by Phil Wohl
With five periods on and the last three periods off in the school day, there was no doubt that Pete’s thoughts were firmly focused on basketball. Or were they? What else would be on an 18 year-old's mind? Girls and cars were two distractions that could have altered his focus. But it didn’t, because Pete had both a girl and the use of a car. The three of them would often wind up in the same place, parked around the corner from Isabel's house. The petting was heavy, with the front seat converted into a laboratory of experimentation.
This was Pete’s initial direct contact with the female form. He had studied the curved shape for years, idolizing its form and saving his curiosity for the day that his mind would catch up to his body. His eighteenth year had blessed him with the right girl and finally a calm mind. It was the Thursday night before the Friday Port Lincoln game. After kissing and roaming for the better part of an hour, Isabel said, “My parents are going out of town this weekend.”
“Oh, where are they going?” Pete innocently replied. She then shot him a look that said, “I just gave you the green light and you want to know about my parents trip to Vermont!”
Pete blushed as the light turned on in his head. They both laughed as Pete started the car and blasted the front and rear defoggers. Isabel hugged Pete and gave him one last kiss goodbye. His mind headed directly for the clouds and the ecstasy that awaited him over the weekend.
Friday was game day but Pete’s mind drifted toward the vacant house at 2796 Pinehurst Lane. Isabel’s parents were not happy about going away for a few days but felt their daughter was old enough to go it alone. Initially, they tried to get Aunt Kathy to stay over, but Isabel protested her way out of it. Her hormones were raging and no adult intervention would be tolerated.
Isabel bated Pete all day. By the time West Valley took the floor against Port Lincoln, basketball was the furthest thing from his mind. By the beginning of the second quarter, Pete had three fouls and took a seat on the bench in the first half for the first time all season. He wasn’t even upset while watching his team fall behind by 10 points at the half to the undermanned Crusaders. As he walked off the court his dad sternly suggested, “Get your head in the game!” Pete didn’t even look up. He saw Isabel in the hallway and smiled broadly. “Get that smile off your face! You play like that way in the second half and the only body you’ll be seeing this weekend is your own!” she firmly stated.
Once in the locker room, Coach Andrews wrote a number four on the chalkboard. “Four points! Did anybody see where Superman went?" He looked at Pete and said, "Because, Clark Kent, if you play another half like that, you’ll be sitting next to me on the bench!” The coach threw the chalk on the floor and quickly walked out of the pungent locker room.
Pete sat in the locker room as his stunned teammates slinked quietly back into the gym. He walked over to the aged water fountain and half-sipped some slightly rusted water. In an instant his mind tumbled open, triggered like the last number of a safe’s combination. The fog had lifted and Port Lincoln would have to pay the price. Pete walked onto the floor and sat on the bench as his team warmed up. He stared at the floor so hard that if he was the Caped Crusader, his heat vision would have burned a hole through it.
As the buzzer sounded to end the intermission, the team huddled around an intense Coach Andrews. Pete was angry and wouldn’t make eye contact with the coach, whose voice could barely be heard over his own thoughts. He stepped into the center circle and won the jump ball. West Valley worked the ball around as Tom Sullivan took an uncontested jumper from the foul line. Pete saw only the ball and the rim as he tipped the errant shot back through the basket.
In a matter of four minutes the Crusaders 10 point lead had evaporated like a drop of water on a hot skillet. Leroy Johnson, Port Lincoln's coach, signaled for a time out as the 100 West Valley fans responded to the wakeup call. Pete’s tip in had been followed by an eight-foot baseline jumper and three long-range bombs. He again looked distant in the huddle. Coach Andrews had never seen him so far gone. As West Valley broke the huddle to their chant of “Defense!” the coach slapped Pete hard on the butt and said, “Let the world see that left-handed hook you’ve been working on.”
Pete didn’t acknowledge the remark, or the slap, and walked to the middle of the 2-3 zone. Confidence had turned to confusion in the minds of the Port Lincoln players. The young team had been instructed told to go at Pete to foul him out of the game, but were thrown off the scent by his torrid second half start. Coach Johnson had been confident that his helping man-to-man defense had solved the riddle of Pete Berman. By the end of the third quarter West Valley had taken a six-point lead on the strength of Pete’s 14 point, six rebound and four assist outbreak.
With a minute remaining in the game, West Valley had built a 16-point lead and Coach Andrews replaced Pete with Steve Gerring, who slapped Pete’s hand as he left the floor. “Glad you could make it in time, Superman,” Coach Andrews joked. “Sorry it took me so long, Mr. White,” Pete replied. 22 points, 13 rebounds and six assists in the second half for full-game totals of 26 points, 15 rebounds and seven assists. His last shot was a rolling left-handed hook shot across the lane that brought a smile to his coach’s face.
After the game Pete’s dad said, “See, all of those hours we spent working on your left hand paid off.” Pete looked at Isabel and thought that all the hours of practice paled in comparison to the fire lit under his ass by an empty house and a girl who held his one way ticket to heaven.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Pete went to the foul line before the East Shores game. He could hear an echo as he bounced the ball against the hardwood floor. Only a hundred people showed up, with the majority being family members and die-hard supporters. On a positive note, one of Pete's two favorite referees, Cosmo Bartlett, was on hand to call the game. He was a former player who took a liking to Pete but always made the fair call. He and Pete got along because they both appreciated good positioning.
Cosmo treated players like the father everyone wished they had because he was stern, but objective. He'd listen to a good gripe and give some constructive criticism in return. Cosmo blew his whistle:
"Foul on blue, #35. #44 white shoots two."
"He initiated the contact," said Jeff Bernstein.
"That might be true but why did you go off the floor after he head-faked you? You're not going to block his shot." Cosmo countered.
Jeff looked at Pete, who returned the puzzled gaze with a "You can't argue with that" look. A few minutes later, Bernstein plowed over Berman and Cosmo was quick to call the offensive foul. "You need to pick up your dribble and then throw up the hook!" Cosmo yelled in encouragement.
Later in the game Pete turned and tried to head-fake Bernstein in the air, but Jeff kept his feet nailed to the floor. Cosmo interjected, "He's getting the idea, Pete. Gotta’ start taking him off the dribble." Bernstein smiled broadly until Pete brought him out to the left corner, dribbled once with his left hand, and then spun passed him for an easy lay-up.
Pete looked at Cosmo and the two men smiled. After his 24-point, 14 rebound performance in just three quarters of play, Pete and Cosmo shook hands near the scorer’s table.
"Nice game, Berman."
"Always a pleasure, Mr. Cosmo.
West Valley's 63-41 victory elevated their league record to an unblemished 9-0 (12-1 overall), which prolonged their school record for consecutive league wins.
There wasn't much said between Pete and Jeff Bernstein immediately after the game. Pete was busy talking to Isabel and just wanted to shower and go home. Since East Shores was only ten minutes from West Valley, Coach Andrews let Pete drive himself to and from the game. Pete said goodbye to his teammates, and he and Isabel were the only people left in the gym.
"I like the way you took him outside after he didn't buy the fake," Isabel beamed.
"Th
e ref told him to do that," interjected Jeff Bernstein as he strolled into the conversation.
"Probably would have figured it out a few minutes later. Jeff, this is my girlfriend Isabel. Isabel, this is Jeff.
"Hey, don't you play for the girl's team?" Jeff asked.
"Yeah, how did you know?"
"I saw you guys beat up on my girlfriend Carol Kramer."
"Carol's your girlfriend? We went to basketball camp together last summer."
"Speaking of the devil," Jeff said as Carol walked into the gym.
"Don't tell me these two home-wreckers are together!" Carol said shaking her head.
They all laughed, walked out of the gym together, and went out for some pizza. It was an impromptu double date, but it worked. Just four teenagers making fun of their teammates and people on other teams. Competition, when left on the court, was a rare and wonderful thing.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Despite the unprecedented 9-0 league start, West Valley was ready to exact some revenge against anyone in a Pikesville uniform. The standings on that Tuesday morning read:
SCHOOLRECORD
West Valley9-0
Fellingwood8-1
Bernaqua8-1
Port Lincoln4-5
Lakeview3-6
East Shores1-8
Pikesville1-8
Pikesville had only split games with East Shores, and would be hard-pressed to win any of its last three games against West Valley, Bernaqua, or Fellingwood. The actual game that night, however, took a back seat to the talk of revenge. Revenge for the vandalized bus and against the band of attacking thugs after their last encounter at Pikesville.
Even though it was a Tuesday night, the hostile crowd would be ready to rock and roll. With a steady supply of alcohol flowing in their veins, the West Valley football players would be ready to drop the gloves on a moment’s notice. The blood was so bad that school administrators called on the West Valley Police Department to make sure no buses, or any other Pikesville vehicles were vandalized. Coach Andrews was also concerned that his players might try to take matters into their own fists. His boys had just fully healed from the last brawl. The pre-game talk went something like this:
"I bet you guys are dying to get out there. Dying to get some revenge against Pikesville."
"Yeah!" the team replied.
"Well, to tell you the truth, I want it too. But I want to whip these guys by playing our brand of basketball. Rocket-ball wins, not Rocket-brawl. You guys are finally healing. I would hate to go limping into the biggest game of our lives on Friday night. Gentlemen, history is knocking on our door. Pikesville and Fellingwood are standing in our way to making history. It's been a long time between championships for West Valley. We've come too far to be stopped by Pikesville and a few football players."
"As far as I see it, we're even. Tonight we settle the score. Once and for all. On the court. Let's play hard, but clean. Let's get it in here. ONE, TWO, THREE, DEFENSE!" With that the team roared out to the floor.
The tension in the packed gym was different than the usual big game level. People came to see a fight and were initially treated to their Rockets playing very physical, but fair, basketball. The team led 22-8 at the end of the first quarter, led by Pete's 12 points primarily on power moves. Tom Sullivan and Ron McNally also had four points apiece.
The second quarter started somewhat slower, but the two teams continued to battle. Pikesville was completely outmanned but still fought gamely. A group of football players were wearing their jerseys and standing in the exit doorway on the right side, near the boy’s locker room. They decided they didn't want to get caught in the stands if trouble arose. The only problem was that they were the trouble waiting to happen.
The police and school administrators were focused on the back door of the school, which was the closest entree-way into the gym. The same brave, but incredibly stupid, band of Pikesville thugs snuck through a side entrance and slowly made their way through the hall to the gym.
With the crowd and the players solely focused on the 26-12 battle on the floor, heads started to turn toward the disturbance near the boy’s locker room. Wielding chains and baseball bats, the Pikesville Pepper Squad started swinging at anything in a West Valley football jersey. The contained mayhem flowed back into the hallway instead of onto the court, so the game continued.
Police and school staff were quickly dispatched to the hallway and broke up the brawl before anyone could get seriously hurt. Out of nine Pikesville football players, five got away and four were left to answer to the cops and attempt to recover from the beating they took. The school had been well prepared and avoided a potential disaster. By halftime, the Pikesville four had already ratted out the other five. With the threat of expulsion staring them in the face, they would all be happy with a one-week suspension and clean-up duty for the rest of the year.
At halftime, a few bloodied West Valley football players dragged themselves into the West Valley locker room. No one would mess with a fully united West Valley again. No speeches were given. No inspiration was needed. High-fives were exchanged as the basketball team rumbled out of the locker room to the applause of their high-spirited fans.
The football players went to a nearby cafeteria to receive medical attention from the EMT's on the scene. This team was special and the school was making sure that it was savoring every last morsel of their hoop just desserts.
Aggressive play by West Valley in the beginning of the second half eroded any fight left in Pikesville. Pete even drew a foul for over-zealously boxing out the Pikesville center, Bob Lane, to the top of the key. While Bob was holding on for dear life, the rest of his teammates had already put up the white flag.
With the full surrender in place, West Valley finished the third quarter with an insurmountable 57-30 lead. Pete's 30-points and 18 rebounds were an afterthought to this statement game. The starters played only two fourth quarter minutes and gave way to the equally game second team. Of Pete's 30 points, only four came from points outside of the paint, as he chose to drive the ball straight through the Pikesville defenders. Nothing cerebral about this win. It was all about defending your home turf and West Valley responded by finishing a classic game of cat versus outmatched mouse.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The team was in the perfect mental frame of mind to claim the school's first basketball division title in 25 years. The schedule makers couldn't have planned it any better. A Friday night showdown in The Launching Pad versus arch rival Fellingwood for all the marbles. No motivation was necessary. The players knew what was at stake, but really just wanted another crack at beating Fellingwood.
Pete was swiveling on the desk chair in his room before dinner Wednesday night when the phone rang. Since his mother was busy burning dinner and his sister was doing her Social Studies homework with her headphones on, he had to extricate himself from daydreaming long enough to answer the phone.
"Hello," Pete said.
"Pete?"
"Oh, hi Coach Melnick. How's it going?"
"Great. How did it go last night?"
"We beat Pikesville by thirty-something and there was a huge brawl in the hallway during the second quarter."
Melnick sounds astonished, "While the game was going on?"
"Yeah. These Pikesville football players came with chains and bats, but wound up getting totally whipped."
Melnick replied, "You see, that's the problem with helmet sports. They scramble your brain. Why else would a few guys think they could win a fight at someone else's school?"
"Yeah, they were clueless."
"So how did you do last night?"
Pete replied, "I think it was 30 points and 18 rebounds."
"You think?! What did you shoot?"
"Something like 11 for 16 from the floor, and eight for eight from the line."
&nbs
p; "Something like?"
Both Pete and Coach Melnick laughed at Pete's nonchalance.
"Well, Pete Berman. The purpose of my call is this. I'm coming into town tomorrow and I was wondering if you would like to spend the afternoon with me?"
"Yeah, sure," Pete responded with enthusiasm.
"I already talked to Principal Berry, and he gave me the go ahead."
"Great!" Pete exclaimed.
"All right, Pete. I'll come by the school tomorrow about 12:30, and drop you back for practice at four."
"All right. See you tomorrow," Pete said and the hung up the phone.
Pete wondered as he hung up the phone, what Coach Melnick had in store for them the next day. He knew one thing: the experience wouldn't be ordinary. Ordinary like the day Coach Appelgate of Polytechnic University almost put him to sleep while giving an apparently smelly, stale presentation about old P.U. No, this would not be another stinker. Barry Melnick would make sure that Pete felt right at home.
"Did you have a good night's sleep, dear?" Sarah Melnick glowed.
"Thanks mom. I haven't slept that well in years," Barry replied.
"I heard you come in late last night. What's on your schedule?"
"Yeah, that three-hour trip got me in at 11:30. I'm going to see a kid from West Valley this afternoon."
Sarah asked, "Coming all this way for just one player?"
"He's not just another player. He reminds me of a quiet kid from Lessing some years back."
"Trying to recapture your youth?"
"No. Actually, I'm trying to save my job. Another 13-13 season and I'll be looking to coach elsewhere."
"Oh, I didn't realize that you were having problems."
"I'm not having problems. I'm just not connecting with my players. The last few years it's been really tough, but the minute I met this kid the fire in my belly was re-lit."
"What's his name?"
