Segal, Jerry
Page 17
“Team play, Steele,” he growled. “Stay away from the ball. No hotdogging. You hear me, boy? Don’t make it any worse than it is.”
Henry’s face showed no expression as he ran to the scorer’s table and checked in. The public address system intoned: “IN FOR WESTERN, NUMBER TWENTY, HENRY STEELE.”
Tom inbounded the ball to Henry, who dribbled swiftly upcourt uncontested, crossed the centerline, drove toward the basket and let fly a twenty-five-footer.
Good! The crowd roared. WESTERN 91———TECH 94. Time left: twenty-eight seconds.
A Tech player moved the ball slowly upcourt, taking as much time as possible, confident he could run out the clock. Henry guarded him closely. As he crossed the midcourt line, the Tech man slowed even more. The seconds ticked off the clock: 00:18, 00:17, 00:16, 00:15. The entire Western bench was screaming at Henry, “Foul him! Damn it, foul him!”
For a fraction of a second, the Tech ballhandler glanced up at the clock, and in that instant Henry tapped the ball free. Tom retrieved the loose ball, spotted Henry dashing toward the basket and fired the ball at him. But Henry, catching the pass, sensed that he was too near the basket with too much momentum to chance a shot. About to hurtle out of bounds, he passed behind his back—perfectly!—to Tom! Tom jumped, shot. Two points!
The Western bench, the crowd, Janet, Chris went wild! WESTERN 93———TECH 94! Four seconds left!
Under the basket, a confused Tech player took the ball and searched for a teammate to pass to. Henry, legs and arms windmilling madly, ballhawked him, and when the Tech player finally threw the ball in, Henry’s outstretched hand deflected it.
Like a panther, Henry dove for the ball, captured it inbounds. As he did, he heard screams: “Call time! Call time!” Moreland Smith, normally unflappable, was screeching from the bench, “Call time! CALL TIME!”
Henry made a “T” with his hands as he lay atop the ball, and the ref blew his whistle. Time out!
With the crowd going berserk, the Western bench dancing with joy, Henry rose and trotted toward the bench. WESTERN 93———TECH 94. Time left: 00:01.
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Moreland Smith squatted in the center of a huddle at the Western bench and drew a diagram on the floor with a piece of chalk. He shouted in order to be heard above the din. “All right, let’s calm down. We’re still one point behind. Now, we don’t have time to set up for a shot. Tech knows what we have to do. Tommy, we need a perfect lob pass into Ziggy. Fredericks, you set a pick so Ziggy can roll toward the basket once the play starts. You boys have done it letter-perfect a thousand times in practice. Do it one more time!”
A whistle blew.
The team took the court. The crowd noise was so loud that the gym walls trembled.
Henry and three Western teammates positioned themselves. Tom stood out of bounds at midcourt, next to the ref. The ref blew his whistle and gave him the ball.
For a split second, Tom waited—and then he lofted the ball high toward the basket.
Fredericks set the pick, but the Tech defender slid through; with the ball arching high in the air, Ziggy was trapped! Tech had successfully blocked out the area under the basket. No Western player could break through to tip-in the lob pass!
Like a ghost melting through a wall, Henry emerged from the moving mass of players. He vaulted into the air toward the basket, seemed to float there as the softly thrown ball came down. Gently, he tapped it.
The ball kissed the backboard and dropped cleanly into the basket! The buzzer sounded! The game was over! WESTERN 95———TECH 94!
The arena exploded with sound. Fans poured onto the court, surrounding Henry, and only his teammates saved him from being trampled. Wheeler and Tom picked him up and hoisted him onto their massive shoulders. Triumphantly, they carried Western’s new hero off the court.
Only the dripping showers and the Chaplain’s voice could be heard in the hushed locker room. The exhausted team and its coaching staff knelt and listened to the prayer.
“… and for helping us to do Thy work with manly purpose, and for inspiring young Henry Steele, and for rewarding our endeavours with the sweet, sweet nectar of victory, in the name of Jesus Christ our Lord, we thank Thee.”
Moreland Smith said, “Amen.”
“Amen,” they all said.
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Clothed, but his head still wet from his shower, Henry faced a battery of reporters in the locker room. He seemed at ease, seemed to savor the attention being shown him.
“Henry, were you cold coming off the bench so late in the game?”
“No, not really. I felt like—like maybe I had an edge. Both teams were exhausted by the time I got in there. I was rested.”
“Were you nervous?” asked another reporter.
“Didn’t have time for that.”
“You think you’ll start from now on?”
“I don’t know.”
“Henry, how does it feel, playing in front of nine thousand screaming people and a national television audience of millions?”
“Different. Really different.”
A crisp voice commanded, “Let me in here, gentlemen! Let me shake hands with our boy.”
A beaming Howard Brunz shouldered his way through the newspapermen and grasped Henry’s hand. “Good game, good game, Henry!” To the reporters, the alumni president said, “I’ll bring Him right back, gentlemen.”
He guided Henry into a corner. “Son,” he said, “the last game I saw as exciting as tonight’s was back in ‘44 against the Bees. Jess Shirdle scored at the buzzer, just like you did, and won it for us.” Lowering his voice, Brunz put a hand paternally on Henry’s arm. “Bring me your tickets tomorrow, son. All of them. And, uh—this is strictly between us—in the morning a few of us alums are having a little talky-talk with Coach Smith. We want to know why a talent like yours has been moldering on the bench all this time.”
“Steele! Phone call! It’s your Dad from Texas!” the trainer shouted.
“Good night, Henry,” Brunz said. “See you tomorrow, son. And don’t forget to bring all your you-know-whats.”
The trainer handed Henry a phone, and he put the . receiver to his ear. “Hello?”
“Henryhenryhenry!” Jerome barked. “You see, boy! Hard work pays off! That was no lucky tip-in! You were ready! Ready! Vince Lombard! said it: ‘Luck is the residual of preparation!’”
“Branch Rickey, Dad.”
“What?”
“Branch Rickey said that.”
“Right! And it’s the truth! Hard work pays off! You’re on top, son! On top! Whole town’s excited! Proud! Here, talk to your mother.”
“Henry, sweetheart. You played so well. We love you so.”
“I love you too, Ma.”
“Guess who’s here, Henry. He watched the game with us. Reverend Wells. Say hello to him, darlin‘. He wants to tell you somethin’. Here, Reverend.”
“Henry, my boy Henry, that tip-in at the buzzer tonight was the Lord’s work! He knows that every youngster in West Texas looks up to you, wants to be just like you and walk the same path of- righteousness you’ve chosen for yourself. The Lord knows that if He helps you to keep winnin‘, you’ll continue to be a shinin’ example of young American manhood. You are a symbol of all we hold dear, Henry Steele…”
* * *
IX
The afternoon following the Tech game, Janet and Henry walked across the campus toward the library. Their arms around each other’s waists, her head resting on his shoulder, they strolled silently, thinking their own private thoughts. As always, Henry wore his letter jacket.
When he had come to her apartment last night after the game, he had smiled serenely at her congratulations but had volunteered nothing about how he felt. He had only held her more tightly than usual, made love to her more fervently than usual, and then fallen into a deep, exhausted sleep. In the morning they had gone their separate ways, she to the lab, he to class.
His sudden success, his new s
tatus, left her uneasy. She was independent, mature, accomplished. Henry’s background and way of life represented many things she deplored. Loving him had involved compromises which her body and emotions gladly made, but against which her intellect rebelled. Now, subconsciously, she was preparing herself for the time when she could no longer be a part of something reprehensible to her—no matter how great her love.
Someone called, “Henry! Henry!”
They stopped walking and waited for a young man, a jock, to reach them.
“You’re a hard man to find, Henry,” the jock said. “Coach Smith wants to see you.”
Janet stared at Henry, but he avoided her eyes. “I’ll be right there,” he told the jock.
“Pavlov’s dog,” Janet said bitterly. Henry seemed not to have heard her words.
“I’ll tell the coach you’re on the way,” the jock said as he left them. “Hey, Henry, you played one great game last night!”
“Thanks.” To Janet, Henry said, “Walk me over?”
“No. I’m not a basketball groupie, Henry. I’m not waiting around the athletic department for my muscle man to come out.”
Smiling, he asked, “Will you wait for me somewhere else?”
“All right. The stone tables on the student center patio?”
“I’ll see you there, Jan.”
He strode swiftly toward the phys.-ed complex, his hands jammed in the pockets of his letter jacket. She watched him for a moment, almost sadly, then began the short walk to the student center.
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B.J. greeted him with a proud smile. “Nice going, Henry. I knew you could do it.”
He nodded. “Thanks.”
“I’ve always had faith in you.”
“I know that, Miss Rudolph. Thanks.”
“Coach Smith is expecting you. Go right in.”
Moreland Smith, involved with papers on his desk, did not raise his head immediately when Henry entered his office. Henry stood at respectful attention until the coach glanced up.
“Oh, Steele. Sit down, Steele.” Smith’s tone was stern. “Steele, you disobeyed my orders last night. I told you to stay away from the ball. I told you not to hotdog. Now I read in the morning papers how brilliantly you played, how we would have lost the ballgame if it had not been for Henry Steele. Well, let me tell you something, boy.” Smith’s face broke suddenly into a wide smile. “I agree with the newspapers! You were brilliant!
I’m glad you disobeyed my orders!“ The coach laughed and, in mock anger, added, ”But don’t you ever, ever disobey me again!“
Then he was serious. “Henry, you made things happen last night. I was wrong about you. You can play college ball.” Smith’s eyes narrowed; his tone became intense. “I’m sorry we were so rough on you, son. But this is a tough seat I sit in. My problems are many and complex. The pressures are enormous. Like a general during wartime, I have to do things as a coach I’d never do as a man. Do you follow me?”
“Yes, sir. I understand.”
“When you would not resign your scholarship, I was duty-bound to step on you—like a bug. But while I was stepping on you, I loved you, boy! I loved your guts! You never quit. You never quit because—you’re a winner!” With genuine admiration, the coach concluded, “No more hassles about keeping your scholarship! You have my word.”
Henry leaned forward, then hesitated. Smith waited, his ‘affable smile encouraging the boy to speak.
“Sir,” Henry said softly.
“Yes?”
“The scholarship…”
“Yes?” Smith was still smiling.
Henry winked. “All the way up,” he said. “With a red-hot poker.”
Smith was speechless as the boy rose and left the room.
As he passed B.J. in the outer office, Henry took a Tootsie Pop from the pocket of his letter jacket, put it in her hand, and kissed her tenderly on the cheek. Then he walked from the suite, smiling.
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Janet was waiting for him at a stone table on the patio of the student center. At first she did not see him, and he studied her for a moment, love turning his eyes misty. Then he grinned and climbed up on an empty stone table close by.
“Jan?”
She turned, saw Mm standing atop the table. She looked puzzled, but smiled.
He began to take off his letter jacket. So that she would realize the meaning of what he was doing, he did it methodically, dramatically. Each motion clean, exaggerated. Right arm out. Pause. Left arm. Pause.
He held the jacket far out from his side, letting it dangle from one hooked finger. His eyes were on her.
Then he uncrooked his finger and dropped the jacket. Just dropped it. Plop. It hit the ground. On Janet’s face, sunshine sparkled—a smile of comprehension.
He leaped off the table and ran to her.
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As they walked, arm in arm, across the campus toward her apartment, he told her everything. He told her what he had done about his scholarship, what he had said to Coach Smith. He told her his plan: he would work his way through school, even if it took ten years, and try to acquire the knowledge that would free his mind.
It was the first time she had ever heard him talk about the future.
They stopped for a moment by an outdoor court to watch some students play a pick-up game of basketball. Suddenly the ball came bouncing toward them. Henry caught it. He looked at it for a second, smiling. Then he executed a fancy dribble, spun the ball on his finger, Globetrotter style, and laughed as he tossed it back to the students.
It was the first time she had ever seen him smile with a basketball in his hands.
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