantic St. Andrew press. The crowd counted down the final five seconds until the buzzer sounded the end of the game and the fans poured onto the floor, clapping and shouting.
Shaking his head, Johnny ran down to the locker room and sat on the bench until his teammates came in through the doorway.
“He had it coming!” Mike Taos shouted. “Good punch, Johnny.” Mike patted him on the back.
“Yeah, you showed that white boy,” Richard told him. “I don’t blame you.”
Johnny tried to smile at them, but his eyes were misty, lifeless.
“What’s the matter, Johnny?” It was the coach.
“I lost my head and we lost the game. That’s what’s the matter.”
Goodheart sat down next to him, putting his arm around the boy. “I feel bad about us losing, too, just like I feel bad about a lot of things. I feel bad that the ref wouldn’t call the fouls when that boy nearly killed you at the end of the game. But nobody’s blaming you for the loss today. Sometimes a man must do what he has to do or he isn’t a man. Basketball is only a game, and we’ll win more games before the season's over. Not all the refs or players are like the Miles City team.
“Go on, get your shower and we’ll head back home before it gets too dark.”
“Sure, Coach.” Johnny picked a towel out of his gym bag. “Should I have hit him?” he asked, just before entering the shower stall.
Adam Goodheart looked at him, scratched his cheek, and walked out the door toward the bus without answering the question.
WHEN JOHNNY CLIMBED down the bus steps at his driveway, he was glad to see his father’s pickup truck was not parked by the house. His father would be very angry when he heard about the fight, and Johnny preferred postponing that scene as long as possible. He entered the house where his mother was setting his supper on the table.
She smiled at him and brushed her hair back off her shoulders. She was wearing it in long black braids. “Did you win?” she asked, ladling beans and wild rice into a bowl.
“No,” he said. “We lost by a couple of points right at the end of the game.”
“Oh, that’s too bad,” she said. She walked over to him, set the bowl down, and combed his hair with her fingers. “And how did you do? Did you score a lot of baskets?”
“I did okay, I guess,” he said softly. He wasn’t going to get into a discussion of the fight with his mom. She would learn about it soon enough.
“What happened to your eye?” she asked. Her large fingers gently touched the swollen area just above his right eye.
“Some guy bumped me with an elbow,” Johnny said, pulling his head away. “It’s nothing, really.”
She shook her head in disbelief. “Some elbow. Are you sure that’s all there was to it?”
“Yeah, Mom. C’mon, let’s eat. I’m starved.”
“Okay, but go wash up first. I’ll make you a nice big sandwich to go with your beans and rice while you’re cleaning your hands.” She hugged him for a second and then walked to the refrigerator, wiping her hands on her apron.
Twenty minutes later, Johnny pushed his chair back from the table. “I’m going to feed Thunder,” he said, “and I think I’ll brush him down, too.” He stood up and put his bowl and glass into the sink.
“No homework?”
“No, Mom, because of the game today.”
She smiled. “Okay, but don’t stay out there too long. It’s getting cold. Maybe there’s something good on TV later tonight and we can all watch it.”
After putting on his coat, Johnny walked across the yard into the small wooden shed that served as the horse barn. Using the pitchfork, he tossed hay to the Hunters’ three horses. Thunder was the youngest horse; the other two belonged to Gray Man and his father. They were both old, both mares, and Johnny had loved and cared for them since he was four years old.
As he brushed Thunder, he heard the 1963 Ford pickup turn into the driveway and spit gravel as it drove up the hill to the house. It was Johnny’s father and he was driving too fast. Johnny busily stroked the pony’s back. He heard the truck door slam shut, and in a minute, his father shoved the stable door open and stomped over to him. Johnny could smell whiskey.
“So, Mr. Tough Guy, you got in a fight today! What the hell are you tryin’ to prove?” his father yelled.
“I lost my temper, Dad. This white kid kept fouling me and I lost my temper so I popped him.”
“Dammit, no white school’s goin’ to give a scholarship to you if you hit white boys. You’ll get a reputation as a troublemaker!” Billy Hunter screamed. “They don’t want our people playin’ anyway. You’ll give them the excuse they need to keep you out of their colleges.”
Johnny did not answer. He kept brushing his pony while his father walked back and forth between the stalls. Rubbing the brush over the horse calmed him.
“Tell me again,” his father said, wringing his hands, “why did you hit the Miles City boy?”
Johnny looked at his father. “Because he had it coming.”
His father smashed his hand against the wooden stall. “You just don’t go around hittin’ white people because they have it coming. The white man controls our food, our money, our schools, and they can make it damn hard on a Cheyenne that crosses them. You better learn to hold your temper or you’ll end up with no college and no job.”
&n
bsp; “But a white kid is no better than me. If he pushes me, I’ll push back!” Johnny shouted, throwing his brush in the water pail.
“Listen, Johnny, maybe you ain’t gettin’ my message. You will not fight with white boys, and if I have to, I’ll take this leather belt of mine to you until you obey me. Now, are you done fightin’ with whites?”
“I won’t start the fights, but I won’t back off if they push me.” Johnny’s heart was racing. He had never talked back to his father like that.
Billy Hunter pulled the two-inch wide belt from his jeans. He took the large silver buckle off and stuck it in his pocket. “Bend over the rail. I’m going to teach you some obedience.”
Johnny leaned over the stall fence, still not believing that his father would actually whip him. His father hadn’t spanked him since he was a small boy. Bracing himself, he waited for the sting of the leather belt.
The seconds ticked by. Johnny waited. He felt the sweat beading on his face as he clung tightly to the rail. He heard the belt whoosh through the air and felt the pain shoot up his back as the leather smacked against his jeans. His eyes grew moist, but he didn’t cry out.
He waited for the next blow. Then he heard crying and, slowly, Johnny turned around. His father sat on a bale of hay, his face buried in his big hands. Billy Walking Bear Hunter was crying, his body shaking with the tears.
Johnny walked across the dimly lit shed and sat next to him.
His father raised his head and wiped his red eyes on the sleeve of his denim jacket. Taking a red and black bandana from his pocket, Billy blew his nose. “I’m sorry, Johnny,” he said. “I shouldn’t have hit you, but you made me so damn mad I couldn’t see straight.
“I’m just tryin’ to help you get along in the white man’s world. You don’t know how hard it is out there for a red man. I’ve seen things, had experiences that you haven’t dreamed of. I don’t want you to end up like me with no real friends, except a whiskey bottle. Hell, the only reason I got a job is because Father Shannon at the school helped me out. Can’t you see I want a better life for you and that’s got to be off the reservation?
Johnny Hunter Page 4
