by Phil Wohl
Confident that his adventurous teammates would find trouble, Pete returned to the gym and sat two rows behind Adam. He just wanted some peace and quiet for a few minutes. Adam’s thoughts were coming in loud and clear, and Pete wanted to distance himself from his floating friend.
As West Valley was wrapping up the third game, Tom and Ron appeared at the doorway of the gym, all sweaty and out of breath. Needless to say, it was time for the guys to leave. Pete knew his dad would appreciate an unharmed vehicle parked near the curb when he came home. Jenny flashed a smile at the guys as they quickly made their exit. Adam was disappointed, and was dragged out of the gym by the scruff of his neck.
Pete didn’t even ask Tom and Ron if they had gotten into a fight. The cuts on their knuckles and the distresses nature of their clothing gave away their activity.
“Those guys were asking for it.” Tom said.
“Yeah, they were looking for a beating.” Ron added.
“What did they say?” Pete asked.
“These two football players saw us walk by the weight room and they said our football team sucked.” Ron said.
“So, then you beat them up?” Adam questioned.
“No, not yet, lover boy.” Tom answered.
“They didn’t say anything about Jenny, did they?” asked Adam.
Pete looked in the rear view mirror and saw Tom and Ron shaking their heads in disbelief.
“No, A.B., as far as I know she hasn’t been with anyone from Pikesville yet. She’s just finishing the R’s in our town.” Tom shot back.
“Very funny, Sully.” Adam countered.
“Finish the story.” Pete implored.
“Well, this one guy on the bench press said that our team sucked and our school was a bunch of losers.” Tom said.
“Then we beat the shit out of them!” Ron added. “I think I broke one guy’s nose.”
“You guys were breaking bones and Jenny was spiking Adam’s balls.” Pete joked.
“Serve it up, A.B.” Ron said.
“She’s setting you up for the big one, A.B.” Tom said.
“Don’t you guys have anything better to do?” Adam asked.
“What could be better than watching your friends beat up people and fall for the wrong girl?” Pete asked.
“You don’t think she likes me?” Adam asked.
“I’m not saying that.” Pete countered.
“She likes you, A.B. Just make sure you remind her who you are after you do it.” Ron interjected.
“You guys suck!” Adam yelled.
“I heard Jenny sucks, too.”
Tom delivered the knockout punch just as he had done moments earlier.
Pete and Adam’s relationship would never be the same after that short trip to Pikesville, as the days of hanging out at each other’s houses were long gone. Girls had become a dominant variable in the friend equation, and Adam was going to pursue the drunken tramp regardless of what was being said.
The next day before the team’s practice, Jenny Dowling confronted Pete in a remote hallway adjacent to the gym.
“Thanks for coming to the game yesterday. Did you like what you saw?” Jenny asked.
Pete ignored the possible sexual reference and said, “Yeah, the game was great. Adam had a great time.”
“Who’s Adam?” Jenny questioned.
“Y’now, Adam Baum...”
“Oh, the guy with the big hair and nose. He was at the game yesterday?”
“He was the guy sitting in front of me in the bleachers.”
“Oh, I thought he looked familiar. So why were you guys at the game?”
“We love volleyball." Jenny smiled. "No, we were really there for Adam.”
“Why were you there for Adam?”
Pete thought, “Wow! Tic-tac’s have more brain power than this chick. She gives me the creeps, keep moving.”
“What?”
“Why are you moving back and forth so much?
“I have a nervous disorder.”
“Huh?”
“Forget it," Pete said.
“Do you like me?”
“I'm just getting over Erica."
“That doesn’t stop most guys," the temptress proudly stated.
“I’m not most guys.”
“Yeah, I know, that’s why I want you.” Jenny moves in towards Pete.
“Sort of violating my personal space a little, don’t you think?” Pete said, getting ready to run.
“That’s the idea.”
“I’d really be flattered if I was dragging a club and drooling uncontrollably, but I really should be going before you do something I’ll regret.”
Pete turned and walked at a brisk pace down the hallway.
Jenny yelled, “You don’t know what you’re missing!”
“Can’t argue with that,” Pete muttered to himself as he walked further away.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The guys returned to Pikesville the next night, but this time it was their turn to take the court. The game wound up being the quickest and most uneventful game of the season, as West Valley easily disposed of Pikesville, 64-48. Pete had a solid game, scoring 29 points and grabbing 16 rebounds, and Tom Sullivan had a season high 17 points and six rebounds. The 3-0 league start was the best in the school's history, and the players were feeling very good about themselves.
After the team showered and dressed they headed out to the bus for the 15 minute ride back to West Valley. As Coach Andrews opened the door to exit Pikesville High, the sight of a vandalized yellow bus quickly caught the eyes of the players as they cleared the doorway.
Everyone began to process the broken window and the smoke bomb-filled bus. Just then a loud scuffle broke out in the hallway behind them. Tom Sullivan and Ron McNally were swarmed by eight guys wearing leather jackets, jeans, ski caps and heavy work boots. Pete, who was walking with Tom Sullivan, wound up in the middle of the brawl but acted purely to break up the melee not add to it. He pulled two guys off a bloodied Tom, who took the opportunity to blacken any eye within punching distance. Pete took a few shots to the ribs but his height made it difficult for anyone to reach his head. However, by the end of the fight, his nose spewed blood and his neck was scratched.
The mysterious band of thugs disappeared into the night as quickly as a fading glow of a firefly. Tom Sullivan’s nose was broken and his knuckles were bloodied. Ron McNally had the makings of a black eye, two very red ears, and a bloodied fat lip.
Coach Andrews had Assistant Coach Kowalsky bring the team outside while he talked to the coach and other representatives of Pikesville. Once finished, he shook hands with the Pikesville coach, stepped outside and said, “I’ll take Tom and Ron to the hospital. The rest of you go home, get some rest, and we’ll talk about this tomorrow at practice.”
Since the bus was unavailable, the players took rides with family members and friends. Pete sat down slowly in the passenger side of his dad’s car, dabbing his red nose with a ball of Kleenex. His ribs were sore and his mind was loosely focused on that stupid volleyball game and the fight Tom and Ron had with those football players in the Pikesville weight room. He saw this fight as payback for the previous day, but he also knew that once the West Valley football players got wind of this there would be hell to pay. Pete was a basketball player, not a brawler, and he knew better than to use his fists and break his hands. There was no real reason to fight, but even less of a reason to back down.
The next morning Pete awoke with pain in his front instead of his back for a change. His ribs were tender and he was having a little trouble breathing from a rapidly developing upper respiratory infection. He craned his neck and looked out the window to the dark calm that spread through the street. It was Saturday, and there were only three days until the first showdown against Fellingwood. For a change, however, Gerry Williams was the furthest thing from
Pete’s mind.
As the warm water of the shower streamed down on Pete’s neck to his back, his mind wandered back to his days playing Pony League Baseball. The bullies at Burnwood Junior High School would push Pete around because he wouldn’t fight back. They would try to intimidate him because they were older and more physically developed. He hated junior high school and couldn’t wait to get out. Besides being one of the youngest kids in his class, Pete was only slightly above average height. As uncomfortable as he was in the hallways and locker room, he was as comfortable on the field and court.
One bright autumn afternoon, Pete was scheduled to pitch against arch rival Billy the Bully McDowell. At 14 years old McDowell was the size of an 18 year old, but had just enough brain cells to make a fist and complete normal bodily functions.
Leading up to the game The Bully repeatedly taunted Pete, but Pete paid no attention to the point of not responding. This infuriated McDowell who said that he would “throw a pitch in your ear so you can hear better!”
Pete never let anyone in his family now that he was being shaken down on a daily basis. After all, his father always bragged about “beating the heck out of this one,” or “decking that one,” so much so that he wouldn’t understand physical abstinence.
As Pete warmed up from the mound before the start of the game, Billy snickered with his teammates and pointed at Pete. These boys, being from the other side of town, were obviously the descendants of a long line of bigots and bullies who inbred and preyed on easy targets.
Pete got the first man to hit a slow roller to second base and struck out the next guy on four pitches. McDowell waited in the on deck circle as his friend Karl Krueger managed to foul off a couple of pitches before looking at a slider on the outside corner. McDowell bumped Pete on the way to the mound and said, “You can run, but you can’t hide Petey. Throw me that junk and I’ll hit it to the snack bar.”
McDowell’s fastball was as wild as his personality. The first two men up in the frame walked on a combined nine pitches. Pete then stepped into the box by rearranging the dirt and planting his right foot firmly near the back line. “I wouldn’t dig in too much Petey,” McDowell grunted before he threw the first pitch behind Pete.
Pete didn’t move because he was up there to hit not walk. To everyone’s surprise McDowell’s next offering was actually heading for the strike zone before the clang of the clack aluminum bat set the stitched rawhide into the right centerfield gap. Two runs scored as Pete slid into second with a double.
McDowell was beside himself. His first reaction was to run at Pete and beat him to a pulp, but the infield umpire was right in front of him. Two walks and three strikeouts later, the inning was finally over. McDowell couldn’t wait to get to the plate. He stood dangerously close as Pete completed his warm-up tosses. Pete could have cared less.
Pete learned that power hitters loved to extend their arms from watching so many Major League Baseball games. So, the way to pitch them was to either paint the outside corner or bust them inside.
Pete’s first pitch was a fastball on the outside corner. His next pitch was taken low for a ball. Pete saw Billy leaning out over the plate and threw him an inside fastball that Billy turned on and hit foul a country mile. “Just missed it!” yelled McDowell.
As the ball rolled, for what seemed like two days, Pete turned and looked at his father. The elder Berman had a half-grin on his face that was acknowledged by his knowing son. The inside pitch set up the next offering, which was a wicked slider that started down the middle and shifted sideways moving further and further away from McDowell’s swinging bat.
The umpire yelled “Strike three!” as McDowell slammed his bat in disgust on the ground. Pete showed no emotion as the ball zipped around the infield. He knew Billy was looking at him and did not want to add another forest on top of the already-raging inferno. Billy struck out one more time and popped out to end a game in which Pete threw a two hitter and had 13 strikeouts.
Next day at school Pete was getting a book from his locker when a huge hand grabbed a hold of his right shoulder. A low voice said, “I’ll get your ass next time Pete.” Pete thought, “Pete. He called me by my real name.” Pete turned to look at Billy who had a smile on his face. He nodded and returned the smile. “Don’t get too full of yourself. One day a hero, next day a bum,” Billy grunted as he strolled away down the hall.
The two never spoke again after that day. That was okay for Pete. It was better to have quiet than abuse any day.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Another showdown against Fellingwood. This time West Valley would travel to Fellingwood, the site of the team’s last league loss the previous year. Pete’s mind was as blank as a sheet of paper in a broken printer. Besides his sore ribs and upper respiratory infection, the team was limping collectively into its most important game of the year.
Tom Sullivan wore a mask on his face to protect his broken nose, Ron McNally had two bloodshot black eyes, and a few other players had assorted cuts and bruises. Fellingwood, despite the sheltering attempts of Coach Carmine, knew about the brawl and subsequent injuries. He reminded the team of their three-year home winning streak and the loss at West Valley the previous year. Although his team had won the county championship the prior March, Carmine was worried about his star player going head-to-head against Pete.
Carmine sat in the stands with Gerry Williams a few hours before tipoff. “Gerry. We were county champs last year and they weren’t. One player cannot beat a whole team. They were a stronger team last year. We can beat them. We have beaten them, and we will beat them tonight!” Carmine said through his huge red face and scraggly beard.
“All right, Coach. I hear you,” Gerry calmly replied as he walked from the stands to the locker room. Carmine was a fighter and wished that Gerry was more like him. Playing on a successful team had not tested Williams' individual resolve too much. With the graduation of four starters, Carmine couldn’t afford an off-game by Williams. He knew Pete would show up, because in the three-plus years since they were informally introduced, he had seen the West Valley star always excel in adverse situations. Maybe it was time for an off game, following some prosperity, as West Valley headed into the Fellingwood match-up as the favorite for a change.
As the West Valley team warmed up, Coach Andrews walked into the locker room to talk to an ailing Pete who was praying to the porcelain altar. “Hey Pete, you gonna’ make it?” Coach Andrews questioned.
Pete took a deep breath and said, “Gerry out there?”
“Yes, and he’s looking pretty confident" the coach replied.
Pete opened the stall door and stated, "Well I guess it’s time to hit the floor," as the coach put his arm around him.
As the buzzer went off, the team gathered around Coach Andrews. “Okay, guys. We’re bruised, ill, and generally feel like crap. But life goes on and waits for no man. This is our year! This team couldn't beat us if all of us were six feet under! You guys are going to have to dig deep and not let them steal this one from you. Fight for every loose ball and rebound! This team hasn’t lost on their home court in three years! Last year we came close..." He looked around the huddle and exclaimed, "Gentlemen, this year we finish the job!” The team roared, “ONE, TWO, THREE DEFENSE!”
Pete walked out into the center circle and looked out into the stands. Coach Barry Melnick of Barringer College was seated in the upper right corner of the gymnasium, trying to spread out his 6'4" frame. Pete recognized the coach from a team yearbook he had sent him. That package was preceded by ten other letters highlighting the strengths of old B.C. The Division II Massachusetts private college was part of the strong New England 12 Conference.
Coach Melnick grew up about 20 minutes from West Valley in a town called Lessing, New York. He usually recruited in New England, because of the school's strong New England alumni base, but this local
catch was one he couldn’t resist. Melnick initially got a call from a pushy Carmine Pagnozzi, asking him to come see Gerry Williams. Melnick had heard of Gerry Williams but called his good friend from Helmsdale, Coach Ross Parker for an honest opinion. The call went something like this:
“Coach, this is Barry Melnick.”
“Barry, it’s good to hear from you. How’s the B.C. season going?”
Barry responded, “Not bad we’re slightly over .500, but I’m looking for something that will get us over the hump next year. That’s the reason I'm calling you."
He continued, "Carmine Pagnozzi of Fellingwood gave me a call, pushing his star Gerry Williams. I’ve heard of this kid and he’s highly touted, but I thought I’d call the expert for an opinion.”
Parker responded, “Gerry Williams. Nice player. 6’5”. Great high school talent. A little stiff. Limited shooting range. Questionable heart. Plays sort of like your old buddy Scott Lancaster. I remember when you came out of nowhere and played the pants off him. The great thing is that history repeats itself, and it’s happening right now.”
Melnick was intrigued, “You mean there’s a guy out there playing the pants off Gerry Williams.”
Parker explained, “He’s playing off all of his clothes. In fact, he plays just like you did. 6’6”. Strong rebounder. Parking lot shooting range. Leader. Shoots with either hand..."
Melnick filled in the rest of the blanks, "Excellent foul shooter. Outsmarts opponents. Can’t run or jump.”
“I guess you do know Pete Berman of West Valley.”
Coach Melnick countered, “West Valley? Do they have a basketball team?”
Parker would have none of that, “Yes, the same way Lessing High School was a real powerhouse before you came along." Barry went silent on the other end of the line. "Fellingwood plays West Valley in late December. Do yourself a favor and drive the 2 1/2 hours to Fellingwood, sit in the stands, and turn back the clock. I’ve been watching this kid play since he was nine years old. Would have beaten my team by himself if not for a hometown call. I go many of the West Valley home games. He’ll be a star with you if you don’t over-coach him.”
