The Plunder Five

Chapter Two Hell on the Hoop

The big chartered bus unloaded by the dormitories. Jad Harrik said good night to Paul and the squad and walked alone in the snow back to his house. The snow squeaked under his steps and the stars were high and far away.

As he came up onto his porch he could see, through the front windows, the fire crackling in the living-room fireplace. Some of the tension went out of him. He set his bag down in the hallway. “Anybody home?”

Martha met him in the middle of the living room. “How did it go, darling?”

Jad sat down without removing his coat. The tiredness was deep in him. “We looked terrible. In every game. Terrible!”

“The papers said you won,” she said, smiling.

There was a thin note of anger in his voice that took away her smile. “We won, all right. But I don’t know how. Those are the three weakest teams in the conference. The biggest margin we had was five points over Holdenberg. And next Friday we get a visit from Western Ohio U. Know what the Ohios did to Holdenberg? They won by twenty-three points. Sixty-five to forty-two. Next Friday is going to be dandy! They’ve got a guard and a center nominated on the pre-season All American squads. Fran Stillwater and Si Veeley. Oh, we’re in great shape for that one.”

“I’ve laid out clean clothes for you, Jad. You’ve got time for a hot shower.”

He stared through her. “If I had a clown on the squad, I could throw him off. If I had wise guys, I could give them the bounce. Every kid tries his heart out. Every kid has ability. I’ve trained them until I’m blue in the face.”

He got up and walked woodenly into the hall and up the stairs.

Dinner was by candlelight. The steaks were good, the burgundy was exceptional. Jad ate mechanically.

Martha had her soft hair piled high. Midway through the meal she said softly, “Jad, do you know what day this is?”

He gave her a startled look. “Day?” Then he slowly realized that the meal was served in a special manner, that Martha had a special look. And he was ashamed.

He said, “I seem to remember that five years ago today a very special gal had the misfortune to get hooked up with a dull-witted schnook that isn’t smart enough to appreciate her.” He stood up, went around the table and kissed her lightly on the lips. “Honey, I’m sorry I bring the job home. It’s just that it means so much to our future.”

She smiled. “Darling, is the present so horrible?”

“Huh?” He looked over at the small cheerful fire. He grinned. “It isn’t too bad now, is it? All I need is... never mind.”

“What, darling?”

“I shouldn’t say it. A little confidence that we can lick the Ohios.”

Jad took advantage of the schedule break to work the squad intensely. He put on the uniform and went through the formations with them, keeping up a steady stream of instructions as he worked up a sweat. “Coogan, you’re off balance on the full pivot. Get down off your toes for it and plant the right foot. Keep your elbows out and the ball low or they’ll take it away from you. Look! Like this. See? Now I’m in position to pass it without signaling the direction.”

“Ricard, you’re looping those passes too high and too slow. You give the defense too much time. I want to see that ball move like a bullet, but don’t sling it with your arm. All fingers and wrists.”

“Lamb, on your hook shot you’re pushing the ball off the heel of your hand. Roll it up off your fingertips like this.”

“Okay, gang. Now run the series where Coogan is the decoy, and we make the break from the bounce pass from Zimmerman to Ricard.”

He stood with stony face and watched them go through the sequences. Last year’s team had been a shining rapier, flexible, fast as light. This squad was fast, all right. But it was a tin sword, bending as it thrust.

The trouble was that they were all so eager to do it right. He would catch them looking at him, hopefully.

“No!” he roared. “Coogan, when you take that step, slow down. Then the pass will hit you so that you can go right on up with it on a forward push. You take the step too fast and you’re beyond the basket and you’ve got to hook it up backward. That cuts your chances. Always play the percentage. Now run it again.”

On the Thursday before the game, George Lion wrote a scalding column.

After he read the column, he stood by the fire, his hands clenched. Martha came touched him on the arm. “Jad, it’s only—”

“Don’t talk about it!” he snapped.

She stepped back as though he had her, her face pale. Without a word she turned and left the room. Jad balled the newspaper and threw it on the bed of coals. It smoked and then the yellow bright flames licked at it, devoured it. It turned shiny black and fragments floated up in the heat,

They were as tight as a bowstring when he talked to them before the game.

“All right,” he said quietly. “We’re underdogs tonight. Ohio is fat and happy. There’s no point in telling you I want a win. There is some point in telling you that I want you to look like a squad that’s worked together before.”

He watched them go out onto the court. He groaned inwardly. They were making too many aimless motions, wasting too much energy bouncing around. They were like a hopped-up high-school quintet, amateurish beside the controlled ease of the Ohioans.

He looked at the Ohio squad. Fran Stillwater, the six-foot-six center, was a big steel spring. Si Veeley was known for his blazing speed. Ed Chizwiak, the set-shot expert. Moe Antone, canny and deceptive. Lefty Dwyer, who could get the ball away before you knew he had touched it. They moved with that controlled insolence, that fat-cat competence that all winning combos in every sport seem to acquire.

Stalk took himself out of the first tap by going up too soon, a mistake that he hadn’t made all season. Stillwater slapped it over to Veeley. Veeley dribbled down directly at Bobby Lamb, pivoted and passed it over to Antone coming down the sideline. Antone got rid of it in a greased-lightning bounce pass behind Bobby Lamb while Bobby tried vainly to reach it. Stillwater, coming in, took the pass at his thighs as he went up into his leap, holding the ball in one hand, thrusting it gently upward and forward at the apex of his leap. It didn’t touch the rim as it whisked down through the strings.

Ben Cohen took it and passed it out to Stalk, already moving. Stalk dribbled twice and Lefty Dwyer reached out, almost delicately, and hooked the ball away. It skittered over to Chizwiak who whirled, feinted Ricard out of position, turned back and sank his set shot from forty feet.

Nyeland took it downcourt and cross-passed it, looking for the break to go in. Zimmerman whirled free and drifted over into the corner. Jad caught his breath as Ben Cohen made the pass. But somehow Chizwiak twisted and got his hand in front of the ball. Stillwater had sensed the break and he was at top speed, going down the court. Chizwiak flung the ball half the length of the court, hanging it on a hook in front of Stillwater. Stillwater dribbled, cut left and went up, dropping his shot beautifully.

Again Cohen took it and again they went down, passing hard and fast, probing for a hole in the Ohio defense. This time Zimmerman got through and missed. Stalk went up and missed the rebound, stumbling as he came down. By then Stillwater had come up and he slapped it out to Antone who flung a looping pass diagonally across-court to Chizwiak. Chizwiak took it down, making a full pivot away from Frenchy Ricard, taking it in as though to go up with it, then braking and feeding out to the side to Stillwater. Stillwater dropped it without effort.

The score stood at 8–0, with the Ohios looking good enough to make it 80-0. Nyeland rooters sat in blank, numb apathy.

At the end of ten minutes it was 15-4, and nervous Frenchy Ricard was playing with fury, tears on his cheeks. Ohio took advantage of his anger to lure him out of position and go into the slot he left open.

Jad heard the comments from the packed bleachers behind him. The game was being played in a silence so intense that you could hear the slap of rubber on the floor.

“Outclassed,” a man said, with anger in his voice. “...different when Henry was in there,” a woman said. “Come on, you tanglefoot wonders!” a drunk roared.

And, at the end of the half, it stood 33–13. The very size of the deficit seemed to render the Deuces more helpless. Jad had to sit and watch the sorry spectacle of Coogan passing to a man who wasn’t there, of Zimmerman over-running the basket when he did work his way loose, of Ricard, trying for an intercept, tapping the ball directly into the basket for an Ohio score.

He sat huddled on the bench with Paul Frieden pale and silent beside him.

The game ended, 61–30.

Jad said, “Paul, take care of things. I’m going home.”

Martha met him in the hallway. She said firmly, “Let’s not talk about it.”

“You heard it over the radio?”

“Yes.”

He gave her a tired smile. “I wish there was some way I could stop thinking about it.”

“It isn’t the end of the world, Jad.”

“The end of my world.”

She frowned at him. “You never have been really disappointed in anything before, have you? You’ve had such a plan for everything. Nothing has ever defeated you.”

“This has.”

She nodded. “I know. And maybe it’s a good thing.”

“Oh, don’t give me any pollyanna philosophy! Please!”

Her eyes flashed. “And don’t take your disappointments out on me!”

“I’m sorry, baby. I really am.”

“Forgiven, darling.”

He sighed. “Well, now it’s over. We’re out of the running. Maybe I can relax.”

“I hope you can.”

At practice he was bleak and silent. The squad worked out hard, but without spirit. He was standing on the sideline when he saw Ryan Zimmerman look beyond him and smile broadly, then yell, “Look who’s here!”

Jad turned quickly and saw Henry Martinik walk toward him. He saw at once that the left sleeve of Henry’s overcoat swung empty.

Jad shook his hand. “Henry! What are you doing here? What happened to you?”

Henry was tall, with a lean brown face, a certain shyness about him. George Lion had consistently called him Hank in the column, but among people who knew Henry, it had never caught on. The nickname did not fit him. He had a certain shy rustic honesty about him that made him one of the Henrys of this world.

“Coach, I fell right under the basket and two hundred pounds of meat came down on my fingers and busted the middle one. I’ve got it fastened to this here board for a while.”

“Will you get back in this season?”

“They think so. With the money they’re paying me, they’re right anxious to see that I do. How’s Mrs. Harrik?”

“She’s fine, Henry. Where are you staying?”

“I dropped my bag off at the Inn.”

The squad had grouped around them. Henry, grinning from ear to ear, shook hands with his friends and took the joking about how often he had his name in the papers.

When Jad had a chance, he said, “Henry, you’re staying with us. Martha wouldn’t forgive me if I let you stay down at the Inn. No arguments.”

Henry grinned. “You’re the boss, coach.”

Coogan said, “We got some new stuff, Henry.” He spoke eagerly, and then he glanced uncertainly at Jad. “It hasn’t been working so good.”

“Let’s see some of it,” Henry said, “if it won’t upset anything, coach.”

They split into two teams and Paul tossed up the ball. Jad watched in amazement. They slid through the sequences like butter sliding down a hot stove, making the slots, taking advantage of them, holing out. They were five agile hands of one body — a team, anticipating each other’s thoughts, faking, pivoting, passing. “I’ll be damned,” Jad said softly.

They broke it off. Henry said, “Say, now! You got some sharp stuff there!”

“How about some coffee?” Jad asked.

They went and sat in a booth in the coffee shop in the basement of the Fine Arts building.

Henry said, “It isn’t going so good, is it?”

“It isn’t going good at all. Something’s missing. You, maybe.”

“Hell, coach. I wasn’t the team. You know that. There’s five guys on an outfit, and you still got four of ’em.”

“I don’t know what it is.”

“They looked right to me out there.”

“And for those three or four minutes, Henry, they looked the best they’ve looked all season. Well, the season is shot now. I had to play it smart and try for two conference championships in a row so that I could get a better bid to go someplace else. I outsmarted myself. There won’t be any bids after this season.”

Henry frowned. “You giving up? Ohio will have some bad nights. They’ll drop a few. I’ve been checking the records. I don’t see why you couldn’t work it up to a playoff.”

“I could, if I had a squad, Henry. You ought to see them in a game. They try, but it just isn’t there. We’ll drop a lot more games than Ohio will. The season record might even be fair, but Nyeland won’t be in any playoffs.”

Henry grinned. “It could be professional pessimism, huh?”

Jad sadly shook his head. “Not this time. You’ll get a chance to see what I mean Monday night. We’re host to Winebeck Teachers. I’d like to have you on the bench with me. But we’ll skip my problems. How do you like the pro game?”

Henry whistled softly. “I guess I was getting pretty cocky. Those boys can cut you down to size fast. Makes you think, when you try all night to pass around a little fat old guy and he knocks it down every time.”

“Joe Risold?”

“That’s the one.”

“He gave me some bad nights too. I wish I was back playing.”

Henry grinned. “And I wish I was coaching.”

“Maybe you can tell me what’s wrong with the squad, Henry.”

“I can try, coach, but—”

“The name is Jad, Henry.”

“Okay, Jad. Sounds funny to call you that.”

“Sit tight. I’ll phone Martha and tell her you’re coming.”

The Winebecks were fast and strong and hard, but they lacked sharpshooters. Too many of their set shots were wild. They pranced and worked with an endless and tireless energy, and if they had had one man consistent from twenty feet, the game might have ended differently. As it was, it was a close thing.

Jad glanced from time to time at Henry’s frowning face. The Deuces pulled all the old errors from their bag of tricks, and added some new ones. At one point Ryan Zimmerman threw an inadvertent but beautiful body block on Frenchy Ricard and knocked him flat. Later, Coogan and Cohen, cutting in from opposite corners, collided under the basket with force that knocked them both sprawling. The passing was ragged, inaccurate.

But Bobby Lamb and Frenchy Ricard, oddly enough, were having one of those nights when the hoop looks as big around as a bushel basket.

It was 48–42, with a minute and a half left, when Ryan Zimmerman was taken out on personal fouls. The remaining four drew into the tight zone defence established for that contingency, but Winebeck brought it up to 48–45 by game’s end.

Henry was in the squad room listening while Jad gave them a run-through of the game, carefully listing the errors and the reasons, pointing out the defects in count and timing.

Martha sat with her sewing after they got back to the house, while Henry sprawled on the deep couch, and Jad paced back and forth, gesturing, explaining.

“You saw them tonight,” Jad said. “They’re good boys. They’ve got an instinct for the game. They’re not overtrained or undertrained. I’ve given them a bag of tricks that ought to be enough to smother any opponent in the conference. They all want to do well. This is their sport. Ben Cohen is the only one who plays football too. They just don’t dick, and it isn’t my fault.”

“Isn’t it?” Henry asked mildly.