Sherman Alexie - The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian

He wanted to play.

He didn't want to turn his back on me.

He wanted to kill me, face-to-face.

That made me laugh some more.

And then Coach started laughing with me.

And so did my teammates.

And we kept laughing as we walked into the locker room to get ready for the game.

Once inside the locker room, I almost passed out. I slumped against a locker. I felt dizzy and weak. And then I cried, and felt ashamed of my tears.

But Coach knew exactly what to say.

"It's okay," Coach said to me, but he was talking to the whole team. "If you care about something enough, it's going to make you cry. But you have to use it. Use your tears. Use your pain. Use your fear. Get mad, Arnold, get mad."

And so I got mad.

And I was still mad and crying when we ran out for warm-ups. And I was still mad when

the game started. I was on the bench. I didn't think I was going to play much. I was only a freshman.

But halfway through the first quarter, with the score tied at 10, Coach sent me in.

And as I ran onto the court, somebody in the crowd threw a quarter at me. AND HIT ME

IN THE FRICKING FOREHEAD!

They drew blood.

I was bleeding. So I couldn't play.

Bleeding and angry, I glared at the crowd.

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.