The Plunder Five

Chapter One Scrap-Iron Team

Jad Harrik stood in center court of the old gym, his scowl black, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. The place was silent except for the slap and squeak of rubber soles on the hardwood, the bounce of the ball, the sighing of winter wind around the eaves.

He blew hard on his whistle and the ten men panted to a stop, breathing hard. Jad found it hard to believe that this was almost the same squad with which he had taken the conference crown the previous year and played the invitation game at the Garden.

Almost the same squad. Only Henry Martinik was gone — Henry of the fabulous one-hand jump shot, the lightning pivot. Gone also was his twenty points per game, his dogged competitive sense.

“You went downcourt that time like a lot of firehouse clowns,” Jad said in a bitterly quiet tone.

He glared at his center, Stalk Coogan, product of the Iowa high-school basketball mill. A yellow-thatched six foot seven. Originally the nickname had been Cornstalk.

“Coogan, on that formation you’re the floating decoy, and I don’t want you to work yourself loose. I want you to keep the defensive guard occupied.”

Coogan shuffled his feet and said, in a low tone, “Okay, coach.”

Jad switched his glare to Ryan Zimmerman. Zimmerman was an even six feet, a hard-muscled boy with endless bounce. Jad made his tone wheedling. “Please Mister Zimmerman, in that formation your job is to head in toward the basket, cut two steps back out again and screen the defensive guard. The purpose of the move is to create a pocket behind you so that Ricard can sift in, half pivot and take the pass from Bobby Lamb. Is that too much to ask?”

“No, coach,” Zimmerman said.

Jad wheeled on Frenchy Ricard and roared, “And where were you, if I may ask? You weren’t three feet out of position, or even six. You were twenty feet away! You want them to stand there and wait for you?”

“I guess not,” Frenchy said uneasily. He was a lean, dark, nervous boy, with quick sure hands.

“Well, it’s up to you, all of you. We can keep running that sequence from now until the cows come home. When you’re doing it right, we’ll try something else.”

Jad took the ball, called the two centers over and threw it up for the tap. King Miller, the second-string center, got the tap and fed it over to scrappy little Harlan McGuire, the second-string forward. Jad Harrik moved over to the sideline and watched moodily. The play roared up the floor with Ryan Zimmerman diving onto a bounce pass, stealing it, forking it over to Frenchy who dribbled down, pivoted, passed it out to Lamb who got it away fast to Stalk Coogan floating outside. Stalk took a set shot and the ball whispered down through the strings.

Taken one by one, or collectively, it was a good squad. Chunky Ben Cohen and the phlegmatic, unemotional Bobby Lamb were the guards, fast with the ball, canny on defence. Bouncy Ryan Zimmerman and dark Frenchy Ricard were forwards who could think on their feet, on the way down the floor. Stalk Coogan, at twenty-two, had eleven years of competitive play behind him, and could shoot with effortless ease from any contorted, off-balance position. All of them were seniors except Cohen, a junior, and the proof of the merit of Stalk, Lamb, Ricard and Zimmerman was the way the pro scouts were nosing around, hoping to get another Henry Martinik out of tiny Nyeland College.

Jad Harrik groaned inwardly as he realized, anew, how much he missed Henry.

But a man had to make do with what was available. He watched them, weaving the endless patterns of offense on the floor. They called Jad Harrik the Giant Killer. Little Nyeland had killed the chances of many giants of the court circuit. Harrik’s constant goal was fluidity — flexible offense plus a Combination zone and man-for-man defense — plus that ‘cuteness’ that could only be reached by tireless practice.

He frowned again. What was the answer? When he had known that this season would be played without Henry, he hadn’t felt too badly about it. It hadn’t been one of those squads built around a stellar performer, greased and oiled to make one man shine. With Henry it had been a compact and joyous unit, doing battle with gusto. Jad hadn’t felt that it would be too hard to work Coogan into Henry’s position. Stalk was as natural a player as Henry, equally fast, lacking only Henry’s almost frightening will to win.

But here, at mid-season, with the schedule so stiff that it would have been wiser to schedule the lightest of workouts, he has having to pace them as though the season had not yet started.

The conference title was not yet lost, but it was fading. The quintet had played raggedly. He knew they were trying hard — possibly too hard. Eleven of the wins had been by a one- or two-point margin. And one of the losses had been by twenty-one points, the worst beating any Jad Harrik team had taken in the past three years.

There was no consistency about them. For four minutes they would rack up the points, stealing the ball beautifully, hooking the backboard bounces, attacking with blinding and bewildering speed, bringing heavy-throated from the crowd, and then, as soon as it had come, it would fade away and they would turn sucker for the clumsiest feints, make awkward fouls, permit themselves to be sucked out of position.

He watched them work themselves into the pattern, coming down the floor, for the screen play again. This time Frenchy slid into the vacuum, took the pass from Bobby Lamb and went high with a beautiful one-handed hook shot that dropped clean.

He blew the whistle. “Coogan, Cohen, Lamb, Zimmerman and Ricard, call it a day.” They walked tiredly off the floor. He heard Lamb and Cohen laughing as they went down the corridor to the shower room and pool.

He bounced two more balls out. “Miller and McGuire, go down to the other end and work on set shots.” King Miller, the second-string center, was the weakest of the lot. Scrappy little Harlan McGuire, sophomore, would be first-string forward next season, and a good one. Jad was working him into the games whenever he could. The other second-string forward was Dandy Ames, a casual, lethargic, handsome boy who always seemed to float rather than run. The guards, Angus Petrie and Bill Jones, were competent workmen, without brilliance.

He stared at them for a moment. “You three practice your passing, two at a time with the third man guarding. Alternate every once in a while.”

Jad walked over to the first row of benches where his assistant, Paul Frieden, sat. Paul was young, lean, serious. He worked hard, made few comments, but when he d id speak, was to point. Jad sighed as he sat down.

“What do you think, Paul?”

“They’ll have to do better tomorrow night against Western. That’s for sure.”

“What’s wrong with ’em? Can you figure it?”

“No.”

“They should be good. Tops.”

Paul shrugged. “They aren’t a team, that’s all. But they want to work as a team. Nobody wants to shine or build up a national rating.”

Jad stood up and glanced at his watch. “Keep ’em moving until quarter to six and then call it a day.”

Jad Harrik turned his overcoat collar high against the bitter wind and trudged across the campus, his head bowed, his gray eyes bleak. The street lights came on as he crossed the icy ruts of the Faculty Lane and turned in at his front walk.

Martha heard him come in and came from the kitchen into the front hallway. The look of her always lifted some of the burden. He kissed her. “Hello, girl.”

She cocked her head on one side and studied him. He had to grin. “Still no answer?” she asked.

“I wish my legs hadn’t quit on me. I wish I was back running myself to death with the pros, honey.”

Harrik was a tall man, wide and heavy in the shoulders. His face was square and emotionless. Eyes and jaw were hard.

He took the evening paper in and sat by the radio, opened the paper to the sports page. The basketball column was written up by George Lion, and it was titled Lion’s Cage.

Jad flung the paper aside. Things were not panning out the way he had intended. It had all been so clear, his planning. When leaden legs had forced him out of active play, he had looked around with great care. The quickest way to the top of the coaching business, he decided, was to achieve a spectacular improvement in one school. Nyeland College, with its worse than mediocre record, and with big schools on the schedule, looked like the place. Also, Nyeland was willing to set up five athletic scholarships a year for the basketball squad.

Jad had saved his pro money, as much of it as he could. He and Martha had talked it all over. Nyeland couldn’t pay him very much. During the first season he had made Nyeland a little more impressive. The second season the results began to show more clearly, and Nyeland was a rude shock to the larger schools, ending well up in the conference ratings. And the third year, with Henry Martinik fully developed, they had been the conference champions.

There had been offers. One very good one from a university on the west coast.

Jad had said to Martha, “I’ve still got good boys. I can swing the second championship in a row with them. Then watch the offers roll in.”

She had kissed him. “I’m glad, Jad. I wanted another year here.”

“Why? Honey, you need new clothes and we need a new car. This place is costing us money.”

“No, it isn’t. We’re even saving a little.”

She was tiny. He had picked her up then and swung her in a big circle. “One more year in this dump and then we’ll really roll, baby. Right to the top!”

He picked the paper off the floor, smoothed it out, and read Lion’s column again. Damn the man! And damn the mysterious something about the squad that was keeping it from functioning at peak efficiency. He had a trapped feeling. If this year was mediocre, no big school would give him a second thought. They would say, “Harrik? Oh, he had one good season when he had Martinik. More luck than coaching.”

Basketball was Jad’s meat and drink, his dreams, his work, his preoccupation. He realized ruefully that it was all he knew. Or wanted to know. And that one little thing about it that he couldn’t fathom was going to keep him trapped in this... this third-rate little jerkwater college. Jad Harrik, the Giant Killer. Lion had called him that and it had caught on. Now Lion would have to think up a new name...

“Soup’s on!” Martha called. He went into the booth, diagramming, in his mind, a pivot and feedout that might shake Coogan loose. Coogan would have to break toward the basket, coming in from the left of the free-throw circle. The zone man would pick him up there. Then Coogan could jam on the brakes and cut behind the defensive man. Then Frenchy, taking the pass from Ben Cohen, could feed it out to Coogan. If the defensive man on Frenchy had smelled the feedout, Frenchy could feint and make the try himself. Then Coogan, coming in again, would be spotted to tip it in if it looked bad...

“It’s getting cold, darling,” Martha said.

“Huh? Oh, sure. Sorry, baby.”

They were packed from the sideline benches back up to the high windows, and on the mezzanine balconies every seat was taken. Jad Harrik, with Paul Frieden beside him, sat grimly on the squad bench on the Nyeland side. The plump little red-headed coed with the pixie glasses was leading a Nyeland cheer, punctuated by the boom of the bass drum of the five-piece Nyeland swing band.

Western was on the court, casual and competent, dribbling, passing, dropping deadly set shots through the net. When they wavered, Big Chris Link came up with effortless powerful rebounds.

A roar greeted the Deuces as they came trotting out across the floor, under the lights. They warmed up and Jad could feel the gut-straining tension in them.

“Tight,” Paul said, beside him.

The extra men were called off the floor, there was that few seconds of breathless hush as the official tossed up the ball, and then a long scream as Link tapped it off to Finnegan, the Western forward. The Deuces raced downcourt with Ryan Zimmerman picking up Finnegan. Finnegan looked, feinted, fed a backward bounce pass to tall Barry Towner, then, with a flash of speed, got around Ryan Zimmerman, pivoted in the slot just in time to take Towner’s perfectly rifled pass. Stalk Coogan was there to try to slap it down. Finnegan feinted, forcing Stalk to jump, and then he went up as Stalk was coming down. All very pretty, very competent and very disheartening.

Bobby Lamb dribbled it back upcourt, but he was cornered against the sideline and had to freeze the ball into a tap. Stalk got the tap over to Ben Cohen, but Ben’s pass to Frenchy was too hurried. Howell, the Westerner guard, rammed himself into the line of fire, gathered it in and with the same motion gave it a side-arm sling across court to Link. Link took it beautifully all the way, feinting a feedout, then turning and going high, rolling the ball off his fingertips into the hoop.

Frenchy sank a set shot he should never have tried, and then Stalk was given two free throws on a personal foul by Link, tying it up. But the Western offense, rapier-swift, probing, retreating, striking from the unexpected angle, ran it up to 12-4. Nyeland called a time out.

As soon as play was started, Link was called again for a personal foul. Coogan sank the free throw. Finnegan made a beautiful steal of the ball from Ricard, slapping it down, diving on it and scooping it over to Link as he fell. But Stalk, with a sudden flash of brilliance, went high on defense under the basket and whipped it, one-handed, out to Ricard who had already started up the floor. Ricard took it over his shoulder, dribbled it fast, foot-feinting the defensive man, going in on a sole hook shot. The score was 12-7. In rapid succession they built it to 11 and then to 13. In the last seconds of the half Chris Link picked up yet another foul, and Nyeland took a two point lead, 14–12.

“If they can keep on—” Paul muttered.

But they didn’t. Western came back with four beautifully-executed counters in a row, only one of them wavering on the rim for a moment before Link floated up and gave it the necessary nudge as Stalk tried vainly to hook it away. Farley Howell got a free throw, and then Stalk got another, missing the chance.

Western cut in fast and Stalk snatched the rebound, pegging it out to Ben Cohen going up the sideline. As Jerome cut in toward Cohen, Ben reversed, slung it on a low pass across-court to Ricard. Ricard took it in, pivoted, fed it out to Cohen who had cut across. Cohen came back and dropped it effortlessly.

Then there was deadlock. Three times the ball was frozen behind the ten-second line, and each time Nyeland won the tap. The tension grew and grew and the Nyeland rooters mourned aloud as Western scored on a wild one-hander from the corner. The tally seemed to take the starch out of the Nyeland defense. Towner, Link and Jerome took the scoring burden, roaring, wide-open, into king-sized gaps in the backcourt, taking unchallenged flings at the hoop.

There was a bad pile-up near the Western bench and Chris Link pulled himself to his feet, took a step and nearly went down. Western took- a time out. Link tested the ankle, wincing. A boy named Howard Stacks replaced him. Jad watched Stacks with narrowed eyes. The keen edge of tempo was suddenly gone from the Western offensive. Stacks was tall, but without bounce. On static defense his long arms and big hands were busy, but his feet were nailed.

On his first opportunity, Jad replaced Zimmerman with Harlan McGuire, with orders to spread the defense and try to run around Stacks.

Then he sat back with an anxious eye on the clock. Across the way he saw Jordenson, the Western coach, frowning and shifting restlessly as the strategy took effect.

Stacks was a big man, but not a good big man. Time after time McGuire, Coogan and Ricard tied the big center’s ankles into knots as they cut around him for an open shot.

Encouraged by the slow change in the score, the Nyeland defense tightened up, though Western was dangerous every time they got their hands on the ball. They were fighting desperately to preserve some fractional part of their lead.

Slowly the score changed... 30–18... 36–30... 39–37... 41–40.

Now the crowd-scream was one continuous sound, lost in the back of Jad’s mind. He was as unaware of it as the guests at a party are unaware of the ticking of a clock. He was watching the master-pattern of the game.

Western, slashing hard in desperation, got two in a row to bring it up to 45–40, but then, spearheaded by a fighting, wild-eyed Harlan McGuire, the Deuces got their two and then, after a zig-zag pattern of passes, two tries and two wild rebounds, they got the third to go out ahead 46–45. Both Jordenson and Jad Harrik replaced dangerously weary men. Stalk Coogan, his mouth drawn with strain, was playing his usual forty-minute game.

Nyeland rooters groaned as the lead was lost and it went 47–46. Jad’s thick fingernails bit hard into his palms. The seconds ticked away. Stalk dribbled off into the corner and passed out to Petrie. But Petrie, unaccountably, had turned away. The ball bounced high off his shoulder. Three players spilled in a pile-up and Stalk recovered his own pass, stumbling, turning even as he was falling to arc the ball up. It kissed the backboard and dropped clean as the signal sounded for the end of the game. The coed cheerleader fainted and the Nyeland rooters went mad.

“Now you’re a hero,” Paul Frieden said, grinning.

“By one point,” Jad said drily. “One big point. I liked the way it was made. That was cute. Bounce your pass off your own man, fall down while you’re catching it and shoot before you hit the floor. Great!”

He went into the locker room. The joking and laughing stilled as he came in.

“A great squad,” he said bitterly. “Wonderful basketball! What do you think would have happened if Link had stayed in there? Henry Martinik is the only man I ever saw who could put a lid on that Link and keep it there. Your timing stunk out loud. I thought I could depend on you, Lamb. Your passing was inferior. Zimmerman, when they tried to steal it, you handed it to them. Ricard, half the time you were running one sequence while the rest of the team was running another. Why don’t you take a stick and a knife out there and get in some whittling? Coogan, you tried seven scores, by actual count, where you missed because you were trying to make them the fancy way. Got a girl in the audience? Then you’d let them gobble it off the rim and take it away from you. Ever hear of the rebound? A simple and effective maneuver. And remember, all of you, when the pattern says that two men go in, I’d like to see two go in. Tonight I got sick of seeing three or one. We aren’t playing this game off the cuff, you know. Not one man tonight played any better than what is called outstanding high-school ball. Next week on our little trip we take in Freemont, Holdenburg and Central. Last year it was a breather trip. This year it could turn into a funeral.”

He turned on his heel and left.

But in each game something was learned, some improvisation noted, marked down for future use. Out of the Western had come three offensive thrust formations. Jad stayed up until two-thirty in the morning, and at last he was satisfied with his neat drawings. Running the squad through them would give him the timing, and the count. The drawings could then he put on a master stencil and sheets run off for the squad notebooks, with each man marking in red his own responsibility in the sequence.