Ben Cohen batted it over to Ryan Zimmerman who was floating up the sideline. Ryan faked a cross-court pass to Coogan and then flipped it ahead to Frenchy. Frenchy went in fast, pivoted and fed it out to Cohen. As Cohen went up with it, Cleet Mannis batted it away, right into Bobby Lamb’s hands. Bobby missed his shot and Hoagy Parr pounded down the floor with the ball. Two hook shots were batted away and then Jack Angelus sank a set shot from five feet outside the foul line.
Jad slowly grew conscious of the crescendo of noise behind him. Nyeland was seeing a rejuvenated team, a hard fighting team, reckless of energy, expending it in bursts of dazzling speed, flipping the ball around.
“See what I mean?” Henry yelled.
Ben Cohen rifled it out to Frenchy on the sideline. Cleet Mannis was all over Frenchy, nailing him there. Frenchy faked a high overhand toss, then scooted the ball low under Mannis’ left arm as he lifted it instinctively. Coogan took it at a full hard run, dribbling down to the foul circle, making a full spin there, faking twice during the spin, then slanting it over to Bobby Lamb who was coming in fast from the corner. Bobby dropped it neatly for the 2–2 count.
Penn College came back with endless bounce, weaving a pattern of bewilderment inside the edge of the scoring zone, then knifing in for the deuce. Frenchy fouled Cleet Mannis to make it 5–2. Then, on a dive at a bounce pass, Jack Angelus stole the ball, flipped it deep, took the feedout and sank it. It was 7–2.
“It was good while it lasted,” Jad said. The Nyeland rooters had sunk into apathetic silence, but they came awake again with a great roar as Coogan stole the ball from Hoagy Parr, and Ricard and Zimmerman went deep criss-crossing halfway in from the foul circle to tie up the defense enough to shake Ricard free. Hoagy slammed the ball at Frenchy’s head and Frenchy put it on a high hook for Ben Cohen coming out of the far corner.
Back under the Nyeland basket, Stalk smothered a rebound, flipped it ahead to Zimmerman who, forced into a corner, whirled free and sank it from there.
Then big Sam Denver delayed too long and was smothered at the center-court sideline and Coogan won the tap, feeding it into Ryan Zimmerman’s hands. Zimmerman, free for the moment, dribbled a slow diagonal while Cohen and Ricard raced down. But Frenchy misjudged his distance and Antonelli sunk the foul shot. It was 8–6.
Moments later Cohen slung a high wild one from midcourt. Three men went high at the basket, but it was Stalk who put the necessary correction on the ball to lift it in.
Penn raced back down the court with it, compressing the defense, flipping it back and forth, seeking an opening. Sam Denver found a vacuum to the left of the hoop, but Bobby Lamb, on a frantic dive, got his hand on the ball. It rolled clear and Ryan Zimmerman scooped it up, underhanded it to Coogan, raced ahead, took the flip over his shoulder, relayed it on to Ricard and then, taking the handoff in midair, continued on up, rolling it off his fingertips to build the tally to 10-8. Penn called time.
Jad realized he was half-standing. He sank slowly back onto the bench. Henry was pounding his shoulder, yelling, “Like that? You like that?”
The Deuces caught fire. They played all-out ball, yet not forgetting the intricate patterns of deception, not forgetting to think on the run, not forgetting how to take advantage of a Penn step in the wrong direction, a moment of hesitation.
“They can’t last,” Jad muttered. “They can’t last at this rate.”
On and on the score climbed. The Deuces played with flushed abandon; the Penns worked grimly, switching defensive styles, changing assignments. Ben Cohen got hot and they began to smother him. So Ben made a series of beautiful feed shots, just where and when they weren’t expected. After a time the Penns began to keep a tight rein on the potential receivers, and so Ben opened up again with deadly eye.
Nyeland kept tipping them off balance. In the last half, with four minutes to go, it was 58–46, and every Deuce had played a thirty-six-minute game. But Jad could see the legs slowly turning to putty, and he knew well the great hard pain from waist to heart, the cotton in the mouth, the anguished sucking of wind that was never quite enough.
It wouldn’t have happened if tall, yellow-topped Coogan’s reflexes hadn’t been impaired by weariness. He was cutting fast down the middle when Sam Denver tripped and dived at him. Coogan tried to writhe his body out of the way, but Denver hit him solidly in the groin with his shoulder. Coogan hit hard and lay still. Time was called and the trainer went out. They got Coogan on his feet and he came slowly of the floor, leaning heavily on the trainer.
“Better take him on back,” Jad said.
“Not a chance, coach,” Stalk said through pain-whitened lips. “I gotta see the rest of this.”
Three minutes and forty seconds remaining. Jad filled the slot with King Miller, then turned to Henry and said, “The foul shot makes it fifty-nine to forty-six. Now we see if they make thirteen points in the time that’s left.”
King Miller started out with a lot of bounce. He always reminded Jad of an airdale puppy, full of life but always confused.
Stalk’s loss ripped the heart out of both the offense and defense. Nyeland screamed as they saw their team’s lead being whittled down. Twice Miller was faked out of position and the lead dropped.
Then Ryan Zimmerman, on a brilliant fake, took it all the way. But with two minutes remaining, the Penns made three goals in a minute and a half. They whirled out again, stole the ball, carried it down and Jack Angelus hooked it in. Fifteen seconds to go, and the score 61–58. The Deuces were leg-weary. Mannis, on a foul by Cohen, was awarded two shots and made them both perfect. Five seconds. Hoagy Parr tapped it over to Sam Denver, and Denver was going down with it. Every man was in motion toward the Nyeland basket. Three seconds — two seconds — Denver stopped, planted himself, shot. The ball arced up, floating endlessly in the glare of the lights, reaching the highest point of the curve. Jad’s eye automatically extended the line of flight and knew that it was in. But up, up, up — a leap to an incredible height, and a leap that was timed to perfect and uncanny accuracy — up went gaunt lean King Miller and the reaching fingers brushed the ball. It hit the rim, deflected by the touch, bounced, came straight down and hit the rim again, and fell outside the strings. The game ended, 61–60, as King Miller whipped the ball upcourt at nobody in particular, his grin so wide that it looked as though he could tie it at the back of his neck.
“I’m old before my time!” Jad yelled into Henry’s ear — and then the frenzied fans had hoisted him roughly onto their shoulders and were marching him around the court.
By the time he could fight his way into the dressing room, some of the squad were already dressed.
He stared at them for a moment, at tired and contented faces. There were a lot of things they had to be told. Ricard’s ragged pivoting. Ryan Zimmerman’s bad underhand flips.
“This game,” he said, “showed up a few things that need correction.” His voice was hard and grating. He looked around again. For a moment he thought he heard Henry’s voice, even though Henry had already gone back to the house. He cleared his throat.
“What I mean to say is, we can fix up any little things we did wrong at some other time. It was the sort of contest I knew you could make. I’m proud of you. Take care of things, Paul.”
They were laughing and the room was a babble of talk before he got the door shut behind him. He frowned. It did seem better than walking out in the usual deathly hush that followed his after-game comments.