“We want to play a game for Coach Scott,” Jake said. “Not just a regular game, but a special one. We want to do it in the old Iroquois way, so that it brings all of our minds together for him, so that it becomes a prayer for him to get well. Anyone who wants to play could be part of it, not just the kids on the team.”
Dr. Marshall’s face had changed as Jake continued to speak, explaining how each time the ball went from one end of the field to the other, it was like the sun crossing the sky, like a day of healing passing under the eye of the Creator. Jake knew that his words, spoken from the heart, were touching the headmaster’s heart. Dr. Marshall’s eyes became moist, and Jake was unashamed of the tears in his own eyes as he spoke. But Jake’s voice stayed strong and when he finished, Dr. Marshall reached out and took his hand.
“Young man,” Dr. Marshall had said, “I can’t think of a better thing for us to do. I have only one question.”
“Sir?” Jake asked.
“May I play?”
Now Jake looked around the field, looked at each face. Dr. Marshall, Thomas Jones, the school security guard, and four of other teachers at Weltimore stood on the field, along with all the members of the Weltimore lacrosse team and as many students as they could find lacrosse sticks for. Kofi was there, and Muhammad. As Jake’s eyes found them, both roommates flashed him a smile. Kofi tapped his heart with his hand and then made the peace sign toward him.
Around the field were more people than Jake had ever seen before at a Weltimore game. Surrounding the field were the rest of the student body, the faculty, the grounds’ crew, and the administrative staff. Only one day had passed since Dr. Marshall had accepted their proposal to play a special game for Coach Scott, but word had spread. Lacrosse fans from all around the area, and even two TV crews, showed up.
All of this is good, Jake thought. There is nothing secret about this. The more people who are here, the better. Jake understood that as long as their thoughts were for Coach Scott, as long as they knew why this game was being played, it was good. Despite the size of the crowd, only a soft murmur could be heard, like the summer wind, rippling through the throng as people reverently whispered to each other.
Everyone was looking at Jake. It’s not as if they are looking at me, Jake thought. It’s just that they want to know what to do next. They want to do the right thing.
Jake walked to the center of the field and raised his lacrosse stick toward the sun. He waited as all the others on the field did the same, coming together in the center, lifting all of their sticks high.
“Today we play the Creator’s game for Coach Scott,” Jake said, loudly enough for all to hear.
“FOR COACH SCOTT,” everyone repeated, their lacrosse sticks clacking together.
The game was like no other game Jake had ever played before. Somehow he knew that this was what it was like when the heart of every player was truly in the game. The ball seemed to join the game itself, moving across the field like a white bird in flight. Everyone played as hard as he would in any game. Despite the fact that so many players were on the field, it didn’t feel awkward. Instead, there was a sweet flow to things, a surprising grace to it all.
Jake noticed two things that surprised him. One was how well Dr. Marshall, despite his small size and his round body, played in the goal. The headmaster even knew the vocabulary of the goalie, shouting, “Clear the crease!” and “Move out, Doug!” Another was that Thomas Jones had clearly played lacrosse before—and still played it very well. In fact, Mr. Jones scored the first goal, with an overhand shot that whizzed past Dr. Marshall.
After that first goal, the crowd was no longer hushed. People began to shout and wave their arms. Jake noticed that, for the first time since he’d played at Weltimore, everyone cheered for every good play. Each goal that was scored brought a roar from the whole crowd, no matter which side of the field it was on.
It had been agreed that the game would be played until a total of seven goals was reached. Already, four had been scored on the sunrise goal and two on the sunset. Now Jake had the ball. He stepped right, cradling his stick in both hands, planted, and spun left. The goal was open before him. But he didn’t shoot. Instead, he tossed the ball to the player who stood across from him, on the other side of the goal. Muhammad held up his stick and caught the ball. Then, with a hockey player’s underhand flick of his wrists, he shot. The ball went into the net.
Muhammad held up his racket in triumph. Jake did the same, followed by all of the others on the field. Without a bit of hesitation, the spectators ran onto the field. Several embraced Muhammad, who was smiling broadly, and others slapped Jake on the back, high-fiving him and the other players, who were hugging each other. It was as if everyone had been playing the game, as if everyone had won and no one had lost.
“Jake,” said a familiar voice behind him. “Jakey.”
Jake turned around. It was his mother.
“Mom!” he said. “You finally came to one of my games.” Jake shook his head in surprise. “But how did you get here?”
Then his mother’s arms surrounded him, and her lips brushed against his ear. “Jakey, I’m sorry I’ve been away so much. But there is no way I would have missed this game. I am so proud of you,” she whispered. “I have never been so proud.”
C H A P T E R S I X T E E N
A WARRIOR'S HOME
“YOU CAN GO IN NOW,” the nurse said.
Jake ran his hands over his hair. He made sure his school blazer was buttoned, and he straightened the knot in his tie one more time. Then he stepped into the room.
He thought he had been prepared, but when he saw how thin and pale Coach Scott looked, he couldn’t help drawing in a breath before biting his lip.
Coach Scott saw his reaction and laughed. It wasn’t much of a laugh, and Jake could tell that Coach Scott knew it.
“Mr. Forrest,” Coach Scott said in a small, raspy voice, “come on . . . over here. Hard to . . . talk loud . . . with one collapsed lung.” He straightened out his right index finger, lifted it, and then placed it on his chest. “First slug . . . went right . . . in here.”
Then Coach Scott closed his eyes. Jake couldn’t tell if he had gone back to sleep or if he just didn’t want to talk anymore. The nurse had told him that with all the medication Coach was on, Jake’s visit would have to be short. Coach Scott had been shot three times, and he had almost died. Somehow he had pulled through, but it would be months before he was well and strong again. Jake started to turn to leave.
Coach Scott’s eyes opened. “Jake,” he said. “Come here.” He held out his hand, and Jake stepped forward to take it. Coach Scott held onto his hand, not the way someone takes a hand to shake it, but the way a person grabs on when he wants to be pulled back to safety. Coach Scott pulled, and Jake let himself be drawn in closer so that his face was close to the coach’s.
“Some stunt . . . you pulled,” Coach Scott rasped. “That game . . . you . . . set up.”
“Unh-hunh,” Jake said.
“Thought I knew all . . . there was . . . to know about our game. About our . . . beautiful game.” Coach Scott said. He closed his eyes, then opened them and looked at Jake with eyes that were more wide-awake than before. When he spoke, for just a moment, his voice had some of the strength Jake remembered. “Jake,” he said, “I saw it all.”
“You mean on TV?” Jake asked. “There were two stations that covered it.”
Coach Scott lifted his chin a little toward the TV on the wall, then he shook his head. “Jake, I don’t know how to say it. They turned on that TV for me to watch it, but when the game started it was as if I was there. Not in this room. There. I was on that field. Son, . . . son, . . . it helped me. No way to explain it. But I think you understand.”
Jake nodded. There was no need to speak, not even to say “unh-hunh.”
Coach Scott leaned back and closed his eyes, still speaking. “You tell . . . everyone I’m . . . going to be okay.” His voice faded, becoming softer, more distant
. “You tell them all . . . all my warriors . . . I said . . . thank you.”
Jake waited, but Coach Scott had settled back into sleep. His breathing was gentle. His face looked peaceful. Jake carefully removed his hand from the coach’s grasp.
He stood for a moment in the doorway, looking back, thinking about how strange it was that things could change so quickly—the way he saw other people, the way he felt about a place, even the way he felt about himself. It all could be transformed so suddenly.
But Jake also knew there were some things that would always be true. One was that wherever he went, the Creator’s game would be there for him. It truly was just like a prayer, reminding him of who he really was, reminding him to always be mindful and thankful. He would try hard never to forget that again. It was just as Grampa Sky had said to him, “As long as you remember and remain thankful, you can find peace in your heart.”
He thought about what his mother had told him. It was all up to him now. He could decide where he wanted to live. Jake wasn’t sure yet what he would decide. He could go back home, stay with Uncle Irwin and Aunt Alice, and be back at the Nation School with his old friends. But he had friends here at Weltimore, too. Now that the decision was his to make, Jake no longer felt trapped. Now he knew that a true warrior’s home is not just the earth he walks upon. A true warrior’s home is always in his heart.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
JOSEPH BRUCHAC was born in Saratoga Springs, New York, and grew up in the Adirondack foothills. He began to take an interest in his Abenaki heritage when he was a teenager. Mr. Bruchac has written many books, poems, plays, and short stories—many of which include tales, characters, and teachings from his Native American roots. Performing as a storyteller allows him another way to preserve his Abenaki culture.
Some of Mr. Bruchac’s best-known children’s and young adult books include Skeleton Man, The Winter People, How Chipmunk Got His Stripes, and a picture book about lacrosse, The Great Ball Game.
Mr. Bruchac and his wife Carol live in Greenfield Center, New York.
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