Blind Your Ponies (72 page)

They waited until everyone was ready: Curtis with his arm in a sling, Tom limping, Olaf favoring his heavily taped sprain, all wearing their championship jackets and auspicious caps. Then they left the field house together, their last moments as a team. Tom and Rob, the two who had suffered the indignity of losing the longest, carried the trophy between them as though it were the Holy Grail. The others surrounded them, escorting the symbol of their triumph to its permanent home in the little brick school building in Willow Creek. Grandma, Diana, and the girls met them in the lobby where many of the townsfolk still waited, including Denise and her mother. Axel had sped off for the inn to prepare for the onslaught.

“Can we take my sister on the bus?” Dean asked Sam.

“Sure, if it’s okay with your mom.”

“That would be nice,” Sally Cutter said. “Denise would enjoy that.”

In a group they came out of the front entrance and headed for the parking lot, accompanied by the Willow Creek bunch and Dean wheeling his sister. Preoccupied in a cloud of elation, they suddenly realized something was wrong. The huge parking lot was still glutted with cars. How could that be? The team had lingered in the locker room for more than a half hour after the presentation, savoring what they had done, in no hurry for endings.

“Man, look at all the cars,” Tom said, hobbling in his diamondback boots.

“I can’t hardly see,” Dean said, squinting into the glare of headlights that illuminated the acres of vehicles.

When they reached the bus, they found it draped with gold and blue streamers that were attached to every conceivable surface, rozinante on both sides of the hood still clearly visible. They climbed aboard and found their accustomed seats. When the occupants of the closest cars saw them, they began honking their horns, and soon the entire parking lot was in an uproar. Pete lifted Denise into his arms and Dean set her chair in the aisle, at the back of the bus. When they were all settled, Sam started the engine and turned on the lights.

“Looks like nobody went home,” he said.

“It’s more than that,” Diana said. “Looks like some are still coming.”

Sam began inching the bus toward the street. The kids opened some of the windows and waved to the well-wishers, overcome by this clamorous blare of acclaim and the blazing headlight tribute. When they reached the street, a Bozeman police cruiser and a highway patrol car sat poised in front of them, their colored lights flashing. A highway patrol officer strode to Sam’s window.

“Follow me. We’ll escort you home!”

“How come?” Sam said.

“Because you’re the gutsiest team
we’ve
ever seen and we’re all proud as hell. And besides, we’re going to have the biggest traffic jam this state ever saw if I don’t.”

“Yelly!” Tom shouted. “Yelly!” And Olaf swatted him affectionately.

The officer snapped a smart salute and Sam, without thinking, returned the gesture.

“All riiight!”
Diana shouted, sitting behind Sam.

With lights flashing, the two official vehicles pulled ahead slowly, and Sam followed. Cars and trucks flooded behind them, pouring out of the parking lot in an endless stream of light and sound. At the first intersection, two more squad cars joined the others, their colors whirling.

The bus traveled through the university campus, its inhabitants overwhelmed by this unexpected homage from those lining the streets, waving,
shouting, and cheering as the clamor of horns and vehicles increased behind them.

“We’re in a parade!” Dean shouted.

The escorts led them through the residential streets between the university and downtown. At every intersection more cars waited to join the caravan, their lights flashing, their horns tooting, their occupants waving and cheering. There were pickups with people standing in the beds, there were motorcycles, and people running from their houses as the motorcade moved past, some in robes and slippers, not wanting to miss this procession of the lionhearted.

“Do they do this every year?” Pete asked.

“Land sakes, no, sweetheart,” Grandma said. “This is a once-and-forever, and it’s for you gorgeous boys.”

When they reached Main Street downtown, the patrol cars turned west. Two abreast, vehicles of every description streamed out Main behind them.

Sam watched these well-wishers in their all-consuming happiness. They would in all likelihood return to their rutted lives on Monday. But they’d remember this day, remember how good they felt tonight, how happy they were because three Willow Creek boys stood against all the odds and won, like the overwhelming joy one feels when a wildebeest cow won’t quit and outlasts the wild dogs. And they’d remember that it does happen, the miracle when you least expect it. Sam glanced over and spotted John English, standing on the curb, waving his bone-colored Stetson in the air.

The patrol cars led them out past the mall and into the countryside, gradually increasing speed. The kids shut the windows as the chilled night air rushed in, and they turned silent. Thousands of strangers who had never been to Willow Creek were shepherding them home, these unidentified people identifying with their victory, claiming it for their own, awakened from their sleep of surrender and mediocrity to the hope of miracles and winning.

Sam turned to Grandma, who sat behind Dean and Curtis.

“How are you doing, Grandma?”

“I’m having the ride of my life, thanks to you.”

“No, thanks to
you,
” Sam said with his eyes back on the road. “You brought us luck.”

“That was Tripod and Denise.”

“How are you going to get your parrot?” Diana asked her.

“Oh, I’ll come in tomorrow, when he’s done showing off and gets hungry. He’ll come and sit on my shoulder.”

When they climbed the hill on the secondary blacktop that would take them through Churchill, they were utterly astounded. They could see all the way back to the town behind them where the stream of headlights was still unbroken,
six miles long,
a multitude who wanted to be fed by the loaves and fishes these boys had shared with those who had come to believe. They silently regarded one another in the glare of the lights from behind. They smiled. Sam’s heart felt as though it would burst. He gazed ahead at the red and blue flashing lights leading them. Axel would sell every bottle of beer, every can of pop, every morsel of food in the place, keeping the ship afloat for a while longer. He glanced into the rearview mirror at Denise and was touched with joy.

It was like the ride on the bicycle built for two with your one true love. It only comes once in a lifetime, but it is given to enjoy and cherish and you must tuck it safely in your soul. It had changed him, a lot, all of them. As long as they lived, they’d never forget this ride, this journey of the heart; they’d never be the same.

They were bringing home the boon, and though he wasn’t sure of everything that meant, he knew it had to do with pride and self-respect. The people of Willow Creek would walk tall for a long time to come, and Sam Pickett would no longer think of himself as a loser. It meant a lot of changes. Most of all, he would miss the companionship of these boys. They had taught him to fight, to find his fierceness, to never give up on life. He wished they could drive all night, that the earth would rotate away from them at such a rate that they would never reach Willow Creek, that what he felt was enough for all of his life; there was no one else he would rather be with.

This journey had been one of many, one part of a grander journey, and nothing in life makes sense if in the end there is not a winning. Good happens, every morning that the sun rises, every night that the moon shines, every moment that the earth turns. And if you’re brave enough to look in the elephant’s eye, you see, finally, that behind the sadness there is joy. And
suddenly Sam knew, as if he always had known, that whatever it was he had been clinging to for so long, had all along been holding on to him.

Diana put her hand on his shoulder. He glanced into the rearview mirror. He could see her lovely face, the shine of tears reflecting off her cheeks. She raised her gaze into the mirror, into his eyes, and smiled.

“I can’t bear for it to end,” she said.

“I know… I feel so helpless,” he said, staring ahead at the glowing highway. “I’m going to try to enjoy the celebration, but I know when I wake up in the morning this will all be a memory.”

“I don’t mean the team, the games,” she said.

“What
do
you mean?”

“I mean us.”

“What are you saying?” Sam said.

“I don’t want
us
to end, I know how good we are.”

“Are you sure?” Sam held his breath.

“No, no, I’m not sure,” she said, “but I know we have to go for it even if it’s only one chance in a million. Are you willing to take a chance?”

“
Take a chance! I was the baby most likely to take a chance on the maternity ward, I won the preschool take-a-chance contest, I set a record for taking chances in grade school, I was on the All-Take-A-Chance Team in high school, I won the Vince Lombardi Trophy for taking chances at the University of Chicago…”

Rozinante hurried for home. On the back of the bus someone had fixed a bumper sticker: willow creek, montana, home of champions. From the glare of the headlights you could see a cat in the back window. It appeared to have only three legs.

Finding Willow Creek

Questions for Discussion

by Stanley Gordon West

P
EOPLE TOLD ME
that if I wanted to meet a nice gal I should take country-western dance classes. I was living alone, middle-aged, and yes, I wanted to find a nice gal to share life with. So, I signed up for dance classes at Montana State University in Bozeman where I lived. I showed up for the first class along with about fifty other people. The instructor assured us that he’d make it fun as he paired us off in a big circle.

And yes, right off there was a very attractive gal who caught my eye. The only problem was that she came with a tall cowboy. At the teacher’s command we’d switch partners, the men moving up one space, and before long I got a chance to dance with her. She was down to earth and lovely, and she warmed me with her smile. There would be ten lessons; ten Tuesdays when I’d be hoping she’d arrive alone. But the tall cowboy didn’t miss a beat, and I figured there was little hope for me with the nice gal I met in the country-western dance class.

On the seventh Tuesday, once class was over and the dancers were heading out the door, I just about bumped into her, so close I could hear her saying to another gal, “I can’t find my brother.”

I turned on a dime and blurted loudly, “Your BROTHER?!”

By the time her brother found us, I’d found out she was single and had no current boyfriend—and I had her phone number. I waited two days before calling, not wanting to seem overeager. She accepted an invitation for dinner, then dancing, trying out our new skills on the dance floor. She lived out of town, about forty miles away in the foothills of the Tobacco Root Mountains.

I felt a long-forgotten excitement as I turned down a narrow blacktop highway. It was nearly dark as I approached the softened lights of the quiet little village, a place I’d never been before, a place I’d never heard of—Willow Creek, Montana.

She lived in Willow Creek, worked at the Blue Willow Inn, the social center of the town, and had a boy who played basketball on the high school team. So, besides dancing, I went to games with her. None of the loyal fans who turned out for these games seemed to notice that they hadn’t won a game in over five years. Five years! But the six or seven boys they could muster to carry the Willow Creek banner played every one of those games as if their life depended on it.

I was fascinated! It didn’t matter if they were behind by fifty points with a minute to go; they played every second of that last minute. It didn’t matter that they had only four players still on the court. It didn’t matter that the opposing team had wiped the floor with them physically and emotionally and—the strange thought came to me—
spiritually
. Don’t get me wrong, I’d seen plenty of favorite teams lose before. But this was different. The more games I went to the more I realized there was something unique going on here that I simply didn’t understand. What made these Willow Creek boys play like that?

The romance didn’t last, but I was hooked on the team and the town to which she had introduced me.

I was being drawn into the story of the team and of the village. I was enticed by the town’s legendary mystery—a bicycle built for two—and the legend of the Crow Indians, whose desperate plight resonated deeply with these townspeople. When I first heard that legend I was haunted by it. I still am.

I no longer had a country-western dance partner, but I had an obsession that engulfed me. I had to know where a town and its team got so much heart. For a time I became a fixture in the life of that team. At times, at the coach’s request, I even donated my body to play defense with a few other volunteer adults so the team had live bodies to practice against. It was much more tiring than country-western dancing.