Adventures
with the East Valley Screaming Eagles
by William Snyder © 2008
The Gila River Indian Community - 1993
I drove the white school district van to the headquarters of the Gila River Indian Community. The building reminded me of an old Elks Lodge. It was tattered and worn, with large chunks of paint peeling from the trim. Ominous black clouds loomed over the Estrella Mountains.
I drove the white school district van to the headquarters of the Gila River Indian Community. The building reminded me of an old Elks Lodge. It was tattered and worn, with large chunks of paint peeling from the trim. Ominous black clouds loomed over the Estrella Mountains.
“You
guys wait here while for a minute while I find out where the heck we
are,” I shouted to the boys in the back.
“Hey
coach, did it ever cross your mind to get directions before we left
the school?” David bellyached.
The
kid was squeezed into the back row of the van. At six-five, he didn’t
have a whole lot of leg room.
“I
did get directions, David. We’re there and I don’t see a gym. Do
you see a gym? Let me know if I’m missing something here, Dave.”
The
kid wasn’t even listening. He was wearing headphones and bouncing
his head up and down to the beat. I walked through the front door of
the tribal headquarters. The place smelled of old wood, pipe tobacco
and coffee grounds. An old Indian man was reading the sports page
with his feet propped up on a gigantic empty desk. Garth Brooks was
playing on Camel Country Radio.
The Indian was wearing thick, black-rimmed glasses, Wrangler jeans, a
blue flannel shirt and an expensive pair of snake-skin cowboy boots.
The man did not react when the wooden screen door crashed shut behind
me.
“Excuse
me,” I said.
“Oh
hey,” he folded and tossed the newspaper on the desk and stood.
“You’re the coach.”
“Yes
I am. Bill Snyder,” I said, extending my hand.
He took my hand softly, barely gripping it with the tips of his
fingers. I had encountered that soft handshake with other Indian guys
I’d come across since moving to Arizona. I don’t know if it was a
sign of disrespect or respect or just the way Indians shake hands.
Never thought to ask.
“Hello
young man. I’m Ned, and I’m the tribal chairman.”
“It’s
an honor,” I said.
I had
never met a tribal chairman before.
“Hey…a
Bill, the gym’s undergoing some repairs. You and your boys wouldn’t
mind playing the game outside would you?”
“I
guess not. Can’t be much worse than our gym.”
“Yeah,
I was at your gym for the last game. You’re right Bill, our gym’s
not anywhere near as bad as yours.”
The
East Valley Gym was a disgrace. Students were allowed to use the gym
during breaks. Hundreds of them crowded in each day leaving cigarette
butts, chewing tobacco, spilled soda, and gooey candy squished and
scattered across the badly warped wooden floor. There were dozens of
holes in the roof. When it rained, and it rained a lot that year,
there were puddles from one end of the court to the other. I talked
to the maintenance guy, who was the second laziest person at the
school, about fixing the roof.
“Can’t
do it,” he told me.
“Why’s
that, Brad?”
“It
was built wrong.”
“The
gym was built wrong?”
“Yep.”
“And
that’s why the roof leaks?”
“That’s
right, Bill.”
“And you’re not going to fix any of the holes in the roof.”
“Nope.”
“Someone could get hurt.”
“Want
some advice, Bill?”
“Why
not, Brad?”
“December,
January and February are excellent months to schedule away games.”
“That
covers the whole season.”
“Yes
it does, Bill,” Brad said, seething with sarcasm.
The
tribal chairman snatched his keys from a nail on the wall and
sauntered over to the door.
“You
and your boys follow me.”
The
chairman climbed into his expensive looking pickup and we followed
him along a dirt road and over a couple of hills to a basketball
court in the middle of absolutely nowhere. The court was naked. There
were no buildings in sight, just sage brush, tumble weeds and a few
ghostly mesquite trees. On one side of the cracked and worn
basketball court was a scorer’s table with a flip-card score board.
On the other side were three benches for the two dozen or so Indian
spectators. Many of the people were overweight, some morbidly obese.
They gave us a friendly round of applause when we climbed out of the
van.
“Hope
you boys don’t mind playing outside,” one of the men shouted to
us.
There was laughter from the crowd.
“You
boys’ll want to adjust your shots ‘cause there’s a wind comin’
in from the west, eh,” added a man with long hair and a t-shirt
that read Fry Bread Power.
More laughter.
“Where
do we sit coach?” One of my players asked.
“On the dirt - or stand, I guess.”
Estrella
Mountain had just the five players and I don’t think those boys
ever sat down. They had already gone through their warm up drills and
they were engaged in a game of twenty-one. I approached the coach.
Appearing to be in his forties, he was a tall white guy who with too
many broken blood vessels on his nose.
“How
you doin’, coach?” I asked
Nothing.
He looked at me and then my team. The five rez boys had beaten us by
two points three weeks earlier.
“The
old outdoor court on the rez trick. Nice move coach.”
There
was no outdoor court on the rez trick. I was trying to be funny, make
conversation. This guy was having none of it.
“You
better get your boys warmed up,” he said before literally turning
his back on me.
“Does
this mean we’re not meeting for beers after the game?” I said to
the coach’s back.
Nothing.
I
thought it was funny.
We
won the opening tip and David Thomas got things started as he soared
across the murky desert sky to throw down a monster of a dunk.
Everyone out there responded with cheers and celebration. One of the
opposing players patted David on the back as he ran by. The Indian
boys really got a thrill out of David’s dunk. Then the rez boys
kicked it into fifth gear and never looked back. We were down by
twenty at the end of the first quarter. During the second quarter a
couple of crooked-walking, half-bald rez dogs wandered over to assess
the situation. My entire team retreated from the court as the
Estrella Mountain boys scored an uncontested lay up. The crowd
erupted with laughter. During the third quarter, the ball bounced
into the sage brush. It was our ball but my players were afraid of
the possibility of being attacked by snakes or the rez dogs. They
started arguing over who was going after the ball. One of the Indian
players disappeared into the brush and reappeared with the ball. He
dropped it in front of my five bickering players and got back on
defense. The crowd loved that one and let loose with more laughter,
slapping their knees and wiping tears from their eyes. We were down
by fifty when Josh Rogan threw up a fake, blew past his defender and
flipped the ball over to Gary Smith. Gary took the ball in for the
first dunk of his life. It was a beautiful play. The crowd cheered
with appreciation of the sheer athleticism. The ref blew his whistle
and signaled Gary for traveling.
“That’s
bull s---!” Gary shouted at the ref.
The
ref whistled Gary for a technical foul.
“Oh
my God!” Gary shouted, throwing his arms into the air.
Members of the crowd mocked Gary, throwing their arms into the air,
collectively shouting, “Oh my God!”
At
that moment Gary lost it, turning to the crowd and shouting, “F---
all of you!”
They
loved it. Half a dozen people were still throwing their arms in the
air, looking at each other and shouting, “Oh my God.”
The ref whistled Gary for a second technical and tossed him from the
game.
“I
walked over to the referee and asked exactly where my kid was
supposed to go, taking into account that we were in the middle of the
desert. The ref said that Gary would have to stand over by the van. I
looked at Gary and tears were streaming down his face. He had been
totally humiliated. I put my arm around his shoulder and led him over
to the rear end of the van where he was cut off from the vision of
the merciless spectators. Thunder began to rumble in the distance and
lightening exploded across the mysterious gray skies.
“That
was f---ed up coach,” Gary said through his tears.
“Yeah
it was, Gary, but your dunk was nothin’ less than magnificent.”
“It
was my first dunk.”
“I
know. How’d it feel?”
“I
don’t know, I guess I felt like I was really flying for a minute
there.”
“That’s
good Gary. Just wait here for ten minutes and we’ll get the hell
out of here.”
I
felt like I should have said something inspirational, but I had given
him everything I had. The game had resumed without me. I threw in my
JV players and let them finish out the last few minutes. After the
game, the opposing players offered handshakes and walked my guys to
the van. Rain drops began to spit against the pale desert floor. I
looked for the opposing coach. He was already in his jeep and driving
away. We were definitely not meeting for beers.
After
the game I spent three hours navigating the rain soaked streets of
the East Valley to drop every single player off at their respective
door steps. One kid complained the whole time because he was last.
When I finally dropped him off I reminded him that I was last. After
driving back to the school at the old Air Force base, I parked the
van and drove my car home. I was tired and beaten. As I emerged from
the car, my three year-old daughter Macaulay ran out into the rain
and leapt into my arms.
I
held my girl and let the rain fall and everything was good.
