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.
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.”