John Brandon - Citrus County

Before each season, it was customary that the middle school and high school girls’ basketball teams scrimmage. It was thought that the high school players would receive a boost in confidence by pounding the smaller, younger team, while the middle school team, after being routed by older players, would find it easy when they played girls their own age. Little did the high school coach know, Mr. Hibma’s front line weighed a combined four hundred and fifty pounds — a wild guess — and they looked even bigger when you got them out of their sweatshirts and into tank tops. Mr. Hibma watched the other coach’s face when the girls thundered onto the court for warm-ups. The high school coach was an older fellow with a Long Island accent who wore those stretchy, snug shorts favored by PE coaches. When he saw Rosa and Sherrie, all he could do was stand there and stare at them, his whistle clenched in his teeth.

There had been two failed attempts to bribe Rosa and Sherrie onto the team. One of the cute girls who sat the bench had offered them honorary student government positions, which they declined, and the second-string small forward offered them $10-an-hour jobs at her father’s aluminum warehouse, also declined. After that, the good players began an unfocused program of sitting with Rosa and Sherrie at lunch and asking them questions about their pasts. They did this for a week, neglecting the topic of basketball, and though the humongous pair were vague about their histories, one thing became clear: These two were deeply racist against black people. At this juncture, the point guard, as a good point guard should, had an idea. She plied Rosa and Sherrie with the sweet fantasy of defeating Pasco High at basketball, of vanquishing a black school at a black sport. The Lady Spiders had not beaten Pasco in nineteen years. How much this had to do with the girls agreeing to join, Mr. Hibma did not know, but here they were, the immovable object and the other immovable object.

While his team was running layup lines, Mr. Hibma noticed Toby and Shelby in the stands, the only spectators. They sat side by side, each reading a book. Shelby’s looked like one of the Bellow novels, Toby’s like that pole-vaulting manual. Toby wasn’t really reading. He had a bothered look on his face and kept watching Shelby out of the slats of his eyes. Toby looked tired. It was surprising, these two together, but it also seemed inevitable. Mr. Hibma was struck with jealousy. It could’ve been because Toby and Shelby were reading and he had to coach a basketball game. It could’ve simply been because they were young and still capable of having all the feelings you could have when you were young.

The game commenced and the high school girls quickly scored six points. They had a way of getting themselves open from about ten feet and sinking bank shots. Mr. Hibma called a timeout and suggested to his team that it might not be the worst idea in the world to begin playing defense. He told them they shouldn’t feel any pressure because they were supposed to lose, and when they retook the floor they indeed hardened the soft spots in their zone. Rosa and Sherrie got every rebound. The rest of the first half, there was little scoring. Mr. Hibma’s perimeter-shooting twins threw up airballs. The fast girl with no eyebrows reverted to missing her layups, something Mr. Hibma thought she’d been cured of. Free throws were bricked, inbound plays botched.

Mr. Hibma looked up into the bleachers and Toby and Shelby were gone, off to a more secluded spot, he figured. Mr. Hibma wondered what Shelby and Toby thought of him. They probably didn’t know enough about life to feel sorry for him. They probably didn’t realize Mr. Hibma wasn’t a teacher — not like the other teachers. He was more similar to Shelby and Toby than he was to Mrs. Conner. He felt grateful that neither of them had Mrs. Conner for a class. They were vulnerable and Mrs. Conner would see that and move in and ruin them. Whatever any kid was going through, they were better off without Mrs. Conner. They had to survive their adolescences without resorting to religion or meth use. They had to remain themselves; this, for some reason, was important to Mr. Hibma. Whether or not they ever knew it, people like Shelby and Toby and Mr. Hibma were allies in the world, allies in spirit, and Mr. Hibma, despite himself, cared what they thought of him. He wanted them to feel desolate, at least for a moment, when the news reached them later in life that Mr. Hibma had passed away.

Mr. Hibma had brought iced tea and lemon wedges for halftime. He let the girls fill their cups and find places to sit, then he relayed his plan: Chapman. They wouldn’t run their standard offense, Wilkes-Booth, any longer. They would slow it down. There was no shot clock in middle school basketball, so if the high school girls wanted to ever get the ball back, they’d have to extend their defense. When they did this, Mr. Hibma’s point guard, the girl with the bowl cut, would slither around until she found an open teammate. The plan preyed upon the impatience of the opponent, who would surely not have the discipline to sit back and watch the entire sixteen minutes of the half tick away.

And it worked. The high school girls were confused. Mr. Hibma’s point guard sliced and diced. The twins hit a few three-pointers. The fast girl banked in a layup. Rosa and Sherrie got rough, sending any high school girl who ventured into the paint sprawling across the hardwood. The high school coach walked over and complained to Mr. Hibma about his decision to employ a time-killing strategy during a scrimmage. “My team’s had five possessions since halftime,” he whined. Mr. Hibma, in a low tone, asked the man to kindly return to his own bench before he found himself with a black eye, and the man, looking scandalized like an old woman in a Victorian novel, shuffled away. Mr. Hibma was shocked with himself, not for telling the guy off but for out-coaching him. Mr. Hibma was faking being a coach, but his faking was better than this guy’s real thing.

In the end, Mr. Hibma’s team lost by four points. He gathered his girls up. “There’s still one area that greatly concerns me,” he said. “Only a handful of you have made any discernible effort to improve your appearance.”

The girls looked at the floor.

“I don’t want to have to bench anyone over this, so here’s what we’re going to do. I’m appointing the three cute girls, since they have a workable grasp of cosmetics and hygiene, as beauty captains. They’re in charge of making each of you over, and you better do what they say. We have eight days until the first game, so I’m going to spring for self-tanner out of my own pocket.”

The starters were dazed. The twins looked at their nails then hid them in their fists.

Shelby slapped at mosquitoes, observing her father as he directed his glare into the hissing grill. He seemed transfixed. It had almost suited him, becoming a single dad. He was a man who liked a challenge, who liked having his work cut out for him. Being a single dad had, in a way, settled him. He could run everything in the household just the way he wanted to. He’d been content, knowing he’d never marry again, knowing his daughters would be his life’s work. He’d done it all — grocery shopping, cooking, cleaning, helping with homework, the banking, driving Shelby and her sister to doctor’s appointments and birthday parties.

“A big steer got electrocuted,” Shelby’s father said.

She sat up straight.

“Somebody left the gate open at one of those substations. The thing was chewing a vine that was wrapped around a cable.” Shelby’s father sniffed his forearm. “And then I find these kabobs on sale at that Weeki Wachee Market, in those bins at the front of the store. I wonder if there’s a connection.”