They taunted me as I walked into the locker room.
I bled alone, until Eugene, my dad's best friend, walked in. He had just become an EMT
for the tribal clinic.
"Let me look at that," he said, and poked at my wound.
"You still got your motorcycle?" I asked.
"Nah, I wrecked that thing," he said, and dabbed antiseptic on my cut. "How does this feel?"
"It hurts."
"Ah, it's nothing," he said. "Maybe three stitches. I'll drive you to Spokane to get it fixed up."
"Do you hate me, too?" I asked Eugene.
"No, man, you're cool," he said.
"Good," I said.
"It's too bad you didn't get to play," Eugene said. "Your dad says you're getting pretty good."
"Not as good as you," I said.
Eugene was a legend. People say he could have played in college, but people also say
Eugene couldn't read.
You can't read, you can't ball.
"You'll get them next time," Eugene said.
"You stitch me up," I said.
"What?"
"You stitch me up. I want to play tonight."
"I can't do that, man. It's your face. I might leave a scar or something."
"Then I'll look tougher," I said. "Come on, man."
So Eugene did it. He gave me three stitches in my fore head and it hurt like crazy, but I was ready to play the second half.
We were down by five points.
Rowdy had been an absolute terror, scoring twenty points, grabbing ten rebounds, and
stealing the ball seven times.
"That kid is good," Coach said.
"He's my best friend," I said. "Well, he used to be my best friend."
"What is he now?"
"I don't know."
We scored the first five points of the third quarter, and then Coach sent me into the game.
I immediately stole a pass and drove for a layup.
Rowdy was right behind me.
I jumped into the air, heard the curses of two hundred Spokanes, and then saw only a
bright light as Rowdy smashed his elbow into my head and knocked me unconscious.
Okay, I don't remember anything else from that night. So everything I tell you now is
secondhand information.
After Rowdy knocked me out, both of our teams got into a series of shoving matches and
push-fights.
The tribal cops had to pull twenty or thirty adult Spokanes off the court before any of them assaulted a teenage white kid.
Rowdy was given a technical foul.
So we shot two free throws for that.
I didn't shoot them, of course, because I was already in Eugene's ambulance, with my
mother and father, on the way to Spokane.
After we shot the technical free throws, the two referees huddled. They were two white
dudes from Spokane who were absolutely terrified of the wild Indians in the crowd and were willing to do ANYTHING to make them happy. So they called technical fouls on four of our players for leaving the bench and on Coach for unsportsmanlike conduct.
Yep, five technicals. Ten free throws.
After Rowdy hit the first six free throws, Coach cursed and screamed, and was thrown
out of the game.
Wellpinit ended up winning by thirty points.
I ended up with a minor concussion.
Yep, three stitches and a bruised brain.
My mother was just beside herself. She thought I'd been murdered.
"I'm okay," I said. "Just a little dizzy."
"But your hydrocephalus," she said. "Your brain is already damaged enough."
"Gee, thanks, Mom," I said.
Of course, I was worried that I'd further damaged my already damaged brain; the doctors said I was fine.
Mostly fine.
Later that night, Coach talked his way past the nurses and into my room. My mother and
father and grandma were asleep in their chairs, but I was awake.
"Hey, kid," Coach said, keeping his voice low so he wouldn't wake my family.
"Hey, Coach," I said.
"Sorry about that game," he said.
"It's not your fault."
"I shouldn't have played you. I should have canceled the whole game. It's my fault."
"I wanted to play. I wanted to win."
"It's just a game," he said. "It's not worth all this."
But he was lying. He was just saying what he thought he was supposed to say. Of course, it was not just a game. Every game is important. Every game is serious.
"Coach," I said. "I would walk out of this hospital and walk all the way back to Wellpinit to play them right now if I could."
Coach smiled.
"Vince Lombardi used to say something I like," he said.
"It's not whether you win or lose," I said. "It's how you play the game."
"No, but I like that one," Coach said. "But Lombardi didn't mean it. Of course, it's better to win."
We laughed.
"No, I like this other one more," Coach said. "The quality of a man's life is in direct proportion to his commitment to excellence, regardless of his chosen field of endeavor."
"That's a good one."
"It's perfect for you. I've never met anybody as committed as you."
"Thanks, Coach."
"You're welcome. Okay, kid, you take care of your head. I'm going to get out of here so you can sleep."
"Oh, I'm not supposed to sleep. They want to keep me awake to monitor my head. Make sure I don't have some hidden damage or something."
"Oh, okay," Coach said. "Well, how about I stay and keep you company, then?"
"Wow, that would be great."
So Coach and I sat awake all night.
We told each other many stories.
But I never repeat those stories.
That night belongs to just me and my coach.
And a Partridge in a Pear Tree
When the holidays rolled around, we didn't have any money for presents, so Dad did
what he always does when we don't have enough money.
He took what little money we did have and ran away to get drunk.
He left on Christmas Eve and came back on January 2.
With an epic hangover, he just lay on his bed for hours.
"Hey, Dad," I said.
"Hey, kid," he said. "I'm sorry about Christmas."
"It's okay," I said.
But it wasn't okay. It was about as far from okay as you can get. If okay was the earth, then I was standing on Jupiter. I don't know why I said it was okay. For some reason, I was proting the feelings of the man who had broken my heart yet again.
Jeez, I'd just won the Silver Medal in the Children of Alcoholic Olympics.
"I got you something," he said.
"What?"
"It's in my boot."
I picked up one of his cowboy boots.
"No, the other one," he said. "Inside, under that foot-pad thing."
I picked up the other boot and dug inside. Man, that thing smelled like booze and fear and failure.
I found a wrinkled and damp five dollar bill.
"Merry Christmas," he said.
Wow.
Drunk for a week, my father must have really wanted to spend those last five dollars.
Shoot, you can buy a bottle of the worst whiskey for five dollars. He could have spent that five bucks and stayed drunk for another day or two. But he saved it for me.
It was a beautiful and ugly thing.
"Thanks, Dad," I said.
He was asleep.
"Merry Christmas," I said, and kissed him on the cheek.
Red Versus White
You probably think I've completely fallen in love with white people and that I don't see anything good in Indians.
Well, that's false.
I love my big sister. I think she's double crazy and random.
Ever since she moved, she's sent me all these great Montana postcards. Beautiful
landscapes and beautiful Indians. Buffalo. Rivers. Huge insects.
Great postcards.
She still can't find a job, and she's still living in that crappy little trailer. But she's happy and working hard on her book. She made a New Year's resolution to finish her book by