As I sat there, I knew Connie was talking about Peggy and me, and I felt bad. I didn’t want to be a cancer on the team. I certainly had never viewed myself that way, and I thought I had largely put my own grievances aside. The worst part was that I had always considered myself to be a leader, but I also felt in no position to be a leader from my place on the bench.
Connie’s biggest fear was that we would let one loss spiral out of control, but we were still furious about the Maine South game when we took the court against Libertyville, and as adept at breaking a press as we were at pressing ourselves, we cut through our opponents’ defense like their feet were shackled and raced out to a 24–12 first-quarter lead.
Still, it turned out to be a tough game, exactly what we needed, as one of Libertyville’s guards got hot, leading the Wildcats on a 17–8 run to pull them within three points at the half. They outscored us again in the third quarter, trimming our lead to 47–45, but we hung on for a well-earned 65–57 victory that instantly restored whatever confidence we may have lost for the few hours after the Maine South loss.
Earl determined, as he had during Christmas vacation, that we needed a break from practice as the regular season wound down, but once again, he gave in and let us have a shortened workout without his supervision. Hard as we tried, we could not help but look ahead again to Hersey, which had defeated Maine South in the finals of the Libertyville tournament and loomed as our second to last game of the season. Despite the distraction, we managed to dispatch in orderly fashion both Maine East, 62–49, and Waukegan East, 84–52, but our nerves were again frayed for our game against one of the very few teams we feared.
We played Hersey at home before a healthy number of loyal fans that was still nowhere near what we felt we should be drawing, and Hersey did not disappoint. After scrapping to a 12–12 first-quarter tie, they led by as many as 12 points in the second quarter and took a 33–25 lead at halftime as we filed into the girls’ PE office. It was the first time all season we had trailed at halftime.
Under Earl, we couldn’t hold our halftime meetings in the girls’ locker room for obvious reasons, and sitting on desks and sprawling on the floor as we normally did made the tiny office feel even more cramped than usual. The bickering began as soon as we closed the door. Coach Earl generally gave us a few minutes to cool down by ourselves before he came in and addressed us, and we used our time on this night to yell at each other. Peggy was particularly incensed, snapping at no one in particular that she was open inside and not getting the ball, while Connie shot back that if Peggy were open, she’d get the ball and furthermore, she was getting sick of her complaining.
Peggy was mid-rant when Earl walked in.
“Shut up!” he shouted so loudly that we all jumped. By now, we had heard him raise his voice plenty of times, but this actually scared us, and he immediately calmed down. “Peg, if the guards don’t think you’re open, you’re not going to get the ball,” he said. “The point is, we need to play in sync. We’re down eight points and we’re not going to get it all back right away, so don’t be in a hurry.”
He paused and stared at us.
“Look, we’re going to whittle this lead down and then someone is going to get a key steal or an offensive rebound, and we’re going to win this game,” he continued. “But it might be in the last 15 seconds, so be patient.”
Pleased with himself and his speech, Earl watched his ornery team take the court and proceed to wipe out Hersey’s lead in the first minute and a half of the third quarter. Our full-court press was perhaps the best it had been all season, and suddenly, a team that looked quite capable of beating us in the first half crumbled, unable even to get the ball past half-court.
It was the biggest turnaround Gene Earl had ever experienced with a team he had coached, and he sat back on the bench and enjoyed it as we outscored Hersey 22–8 in the third quarter and won 61–53.
If he was not fully convinced of it before, Earl knew it then. He had a damn good team.
We were now 20–1 and that week, Jimmy Baron—a senior who was the PA announcer for our games, starred in our school plays, and wrote for the West Word—ended his account of the Hersey victory with a personal aside: “In this reporter’s opinion, it is a shame that such a tremendous team as the girls’ basketball squad cannot draw a respectable-size crowd. Hopefully, Niles West will someday learn to appreciate a winner.”
We finished the regular season at 21–1 after defeating Glenbrook North 61–45, finally arriving at the long-awaited postseason. Regionals were at New Trier East, while Niles West was hosting sectionals.
After spending the last 12 months looking forward to getting back to supersectionals and having the chance to wipe away the frustration and sadness of a long two years, we would approach this state tournament as we had been trained. We would look no further than our next opponent, our next game. And we would barely notice that one of our teammates would not be a part of it.
CHAPTER 21
Joy Is …
WHEN HE LEARNED THAT he could take only 12 of his 13 players to the state tournament, Gene Earl did the fairest thing he could think of to resolve the issue.
He flipped a coin.
It was not an obvious pick between Nancy Eck and Debbie Durso for the last spot on our postseason roster, but it was obvious to Coach Earl that it should come down to the two seniors as to who should stay and who should go.
Only Nancy was present as he flipped the coin that would break one girl’s heart. She called it and lost and, in her disappointment, asked if instead of simply cutting her from the team 22 games into the season, she and Debbie could take turns dressing in uniform and sitting on our bench while the other was relegated to the stands.
Earl agreed, and it was determined that since Debbie won, it would work backward. If we made it to Champaign and the state finals, Debbie would dress for those games. He found out that the roster for supersectionals had to be the same as the one in Champaign, so Debbie would suit up that round as well. For sectionals, which Niles West was hosting, it would be Nancy’s turn. And Deb would dress for regionals at New Trier East.
It was far from ideal, but it was done, and Nancy, as she always had, obeyed authority and went along with the plan without so much as a whimper. Meanwhile, not one of the rest of us paused for more than a second to consider how this might have hurt both of them or whether or not there was a better solution.
Regionals were before us, and the Niles West student body was reminded yet again that we were a team worthy of their support. Our smattering of male fans—the boys who scrimmaged with us, assorted boyfriends, and the boys, like Jimmy Baron, who had been watching us closely—marshaled their forces and others fell in line. Football players said they would be there and an ad hoc pep band called the Super Sax was assembled.
We were not particularly worried about our first-round opponent, nor should we have been, as we easily defeated New Trier West 63–26. Glenbrook South was next, and though we had beaten them in two previous meetings that season, Titans coach Kay Sopocy told reporters she thought her team had outplayed us in all but two of the eight quarters and that they had one coming.
Their top scorer, Colleen Monckton, had scored 25 and 27 points, respectively, in the other two games, and though we were always concerned with trying to neutralize her, we also knew that Peggy had missed both of those meetings because of her sprained ankle. We were at full strength now and nothing, we believed in our hearts, could stop us, least of which Glenbrook South.
Whatever petty bickering we had done during the season had been set aside, and we went into the playoffs as one, rolling to the regional title in our most dominating victory yet over the Titans, 75–47. In addition to forcing 19 turnovers off our press, we held Monckton to 16 points. Their second-leading scorer was shut out.
If anyone doubted that Connie and Barb formed the best backcourt in the state, they had not watched them in the regional final, where they combined for 35 points, 14 assists, and 13 stea
ls. Peggy poured in 20 points to lead all scorers, and as we cut down our third straight set of nets celebrating a regional championship, it was not with the same giddiness as in the past but with a firm resolve that said we had not even begun to finish the job for which we came.
Looking ahead to sectionals at home, we could feel our school being swept along with our momentum, and we were hearing rumors that school officials would actually have to use the upper balcony of the gym for the crowd they were expecting. Not so swept up, however, were the varsity cheerleaders, who were asked to cheer at our sectional opener against Maine South and declined, saying they were busy.
Though we had every reason to be apprehensive about facing Maine South in our first-round sectional game, we were as confident and eager as ever to play the Hawks for the third time this season, especially because they were the only blemish on our record.
Much to our delight, the predictions were correct and our gym swelled to near capacity, which—combined with the excitement of the moment and other flu symptoms—led Tina to lose her lunch in the drinking fountain under the basket during pregame warm-ups.
The mere thought of Tina barfing was enough to send me racing for the nearest toilet, and Peggy, who eagerly informed me of Tina’s unfortunate illness, found this hysterical as we tried to keep our minds on the task ahead and keep our distance from Tina.
I was still seeing spot time, usually in the second and third quarters, but I also fully expected to be summoned at any point in any game, and I was ready if it happened. Even as Dr. Mannos greeted my parents that evening and told them that he was mystified as to why my playing time had dropped off so dramatically this season, I went through warm-ups as always, as if preparing to start, my simmering personal disappointment far behind me.
Before our biggest home crowd of the season, we scored the first basket of the game and never relinquished the lead. A pair of baskets by Peg extended our advantage to 13–4, and superb passing by our offense, which sliced through Maine South’s zone defense, left us with a 36–20 bulge at the half.
The game was physical, as was usually the case against Maine South, but overly aggressive officiating reminded us that girls were only allowed to be so physical as Connie was limited to seven minutes of playing time due to foul trouble.
In the end, it was Barb’s shooting, Holly’s rebounding, Peggy’s all-around dependability, and the strength of our bench, led by Judy and Becky, that carried us to a 69–55 victory and set up a sectional final against Oak Park.
Oak Park was 26–0, taller than we were at all three positions in the frontcourt, and not a team we had played before or with whom we shared any common opponents as a basis to compare. But we knew tall usually equaled slow and easy to press, and we were at home before a crowd that now had standing room only.
Despite clinging to a 29–27 lead over the Huskies at halftime, we sensed we had them right where we wanted them. Our press took its toll against our dog-tired opponents as we built a nine-point lead in the first two minutes of the second half and never looked back. We led 51–33 after three quarters and outscored Oak Park 40–19 in the second half to win our third straight sectional title 69–46.
Barb and Peggy finished with 22 and 18 points, respectively, while Connie and Tina had 11 apiece. We celebrated afterward, though our immediate thought was on our supersectional opponent. Debbie Durso’s immediate thought was on her job, which had shifted from a reserve guard in street clothes to the person in charge of putting “We Are the Champions,” our unofficial theme song by Queen, on the courtside record player while we cut down the nets. In her haste, the well-played record started skipping, sending Deb into a mild panic that she had blown her one sectional responsibility. The playing of that song had become almost as important as our pregame warm-up routine, our wristbands, and our collective psyche.
Debbie could laugh it off, as she knew at least she would be joining us at East Leyden High School for our supersectional matchup with undefeated Glenbard West. Nancy, on the other hand, quietly took off her Niles West uniform that night for the very last time.
In typical fashion, she never complained.
We had five days, or until the next Tuesday, to think about our next game, and we studied film of our opponent as if for a final exam. Unlike in our first days watching grainy game films with Mrs. Mulder, both the film quality and the surroundings had improved as we now watched in an empty classroom. There was not a single doubt in any of our minds that this was our year, and yet, if we had allowed ourselves to really think about it, we would recall that we had had the same feeling the previous two years, and no one had to remind us how those supersectionals turned out.
How this was going to be different, we did not discuss, but then we didn’t have to. Clearly, we were a superior team this season. Connie was more experienced, a better shooter, an improved passer, a more confident floor leader. Barb, now a starter, had developed into one of the best pure shooters in the state. Peggy, who only two years ago had hesitantly tried out for basketball for the first time and began last season on JV, was now a dominant rebounder and money from 12 feet and in. Holly and Tina, who spent all of last season on JV, were now bona fide varsity starters, dependable and tough-minded and also capable shooters.
Defensively, we were the best team in the state, or at least that’s what we believed. Connie and Barb had hands so quick that their victims often never saw the steal coming, and Connie’s anticipation was scary, as if she had crib notes telling her where every pass was going. Our press was a thing of beauty. Everyone in the state knew about it, and yet they still couldn’t stop it. With Peggy intimidating the inbounds passer and Connie and Barb lying in wait, most teams couldn’t get past half-court on us. And if they did, there was Tina ready to pounce with the double-team as 5-11 Holly, arms outstretched and face scowling from the lane, hung back, knowing that her teammates would soon recover and join her.
After 25 games and, for most of us, two or more years of running stairs and scrimmaging at five in the morning behind us, we could say with confidence that no team in Illinois was better conditioned or more in sync. While Pam, Lynn, and Debbie may have lacked the experience of Judy, Karen, and me, they were prepared and well-schooled from practicing against the best starting five in the state. And Becky, despite her continued shyness off the court, just never seemed flustered.
While it remained something of a frustration for me to watch a freshman continue to reap the benefits of years of hard work for which she was not present, Becky was impossible to dislike. Though I wouldn’t necessarily admit it, I finally saw what Connie had long seen in Becky—an eager-to-please, sincerely sweet kid who, despite my occasionally thinly veiled disdain, wanted nothing more than to be my friend and a good teammate. And it was while squeezed next to her on our bench as we yelled ourselves hoarse, laughed, and slapped hands during regionals and sectionals that I began to genuinely like her back.
Our next game was billed as the best matchup of the eight girls’ supersectionals. At 26–0, Glenbard West was one of only three undefeated teams in the state along with Chicago Public League champ Marshall—expected to win their supersectional and meet our game’s winner in the state quarterfinals—and downstate Sterling, which had gained fame as the first-ever Illinois girls’ state basketball champion in 1977.
Our game was also hyped for its individual matchup at guard between two Suburban Trib all-stars: Connie Erickson and Glenbard West’s 5-4 senior playmaker Beth Stevenson. Both of our teams employed a vaunted full-court press to force turnovers and convert them into easy fast-break baskets, and both teams loved to run.
Coach Earl was already subtly working the refs in the papers, saying that the officiating would be key and subtly suggesting that he could only hope they would allow us to play our usual aggressive game without taking the ball out of our hands. None of us forgot how we lost last year’s supersectional, with all five of our starters fouling out in a crushing three-point loss to Dundee. But most of us had c
onveniently forgotten about Arlene Mulder and never considered how the loss might still be eating at her.
Busy with her new son, Michael, now seven months old, and Michelle and Alison, now 11 and 8, Mrs. Mulder still had not attended a game of ours and still had not had any signal from us or from Earl that we wanted her to come. But that did not make her sudden withdrawal from us any easier for her to bear. Though we missed her at first and eventually felt betrayed by her absence and what we felt was a lack of support, it simply never occurred to us to pick up the phone and call our old coach.
Most of us had sent notes of congratulations and baby gifts—or at least our mothers had—after Michael was born. But calling a teacher at home? Even for a former teacher, the thought was unheard of and especially now that we were so intensely focused on the task at hand, Mrs. Mulder was far from our thoughts.
Even Peggy had begun to appreciate, if not exactly love, the quirky, good-natured charm of Gene Earl. He still got on our nerves occasionally with his down-home colloquialisms, but he was forever a good sport, accepting our teasing—even when Peggy would openly mock his chubbiness—our bossiness, and our ever-changing moods with humor and patience.
He was our leader now. We were Earl’s Girls, whether we all loved the moniker or not. And it was Gene Earl, as much as Connie and Barb and Peggy, who was going to carry us to the place of our dreams.
March 27 was the final obstacle. Super Tuesday, as they called the Illinois basketball supersectionals, was Tainted Tuesday as far as we had come to know it. But no longer. This time, we told ourselves, we would not be outplayed or psyched out, cursed by officials, or dictated by curses of any kind. We would neither be intimidated nor overwhelmed nor even particularly moved by the occasion.
Glenbard West officials had called Niles West that week, asking for more tickets because they had already sold out their allotment. We were convinced that would result in a gym dominated by opposing fans, which no longer hurt our feelings but might, we felt, give Glenbard West an advantage that we would prefer they not have.
State Page 24
