A Name Earned

by Tim Tingle

  We all laughed, even Mr. Blanton, as we pulled out of the lot.

  I glanced over my shoulder and saw Dad running his hand through his hair in that worrisome way of his. Since I’m pretty good at reading minds, especially where Dad is concerned, I knew what he was thinking. “Why did he do that? Why did Bobby ask Blanton to go with them to the park? Doesn’t he know Lloyd needs to stay away from his dad?”

  Lloyd doesn’t need to stay away from his dad, I thought. He needs to figure out a way to get along with him!

  Dad hung his head as expected, once more reminded of the hurt he had brought to his family. I wanted to jump out of the car and let him know that everything is different now. But that had to wait. Lloyd needed me now.

  “I can’t stay long,” Mr. Blanton said. “I’ve got to get back to the hospital as soon as possible.”

  “Thanks for coming with us,” Coach said.

  “No prob, Coach Robison,” he said, glancing at Lloyd, then me. “I’m still a little surprised you boys wanted me around. How come you asked me to join you, Bobby? Coach was gonna take you.”

  “I don’t know,” I said in a quiet, shy voice. No one said a word, and I decided it was time for me to tell the truth, the risky truth.

  “Mr. Blanton,” I said, “I wanted you to know that I trust you. I know you didn’t mean to hurt Lloyd’s mother. And sometimes it’s good to get away, even for a little while.”

  “What do you know about it, kid?” Mr. Blanton asked. He was growing angry, and I could smell the booze on his breath.

  “I want to tell you about my dad, Mr. Blanton, when he was still going to the bar every day,” I said.

  We were approaching a stop sign, and Coach eased to a halt. He leaned forward and gave me a look that said, You’re either the bravest or the dumbest kid on the planet, Bobby Byington.

  “Please, Mr. Blanton, I mean no disrespect,” I said. “I want to tell you about when I saw a different side of my dad. When I first saw that he cared for me.”

  Coach drove his car through the intersection without a word. I waited till we reached the park and he parked by the curb. He turned off the engine and we sat in silence.

  “This happened last summer,” I finally said, “the first day after Mom left. I was sitting at the table drinking orange juice for breakfast. Dad must have been mad, but he didn’t say anything. He walked behind me and jerked the chair so hard I fell backward and hit the floor.

  “The juice glass shattered, and Dad slipped. He landed hard on his back, and I ran as fast as I could out the door. I knew he’d come after me. But he didn’t. He fell on a big piece of broken glass, and it cut deep into his shoulder.

  “I saw blood spurting everywhere, and I stopped. Dad looked at me in a way I had never seen him look at anybody. He pulled the glass out, still lying on the floor, and held it up for me to see. For the first time in my life I saw my father, looking at his son. That’s all,” I said. “I just wanted you to hear that.”

  We sat for a long moment without saying anything. Lloyd took a quick look at his dad. Mr. Blanton looked out the side window away from us.

  “Go on and get out,” he finally said. “Coach, can you take me back to the hospital?”

  I opened the door and jumped to the ground, while Lloyd scooted over to follow me. “Wait, son,” his dad said. “I’m not saying I’m easy to live with, but you know I did not hurt your mother. It was an accident.”

  “I know, Dad. I just hope she’s hoke.”

  As Coach pulled away, I saw Mr. Blanton glance in the rearview mirror. The look on his face reminded me of Dad, lying on the floor with the glass in his shoulder.

  CHAPTER 4

  Mr. Blanton, Basketball Fan

  “Some day today, huh?” Lloyd said as we walked across the park to the basketball court.

  “Can’t get much worse,” I said.

  We both thought about that for a minute, then smiled and shook our heads.

  “You’re right,” I added. “It can get much worse. But not today. Can we agree on that?”

  “As if it’s up to us.”

  Suddenly Johnny pulled up, driving his bright-blue car, shiny and new. He rolled his window down and tossed a basketball in our direction. “Be back in fourteen minutes!” he yelled. “Time me!”

  “Clock starts now!” I shouted, picking up the ball and waving thank you. As Johnny sped away, Lloyd and I slipped back into our conversation.

  “So how is she?” I asked, instead of asking my real question, “What really happened?”

  “They don’t seem to be all that worried about Mom, so I think she’ll be alright. She really did slip on the floor, like I told the cops.”

  I wanted to ask, “And your dad had nothing to do with it?” But I knew to wait. We reached the court and Lloyd took a few dribbles—with his left hand. He picked the ball up and tossed me a pass, still only with his left hand.

  I caught the ball and let it fly.

  Good sign! Nothing but net.

  “Your three, my dime,” Lloyd said. I tossed him the ball, and he tucked it under his arm. “Yeah, Dad was drunk, and Mom was trying to get away from him. I heard the noise in the kitchen and looked through the door just as Mom was falling. She tried to grab the table, but her feet fell out from under her.”

  He gave me a look and I patted him on the shoulder.

  “You don’t have to ask,” he said. “Dad was on the other side of the table. He couldn’t have shoved her. But he was mad and yelling, and he did reach for her. So was it his fault? Yeah. He doesn’t come home drunk, she’s not in the hospital.”

  “Thanks for telling me, Lloyd.”

  “Thanks for understanding.”

  We shot jumpers for a while, trying to get lost in the b-ball world and far away from the troubles of grown-ups. Soon Johnny arrived with a carload of Panthers, our basketball teammates.

  Small guard Bart and high-jumping Jimmy flung the rear door open and ran to the court, ready to play. Tommy and Johnny walked slowly across the grass, looking tall and tough.

  “We’ll take Lloyd and whip you boys, three-on-three,” Tommy said. “Think you can handle it?”

  Hard not to laugh at him, but Tommy was a senior and he was trying halfway to be funny, so I decided to play along.

  “Yeah, Tommy, we’ll go for that,” I said. “But Lloyd has to tie his left hand behind his back. Not fair otherwise. He’s too good.”

  We all had to laugh at that, since Lloyd had just learned how to play with his left hand a few weeks ago, thanks to Coach Robison.

  “Anybody need to warm up?” Johnny asked.

  “Naw, Johnny,” Tommy said. “Let’s get it going. Let the boys have it.”

  He tossed me the ball and I moved to the top of the key. I gave him the ball, the custom in three-on-three, to make sure the defense was ready. He rolled it to my feet, which is not the custom.

  “Guess we gotta school you, Tommy,” I said. I tossed it in to Bart, who drove hard to the baseline, leaping up for a lay-up.

  Not a chance, I thought. Bart stands a foot shorter than Johnny and Tommy, and they both stretched high to block his shot. But Bart is a senior, and he does know what the big men love to do on the playground—pound the ball with their fists and send it sailing through the trees.

  Bart was ready. He faked the shot and flipped it over his shoulder to Jimmy, who soared to the basket for the bank shot.

  “Whoa, Bart!” said Johnny. “You been watching some NBA?”

  Bart had to be the shyest kid in school. He smiled and shrugged his shoulders. “Don’t take no NBA skills to fake you guys out,” he said.

  “Yeah!”

  “Dat’s what I be sayin’!”

  “You tell him!”

  “Bart be bad!”

  Nothing like playground basketball with teammates who get along, especially teammates who understand why we’re here.

  For Lloyd. To let him know we have his back, and whatever happens we’re there for him. And so wen
t the afternoon. Good basketball, lots of long, arching shots, decent defense but no in your face. No elbowing or taunting.

  “It’s all good,” said Johnny, summing it up.

  An hour later, Mr. Blanton pulled up. He parked his truck and rolled the window down. Jimmy grabbed the ball and held it. “Guess you gotta go, Lloyd,” he said.

  “No, not yet. Dad’s parked,” said Lloyd. “Let’s keep playing.”

  Jimmy just stared at him, waiting for an explanation. But Johnny got it. He slapped the ball from Jimmy, and Bart scooped it up. He tossed it to me for a three-pointer from the corner, and the game went on.

  “Hey!” Jimmy yelled. “I’m on your team, Johnny!”

  “Not if you hold the ball. We’re here to play.”

  Of course we weren’t ignoring Mr. Blanton. We all watched him from the corner of our eyes, and we shared a common thought. No big deal. Treat him like a normal dad. Who knows? He might become one.

  Mr. Blanton strolled across the park and settled at a picnic table near the court—the same table where my family had our first-ever family picnic, just a few hours ago.

  Bart kicked the ball out of bounds and it rolled to his feet.

  He picked the ball up and tossed it to Lloyd. No big deal. But just before Lloyd put the ball in play, his dad said, “In case anybody’s wondering, she’s fine and coming home soon.”

  “Hey, great news!” Johnny said. Jimmy, Tommy, Bart, everybody gave a shout-out to Lloyd. I high-fived him, and he smiled back at me. But it was not a normal smile. His mouth was tense, and I knew what he was thinking. So now Mom is coming home. To what? More yelling, more drinking and cussing? She’s fine now, but what happens next time? And there will be a next time. There is always a next time.

  “Thanks,” Lloyd said. “Dad, we ready to go to the hospital?”

  “We still have some time. They’re prepping her now, doing a few more tests. Go on with the game.”

  I’ve never been so proud of my teammates. They knew why we were here—to support Lloyd. And how best to do that? Relax, leave all the troubles by the roadside, and as Mr. Blanton said, go on with the game.

  And so we did.

  Our ball, since Jimmy scored the last basket. I tossed it in to Bart. He took one dribble and tossed it back to me, setting a screen at the top of the circle. Jimmy fought for the rebound position under the basket, expecting me to launch another three-pointer. But Lloyd fought over the screen and slapped the ball out of bounds as it left my hand.

  “Yeah!” Mr. Blanton hollered. When we all turned to stare at him, he grew embarrassed. “Oh, sorry guys. I guess playground basketball is a little different from games at the gym. I’m just doing what a dad does.”

  Even Lloyd had to smile. But I knew he also wanted to cry.

  I knew how I would have felt. Part of me would be so happy that Dad was finally proud of something I did.

  But another part of me would want to scream at him, “You are doing what a dad does? No way! What kind of dad sends his wife to the hospital? What kind of dad does that? And what kind of dad drinks so much his own son stays away, just to keep from getting hurt?”

  We went on with the game, playing hard and tough. We made sure Lloyd earned every basket he scored, no giveaways. His dad would spot that in a heartbeat.

  Lloyd bit his lip and hustled as hard as he did on the real court. I had to admit, I would not enjoy a game with this guy hounding me for four quarters. And he drove hard to the basket, scoring lay-ups and his now famous fifteen-foot jumper.

  The big boys on his team, Cherokee Johnny and Tommy, let him take charge. They set picks for him. They fought for rebounds. And when he drove to the bucket, they waved a hand high, ready for the quick pass.

  I glanced at his dad after every play. Sometimes he leaned back with his hands on top of his head. Other times he buried his face in his hands. From my own dad’s experience, I knew what he was going through. He wanted so bad to be a good dad, to let his son know how proud he was.

  But even more than that, he wanted his beer. He wanted to raise a can high and holler loud, surrounded by his drinking buddies. His body craved the booze while his heart wanted something else. Something he never knew. Not yet.

  Two games later, Lloyd tossed in a ten-footer from the baseline for the win. Jimmy threw the ball high into the treetops, a sign that we were finished.

  “Nice game,” he said. We all shook hands, high-fived, shoulder-bumped, and turned to go.

  Mr. Blanton stood and stretched. “Makes me tired watching you young men,” he said. “Ready to go, Lloyd?”

  “Yes, sir. Be good to see Mom.”

  “Tell her we said hello,” Johnny called out as we jumped in his car. He started his engine, then did something really strange. He slapped the steering wheel with both hands, leaned back, and blew out two lungs full of hot air. Whooosh!

  Then he said what we were all thinking.

  “Did that really happen?”

  CHAPTER 5

  Game Day, Gotta Focus

  Monday morning, as usual, Lloyd and I met at the gym before school. “Everything hoke at home, boys?” Coach Robison asked. “How’s your mother, Lloyd?”

  “No problems, Coach,” Lloyd said. “Mom rested and Dad was cool. No more fussing.”

  “Good,” Coach said. “Let’s have an easy morning workout. No running. Save that for tonight. Twenty free throws, same number of jumpers, and ten minutes of dribble-drives with your left hand. That’ll be enough for this morning.”

  Monday morning. The gossip in the halls and lunchroom was never-ending and full of lies—about Lloyd’s dad and mom and fights and cops. That’s all anybody wanted to talk about.

  But not me.

  “Game Day. Gotta focus.”

  That was my only reply, and it worked.

  Lloyd heard me say it on the way to first period. He pulled me aside and said, “I’m gonna borrow that. Thanks.”

  By fourth period people were passing me in the hall and saying, in a deep voice, “Game Day. Gotta focus.”

  Everybody around would laugh and point and leave me alone. But it was friendly laughter. There was no making fun about it. By the end of the day I was giving high fives, and friends were strutting by and chanting, “Game Day. Gotta focus.”

  Nothing better, I thought. That’s the old Choctaw way—survive with laughter.

  Warm-ups over. Tension high. Coach Robison gathered us around for his pre-game talk. He glanced at me and Lloyd. I’d give a hundred dollars to have it on YouTube.

  “Game Day. Gotta focus.”

  That’s what he said. No more tension. We smiled and joined hands, a team again, relaxed and ready to roll.

  “Hoke, boys,” he said. “Back to work. I got a late scouting report on Union High, tonight’s opponent. They’re playing small ball this year. They’ve got a good post man, but he’s mainly a rebounder and shot blocker. We’d better be ready for a full-court press. You know what to do, Johnny?”

  “Yes, sir. Jimmy throws the ball to me around their free-throw line, and I hit Bobby or Lloyd.”

  “That’s right, and it’s gotta be fast. No picking up your dribble near the sidelines. They’ll double-team and trap you there. Let’s make ’em pay. Fast breaks and lay-ups. And maybe a three-pointer, but only if we’ve got rebounders. Are we ready?”

  We nodded and joined hands.

  Go Panthers!

  The crowd was really into it tonight, from the opening tip.

  Tigers got the tip, and the race was on. Jimmy hurried back and blocked a lay-up try, from over the shoulder!

  But a Tiger guard snatched the ball and hit a short jump shot.

  Tigers 2–Panthers zip.

  Coach was right. We were facing our first full-court press since my return. And I watched from the bench. Jimmy ran up and down the sidelines looking to make the inbounds pass. He hit Johnny, who turned and flipped to Lloyd racing by.

  A long pass to Darrell, who tossed it behind his back to Ji
mmy for a lay-up. “Good job!” yelled Coach. “Keep it fast!”

  Tigers 2–Panthers 2.

  Midway through the first, with the Tigers up by three, Coach motioned for me. “I’m putting you in with Lloyd. Let’s beat the press, then slow it down, catch our breath, and run our halfcourt offense. You feel like a three-pointer?”

  “I’m ready, Coach.”

  “Good. Let ’er fly, Bobby.”

  Let ’er fly? How often does a high school basketball coach tell a sub who enters the game with his team down to let ’er fly?

  The next ball out, I took Bart’s place. He was breathing hard and seemed glad to get a rest.

  “Let’s run the play!” Coach shouted from the sidelines. He waved his arms up and down, palms down, the slow-it-down sign.

  Lloyd tossed me the ball, and I fired a pass to Johnny in the corner. He faked a drive to the baseline, and I drifted behind him. My man left me, going for the rebound. But Johnny didn’t shoot.

  Nope. He flipped the ball over his shoulder, without even a glance in my direction. I took two steps back, caught the ball on the first bounce, and let it fly.

  No more tragedy, I thought, as the ball left my hand. It’s miracle time!

  The ball floated through the net to tie the game. My girlfriend, Faye, would be so proud of me. I thought of her as I hit my first three-pointer of the game. But it wasn’t the last one.

  Nope. Lloyd pulled a sly one. He turned to trot downcourt as the crowd cheered.

  Panthers, Panthers! Go! Go! Go!

  The opposing coach called out instructions to his team as the crowd cheered louder. Nobody noticed when Lloyd snuck back and stole the inbounds pass. He laid it in for two more points, and the fans went nuts.

  Panthers, Panthers! Go! Go! Go!

  Go home, Tigers. You’re too slow!

  We had our first lead of the game.

  “Toss it inside,” their coach shouted. “Go to the post.”

  As if we weren’t listening. Jimmy and Johnny double-teamed their post man, slapped the ball away, and Coach’s “slow it down” went out the window. Lloyd and I tossed the ball back and forth. I faked their lone defender off his feet and tossed it to him for the easy bank shot.