Sam breathes a sigh of relief.
Rocketing up for the tip, he feels he is the soul of reason. Ball to Rick, Rick to basket. Up and in. Hello, Trojans. Soul of reason, he telepaths to the wide boy in his face, On the roll of the season. No reaction. The boy isn’t tuned in. Possibly it’s his haircut. Shaved close to the crown, where the wide boy’s had the barber—sheepshearer—leave an uneven clump of dirty-blond that looks like dead, frozen grass that someone’s been sliding on at the tag end of February. Boonie-ramp.
The wide boy has a partner, a lean senior with a goatee and no-color eyes. Defending, they double-team Sam, making him work for it enough for him to enjoy outwitting them. On offense, it is the wide boy who is the real threat once he gets in close. The senior likes the outside and shoots threes with depressing regularity. The pair of them will have to be neutralized. Fortunately, the wide boy is slow; they can run him into the floor. Watching Todd swipe the ball from the senior with the goatee, Sam confirms a weakness he saw in the game tapes: Billy Goat Gruff has a balloon for an ego—big, hollow, too easily pricked. Gruff has to stop and beat himself up over the turnover as if there weren’t another three quarters to decide this game. His anger will be his downfall.
One by one, Sam’s starters flash him signals that confirm the original strategy and they begin to dismantle the Trojans. Sam guns steadily until a few minutes into the third, when the Trojans collapse. He comes out for a rest and Skouros does well enough to leave him in until the buzzer. Greenspark Indians, 85, Kinsale Trojans, 62.
On the way to the lockers Sam evades the media but they are waiting for his exit, wanting comment on the fact both Greenspark teams have now advanced to the regional finals tomorrow. Cooperation with the media is part of his job but this year the coaches have consented to his silence, and to Deanie’s. It would be too easy for her to become a focus, with her mask and her scar and her outrageous bald head, and leave the rest of her team feeling ignored. He shakes his head and shoulders his way through them. Winning is statement enough. Let some other kids have some spotlight.
In the stands, he finds Deanie with the other girls. The rest of his team settles around them, filling the rows with the green of their letter jackets. They stay to watch Castle Rock narrowly defeat Fremont. Above them, the Castle Rock banners are disorienting, the wrong colors to be under, and they are aware of being surrounded by Castle Rock fans. Who are aware of them in their Greenspark letter jackets. It takes some effort on Sam’s part to keep the inevitable ribbing back and forth good-natured.
Good copy: both Greenspark teams are one win away from the regional title and in the boys’ division, the struggle will be with traditional rival Castle Rock. The defending state and regional champ Greenspark boys will smite the Rock, the sports commentators predict, but Bricker has the edge against the distaff Indians. While the girls in green and silver have Gauthier, Bricker has a no-loss record, three six-footers and an awesome senior point guard named Merrilee Constantine. She is built like a fireplug, is cuter than an Olympic gymnast, and is supposed to be the best floor leader in the state.
Freezing the picture on Constantine’s exultant face, Deanie gives her a Bronx cheer and clicks off the game tape of the Bricker win over Oxford Hills.
“Relax,” Sam tells her, “you got something she ain’t got.”
Deanie takes his hands out from under her shirt. “Right. My own plastic faceguard and a busted face to wear it over. That’s a big edge.”
“I meant me.”
“And I’m supposed to sneak you onto the floor? Who are you going to play this game as? Billie? You’ll need a nose stud, a buzz cut and more mustache.”
Sam picks up the clicker and zaps on the TV. He rewinds the tape a couple of frames and replays it, freezing it again on Constantine. Seizing Deanie by the shoulders, he holds her head between his flattened palms and directs her gaze at the screen.
“Pay attention now,” he tells her. “Take a good look at this girl. I will tell you three things about her that will win your game for you.”
“Right,” Deanie says. “I’m all ears.”
“No you aren’t, thank the living Jesus.” Sam rewinds the tape. “Watch. She’s gonna pass the ball left, move up court, and take it back, then she’s gonna feint passing it, drive inside, and pass it right then, to her big guard, Number 10. She pulls it five times in this game. By the fifth time, Oxford Hills is starting to doubt that fake pass but they never got on top of it. You break that pass the first time she tries it and it’ll break her confidence.”
“Promise?” Deanie teases.
“Yup. Anybody can be beaten if they lose their nerve. One reason you work hard to be the best is so the people you’re up against see right away you are. You make’m believe they can’t beat you, and they can’t.”
“Right on, Coach. What’s the second tip?”
“She pronates her left ankle, the taped one, when she pivots. If you move on her just as she pivots, you can catch her off balance. Make her hold the ball low and you can take it away underneath while she’s trying to get on top of that ankle.”
“Nasty guy,” Deanie says admiringly. “You don’t have some way of figuring out when she’s got PMS, do you? What’s the third secret?”
Sam grins. “She’s never had an orgasm in her life.” Deanie whacks him with a cushion but he
