Harrik was a tall man, wide and heavy in the shoulders. His face was square and emotionless. Eyes and jaw were hard.
He took the evening paper in and sat by the radio, opened the paper to the sports page. The basketball column was written up by George Lion, and it was titled Lion’s Cage.
The big question will be answered tomorrow night. Can Jad Harrik’s Nyeland Deuces get by Western in the most important mid-season game of the schedule? At risk of not being able to go out during the daylight hours, your columnist hazards a loud NO. Forgive him if he remarks that this year the Deuces are wild. When Henry Martinik left, the ace in the pack, so did Jad Harrik’s chance of his second conference victory in a row.
Western is rough. We’ll see topside basketball tomorrow night. Their center, Big Chris Link is one of the top scoring men in the business. Barry Towner and Huck Finnegan, the men out front, have dazzling speed and well-coached deception. Farley Howell and Steps Jerome, the guards, seem to have more arms and hands than that Indian goddess, Siva. They’ve been running wild the last two weeks after a slow start.
However, just for the records, we have been looking over the past performances of the Deuces. Man for man, their records are as good as the Westerners. There seems to be no reason for the ragged play and poor timing we’ve seen thus far from last year’s conference champs. Poor team morale? Poor training? Coaching? Tell us wha’ hoppen, Jad. We’d like to know.
Jad flung the paper aside. Things were not panning out the way he had intended. It had all been so clear, his planning. When leaden legs had forced him out of active play, he had looked around with great care. The quickest way to the top of the coaching business, he decided, was to achieve a spectacular improvement in one school. Nyeland College, with its worse than mediocre record, and with big schools on the schedule, looked like the place. Also, Nyeland was willing to set up five athletic scholarships a year for the basketball squad.
Jad had saved his pro money, as much of it as he could. He and Martha had talked it all over. Nyeland couldn’t pay him very much. During the first season he had made Nyeland a little more impressive. The second season the results began to show more clearly, and Nyeland was a rude shock to the larger schools, ending well up in the conference ratings. And the third year, with Henry Martinik fully developed, they had been the conference champions.
There had been offers. One very good one from a university on the west coast.
Jad had said to Martha, “I’ve still got good boys. I can swing the second championship in a row with them. Then watch the offers roll in.”
She had kissed him. “I’m glad, Jad. I wanted another year here.”
“Why? Honey, you need new clothes and we need a new car. This place is costing us money.”
“No, it isn’t. We’re even saving a little.”
She was tiny. He had picked her up then and swung her in a big circle. “One more year in this dump and then we’ll really roll, baby. Right to the top!”
He picked the paper off the floor, smoothed it out, and read Lion’s column again. Damn the man! And damn the mysterious something about the squad that was keeping it from functioning at peak efficiency. He had a trapped feeling. If this year was mediocre, no big school would give him a second thought. They would say, “Harrik? Oh, he had one good season when he had Martinik. More luck than coaching.”
Basketball was Jad’s meat and drink, his dreams, his work, his preoccupation. He realized ruefully that it was all he knew. Or wanted to know. And that one little thing about it that he couldn’t fathom was going to keep him trapped in this... this third-rate little jerkwater college. Jad Harrik, the Giant Killer. Lion had called him that and it had caught on. Now Lion would have to think up a new name...
“Soup’s on!” Martha called. He went into the booth, diagramming, in his mind, a pivot and feedout that might shake Coogan loose. Coogan would have to break toward the basket, coming in from the left of the free-throw circle. The zone man would pick him up there. Then Coogan could jam on the brakes and cut behind the defensive man. Then Frenchy, taking the pass from Ben Cohen, could feed it out to Coogan. If the defensive man on Frenchy had smelled the feedout, Frenchy could feint and make the try himself. Then Coogan, coming in again, would be spotted to tip it in if it looked bad...
“It’s getting cold, darling,” Martha said.
“Huh? Oh, sure. Sorry, baby.”
They were packed from the sideline benches back up to the high windows, and on the mezzanine balconies every seat was taken. Jad Harrik, with Paul Frieden beside him, sat grimly on the squad bench on the Nyeland side. The plump little red-headed coed with the pixie glasses was leading a Nyeland cheer, punctuated by the boom of the bass drum of the five-piece Nyeland swing band.
Western was on the court, casual and competent, dribbling, passing, dropping deadly set shots through the net. When they wavered, Big Chris Link came up with effortless powerful rebounds.
A roar greeted the Deuces as they came trotting out across the floor, under the lights. They warmed up and Jad could feel the gut-straining tension in them.
“Tight,” Paul said, beside him.
The extra men were called off the floor, there was that few seconds of breathless hush as the official tossed up the ball, and then a long scream as Link tapped it off to Finnegan, the Western forward. The Deuces raced downcourt with Ryan Zimmerman picking up Finnegan. Finnegan looked, feinted, fed a backward bounce pass to tall Barry Towner, then, with a flash of speed, got around Ryan Zimmerman, pivoted in the slot just in time to take Towner’s perfectly rifled pass. Stalk Coogan was there to try to slap it down. Finnegan feinted, forcing Stalk to jump, and then he went up as Stalk was coming down. All very pretty, very competent and very disheartening.
Bobby Lamb dribbled it back upcourt, but he was cornered against the sideline and had to freeze the ball into a tap. Stalk got the tap over to Ben Cohen, but Ben’s pass to Frenchy was too hurried. Howell, the Westerner guard, rammed himself into the line of fire, gathered it in and with the same motion gave it a side-arm sling across court to Link. Link took it beautifully all the way, feinting a feedout, then turning and going high, rolling the ball off his fingertips into the hoop.
Frenchy sank a set shot he should never have tried, and then Stalk was given two free throws on a personal foul by Link, tying it up. But the Western offense, rapier-swift, probing, retreating, striking from the unexpected angle, ran it up to 12-4. Nyeland called a time out.
As soon as play was started, Link was called again for a personal foul. Coogan sank the free throw. Finnegan made a beautiful steal of the ball from Ricard, slapping it down, diving on it and scooping it over to Link as he fell. But Stalk, with a sudden flash of brilliance, went high on defense under the basket and whipped it, one-handed, out to Ricard who had already started up the floor. Ricard took it over his shoulder, dribbled it fast, foot-feinting the defensive man, going in on a sole hook shot. The score was 12-7. In rapid succession they built it to 11 and then to 13. In the last seconds of the half Chris Link picked up yet another foul, and Nyeland took a two point lead, 14–12.
“If they can keep on—” Paul muttered.
But they didn’t. Western came back with four beautifully-executed counters in a row, only one of them wavering on the rim for a moment before Link floated up and gave it the necessary nudge as Stalk tried vainly to hook it away. Farley Howell got a free throw, and then Stalk got another, missing the chance.
Western cut in fast and Stalk snatched the rebound, pegging it out to Ben Cohen going up the sideline. As Jerome cut in toward Cohen, Ben reversed, slung it on a low pass across-court to Ricard. Ricard took it in, pivoted, fed it out to Cohen who had cut across. Cohen came back and dropped it effortlessly.