The Year the Agents Took the Pine

I covered the local city league games back then for the sports bureau. Broadcasting from that ditchwater wasn't exactly my dream job, but hey, at least I was getting paid for warming a courtside seat.

It's funny how quickly people forget what seemed like such a big thing at the time. It's almost like someone upstairs says "no, that was enough, let's get back to normality now" and suddenly everyone just puts it behind them. I won't kid you, I was hoping at least to get some kind of book deal out of it myself, but by the time I got my act together, nobody would touch it. Maybe it was me; after all, I'd known from the beginning exactly what species of charisma I did and didn't have. That's why I went into radio.

But that's getting off-topic. So yeah, the city league. Our team had anchored the division for years. Our coach, Parkin Popovich--everyone called him "Poppy"--was hard-nosed, a real old-schooler, always had a good cutting quip for me after a loss--everyone loved him, he'd been a heck of a player in his day--came close to two championships--and he was a good coach; he really was. He went hard on players, but they learned, or they got out, fast. "Practice, practice, practice" was his mantra; he even made players run laps when they were late to a workout--didn't matter how many millions they were making. But it was always one thing or another--injuries, stadium controversies, players getting suspended by the league--and there would go another season down the drain.

This year, though--this year was gonna be different. There was something in the air... Heck, maybe I bought into my own hype, I don't know. But I think it was more than that. There was the kid, Harris--Martin Harris, who I always called by the nickname he got in school, "Harry," 'cause he'd shoot the ball before you even knew he got the pass: "hair trigger," see? Later, everyone thought the name came from his big mop of hair, but that was just another way he came up with to stand out from the crowd. Oh yeah, he was a hot-dogger.

We'd drafted him the year before, straight out of high school. Poppy cussed about it, of course, but I think deep down he was looking forward to having a young spark plug to lay into. And man, that rookie year, did they ever go at it! Coach must've ripped his head off and screwed it back on the other way about fifty times. But even though he was benched half the season, you still couldn't argue with Harry's numbers--except maybe assists. When I'd interview him after a game where he'd missed a crazy, desperation shot at the buzzer, and ask him "Harry, you were triple-teamed; why didn't you pass it?" he'd just wag his head and make that little grin at the camera that wasn't there, and say "man, I can make that shot." And more than likely he'd go right out the next game and shoot it again, and make it this time, and Poppy would bench him for not running the play he'd called. They'd never have admitted it, but they were both having the time of their life.

Yeah, it was fun calling the games that season, even though it was another losing one overall. A lot of the older players retired or got themselves traded in the off-season; Harry didn't rub a lot of people quite the way they wanted to be rubbed. A few of them stayed, though, including Lee Walker, our starting point guard for the past fifteen years. Lee told me he didn't figure it was worth the trouble of going to another team after all that time, and anyway, Harry was bound to do wonders for his assist numbers. He was right, too. He and Harris got along pretty well, even though Harry would still yell at him when he passed to someone else. That kind of thing just rolled right off Lee, though. When he was on the court, he was all business.

So Poppy just made sure that we picked up some guys who could rebound and play some defense from all those trades, and when they started that next year, they lost as many as they won, but you could feel a difference around the stadium. Even the old fans who'd come and sat in those season ticket holders' seats all those losing seasons--cheapest season tickets in the league!--started to feel it: to feel that we had a chance, at least a chance, to win each game.

And they got better, fast. Even though coach would still bawl him out every halftime, Harry knew Poppy'd built the team around him. They never actually said as much to each other as far as I heard, but each of them knew this season was their chance: for Harry, to make himself into the superstar he'd always told himself he was; and for Poppy, to win that championship that had always been out of reach, and finally retire, thumbing his big beak of a nose at everyone who'd told him he was too old-fashioned--heck, just too plain old.

By the middle of the season, it sure looked like they were gonna make it, too. We were top of our division. Harry was leading the league in scoring and three-point shooting, and, sure enough, Lee was right up there in assists--most of them having gone to Harris, naturally. Harry was in hog heaven, rolling in endorsement deals and mobs of adoring fans. Poppy was still the cussin-est old battleship you ever saw, but once in a while, after giving Harry, or some big-city sportscaster the kind of chewing-out that would've made Teddy Roosevelt blush, if you were looking really close, you'd see him grin to himself, only for a second, as he turned away. Or maybe it wasn't even a grin really, just the absence of the scowl everyone had always thought was carved into his face. Yep, things were looking good.

There was just one problem: the Agents.

It was an expansion year for the league, and Washington, in the other division, got a new team. They were called the Agents, after the FBI or CIA or something, I guess. As a general rule of thumb, you can count on an expansion team to just plain stink for at least a few seasons. Everyone expects it, even their home city. It's just the way things go--you gotta pay your dues. Except the Agents didn't play that game.

A lot of bookies must've lost their shirts at the start of that year, because the Agents came out blazing, just mauling every team they faced, winning by margins that looked like typos. How'd they do it? Simple. They never missed a shot.

It was unbelievable. I caught their games on the tube, and even after I'd seen it, I still couldn't believe it. It had to be a special effect, you'd tell yourself--computer generated, or something. You'd see it over and over and over, because they had the same strategy every time they got the ball: work it slowly down court, pass carefully if double-teamed, move it around until the shot clock showed one second left, then shoot it straight through the hoop, so clean that you wouldn't even see the net move.

They never dunked, never shot threes, never fouled, and never called a time-out. If they got the ball without enough time to get it down the court, they'd just dribble the clock out; and they could afford to, because shooting one hundred percent, nobody was ever close to their score by the end of the game--heck, by the end of the first quarter. They hardly ever turned the ball over, either. A few times, early in the season, I saw a couple teams steal a pass from them--after a double-team, of course, since that was the only time they passed--but after the first few weeks nobody bothered trying that anymore; why put in much effort on defense when they were just gonna shoot it like you weren't even there?

They never subbed, either; it was always the same five guys--according to their jerseys, anyway. To tell you the truth, I don't know if anyone could really have told them apart, otherwise. Smith, Johnson, Williams, Jones, and Brown: all about the same height, same build, and same face that was immediately forgettable, except for the steely, steady gaze. They'd been nobodies in no-name colleges, as far as anyone could find out. Same with their coach; you know, it's weird, but I can never even remember his name, or what he looked like. With the unbelievable shooting they were doing, you'd have thought they'd have been living it up off the court, but they turned down every advertising deal--heck, even every interview that wasn't required by the league. They disappeared between games and practices. When they were absolutely obligated to answer questions, they just replied in short, monotone sentences. These guys had zero charisma, and coming from me...well, you get the picture. After a while, the press just let them do their thing, whatever it was.

The one joy teams got out of losing to them was landing a good dunk on them once in a while. See, they weren't absolutely invincible on defense: they played you really tight, man to man--I mean real tight, almost like they could read your mind, only they never went for a steal--but now and then you could catch them flat-footed with a sufficiently creative play, and get to the bucket. Not that it would make the slightest difference in the final outcome, but a drowning man's got to cling to something, right? Even the most thunderous alley-oop wouldn't ruffle their feathers any, though: Jones or Johnson or whoever was closest would just go pick up the ball, in-bound it to the next-closest guy, and down the court they'd go again, like nothing at all had happened. They were like...I don't know...like basket-scoring machines. They were unstoppable.

It got so ridiculous that hardly anyone bothered going to their games anymore. The league saw the writing on the wall, and announced that starting this season, there'd be a consolation game between the top two losing teams after the championship series--since everyone figured that the Agents would just roll right on through to the trophy, see? When you were scheduled to play against them, you just chalked it up as a loss ahead of time, and figured you had twice as much time to prepare for the team you had to face after them. I guess you'd think that something so amazing--so outrageous and unbelievable--as a team of guys that never missed a single shot would have had people in a perpetual state of consternation--heck, you'd think it would have had us questioning some pretty basic tenets of what we called "science"--but it just goes to show you how easily we can adapt to the craziest things. After the first few weeks, everyone just threw up their arms, wrote the Agents off as a freak of nature, and went about the business of betting on who was going to come in second.

Since we were in the other division, we only had to play the Agents a few times over the course of the season. I'd never actually seen them in the flesh, as it were, so once they got into town, I went to watch them practice; oh yeah, that was another weird thing: they didn't bother keeping people out of their team practices. I guess they figured it didn't really matter, since everyone knew just what they were gonna do each game, anyway.

I found Poppy there in the stands, pretty much as I'd expected; he loved to do his own scouting. He saw me going by and slapped the bench next to him.

"Pull up a plank here, bud. You ever see a practice like this?"

I made myself as comfortable as I could, and set to studying the Agents as they ran their drills. They ran them quickly, methodically, without making as much as a peep.

"Jeez, it's like watching one of those new robot-controlled assembly lines, only they're making hoops instead of cars." I chuckled a little at my own joke.

Poppy wasn't chuckling. "No, they ain't. Take another look."

"What? They aren't making cars, unless I'm really losing it. But you gotta admit, it's pretty weird how they're going through the motions down there like tin soldiers."

"I'm not talking about how they move, you knucklehead." That was the little term of endearment he'd picked out for me the first time I'd tried to interview him, four seasons earlier. "I'm talking about what they're doing--or what they're not doing, if that makes it any clearer for you."

Typical Poppy: never just giving the answer away, always trying to lead you to it, to teach you to find it yourself. All right. I shut up and sat watching them for a few more minutes. They were still doing the same thing.

"They're just doing the same thing over and over. I don't see what--"

"WHAT are they doing over and over?"

"The drill. Just passing back and--"

"'Just passing' is right. Any other brilliant observations?"

"Passing... You mean, that's all they've been doing?"

"'Bout time that caught up with you. Yeah, just passing. I've been here an hour, and they've run nothin' but passing drills this whole blamed time."

I watched the balls going back and forth between the silent, sweatsuit-clad Agents with machine-like precision. Back and forth, forth and back, over and over.

"But... You mean they don't practice shooting? How can they shoot so well if they don't even practice it? What do they--"

Poppy was getting to his feet, shaking his head. "Maybe they're just that good. I feel a headache coming on. I'm going home to take an aspirin and a nap. Seeya at the game."

God, it was creepy sitting there in the nearly empty bleachers, watching those big lugs tossing balls to each other, with only the sounds of leather hitting palms and shoes squeaking on the court breaking the silence. I scuttled out a few minutes later. I didn't realize I'd been holding my breath until I found myself taking big gulps of air once I got outside.

The next day was a butchering. It was the most boring game I'd ever had to call. "Smith takes the in-bounds... Dribbles across the center line... He's covered... Passes to Williams... Williams has it near the left baseline... No double this time... Williams still has it down there... Shot clock down to one... Williams shoots." I wouldn't even bother saying he'd made it; everyone knew it would go in.

Harry seemed to amuse himself a bit by making a couple particularly acrobatic threes. Coach gave him sulfur and brimstone for taking reckless shots, but you could tell his heart wasn't really in it; Harry even looked a bit disappointed he got off so easy. After the inevitable final buzzer rang through the court and the long-vacated bleachers, I shook myself awake and grabbed Harry as he sauntered toward the locker room. It never took much convincing to get Martin behind the mike.

"Harry, what do you take out of this game? Does anyone have a chance against those guys?"

"Man, I tell you what, you just keep gettin' me the ball, and I'll keep puttin' it in, you know?"

"Yeah, but come on, even you can't make every shot. How can you stop those guys?"

"Who says I can't make every shot?" Harry grinned impishly at me, swaggering off. That was the thing about Martin Harris: he really did believe he could make every shot. It didn't matter how many he'd missed up to that point--next time he got the rock, he'd put it right back up, just as if he'd never laid a brick in his life. And most of the time, it went in. But not all the time. Nobody was that good. Nobody.

Coach didn't even look over when I tried to get him to say a few words. He just walked straight back to the locker room. From what I heard later from Lee, he didn't stop there: he kept going, straight out the back door, got into his car, and drove off. The next day, he was back at practice, tearing off heads, maybe just a little more vigorously than usual. Harry got a double-dose of cussing out, and shot me a big smile. We couldn't beat the Agents, but nobody in the history of the game would've had a prayer against them, anyway. It'd be all right.

Aside from having to endure one more game against the Agents--coach just sat on the sideline, with storm clouds gathering over his head, but Harry made my job a bit easier by clowning around, taking crazy half-court shots just for the heck of it--the rest of the season went great. Every game except the Agent game sold out far in advance. The whole city was nuts about the team, and the whole country, it seemed, was crazy about Harris. His head was bigger than ever, but Poppy could still bite it right off when he needed to. The team kept piling up the wins, and earned top seed in the end-of-the-year playoffs. It had been a glorious season, and even though everyone knew we--or whoever--would have to choke down a championship-round stomping by the Agents, we had every confidence we'd be the ones hefting the trophy at the end of the real championship, the consolation game, two days after Christmas.

It was like a month-long party as the team battled its way through the playoff rounds. After years of having to switch to covering college ball following yet another losing, playoff-less regular season, I living it up, I'll admit. Our ratings had skyrocketed, and even little old me was becoming something of a celebrity in a small way, with more invitations than I had time to cover for appearances on local and nationwide sports talk shows. I didn't even mind that all I got asked about was Harris, Harris, Harris. He was the superstar, and I was one of the lucky guys who got to ride on his red velvet coat-tails.

About the only guy who wasn't happy was Poppy. Not that I expected him to look happy, mind you, but even for him, he was in a funk. He put more energy than ever into getting the team prepared and playing at their peak each and every game, but once the locker-room wrap-up harangue was over, I'd walk past his office, and see him in there, just staring straight at the wall. Times like that, I was too scared to try talking to him.

Christmas came, and we'd got ourselves booked in the championship game against the Agents the next day. In accordance with his own tradition, Poppy had the team over at his place for the big dinner. Harry was in high spirits, with bells and a Santa hat somehow balanced on his shaggy head. Poppy always invited me and a few of the other local broadcasters, too, and I wasn't fool enough to turn him down. Of course, this year he had the team trainers there, watching what the guys ate like hawks.

I was watching Poppy. He hardly touched his food. After the meal, I saw him slip out while everyone else was catching up on bowl games, or just laying around happily digesting and talking smack about the team we'd be facing in the consolation game two days later. They were treating the championship game against the Agents the next day almost like a vacation--and who could blame them?

Maybe it was the bubbly I'd put away, but somehow I found myself sneaking around after Poppy. I found him standing on the back deck, looking out over the lights of the city. It was a quiet, clear, still night, except for those twinkling lights. Heck, it did feel a little magical. Or it would have, if I hadn't already caught a glimpse of Poppy's face.

"Whaddaya want?" he growled, just barely flicking his eyes over me, then looking back out across the city, seeming to focus on something way off in the distance.

"I-- Congratulations on a great season, coach," I stammered, possibly weaving slightly as I came up to stand beside him at the railing. "I just want to say it's been a real honor calling play-by-play for you these past few years, and I know the guys won't let you down in the big game."

"You mean the consolation game." He spit out "consolation" like a rotten tooth.

"I--" This time I was really at a loss. I tried to pick out one of the lights to focus on, to steady myself.

"We're not going to play that game."

"W-what? Look, you know nobody's going to count the game tomorrow. You'll still be the champ, Poppy."

"You durn right I will be, because we're going to beat the Agents tomorrow." He looked at me for a second, straight in the eyes. Then he turned and went back into his house. A wave of happy noise from the players and television inside washed over me as he slid the deck door open and shut again.

I clutched at the rail, the red and white lights of the city dancing before my eyes. Funny thing is, suddenly I'd never felt more sober in all my life.

The next day, coach shut himself and the team up in the locker room before the game. I did a double-take when I saw them come out on court. They weren't goofing around like they had been the day before, or even the last time we played the Agents. Something was up. Afterwards, Lee told me what had gone on in the locker room. Coach had come in as the guys were horsing around.

"Wipe those smiles off and suit up. We're going to go out there, and we're going to win."

A sudden silence followed. For a few seconds, nobody moved. Then Harry giggled, and burst into a laugh. Soon the whole room was laughing. Except for Poppy. He stared at Harris, hard. Harry stopped laughing, tried to giggle, and found he couldn't.

"Man, come on. You know we can't--"

"I'll tell you what I know. I know that you're going to do exactly what I tell you. You're going to do what I tell you, and you're going to beat them."

Harry started to open his mouth again. Poppy stared at him. Harry shut his mouth.

"Good." Poppy's eyes scanned the faces of the team, slowly. "Walker."

"Yeah, coach," Lee said.

"You're going to feed the ball to Harris." Harry perked up. Coach transfixed him with a look. "Harris."

"Yeah, man--"

"You're going to shoot three-pointers."

"But they'll--"

"No, they won't. You just shoot for three every time we get the ball, you hear me?"

A grin was spreading over Harris' face. "Yeah. Yeah, man. I hear you like you're Luciano frickin' Pavarotti."

Poppy blinked. Harris grinned wider. Poppy's game face set back in.

"Well, what are you ladies standing around for? Is someone else gonna win this championship for you? Get suited up and get out there!"

Harry came out firing. Lee would bring the ball down the court carefully against his Agent defender, then get it to Harry--or to someone who could get it to Harry--dancing around just outside the three-point line. His defender never tried to play him any different, and--that was another thing about the Agents and their strict man-to-man defense--they never doubled him. Harry would get the ball and just go straight up with it. His man always had a hand in his face, but Harry was in a zone. It was like he didn't even see the hand anymore, or the rest of the court. Just him and the hoop. He shot for three every time, and a lot of them went down.

It was just math. The Agents always went for two, and always made it. We always went for three. To keep up with them, we just had to make it two-thirds of the time. I say that like it's easy, but Harry had shot better than that from long-range in more than a few games that season. He'd just never done it while going deep every single time down court.

"Lee to Harry... He puts it up... It's in! Another three for Harris! He's seven of ten from the field, all three pointers!" My heart was pounding every time he went up. Sixty-seven percent from three-point range, every shot, for an entire game... It just wasn't possible. Nobody could keep up that kind of pace. Nobody had ever even tried.

"Harry's got it...spins... Harris for three!" It was impossible. It was incredible. I swear that the air pressure in the arena dropped each time Harry went up, from everyone sucking in their breath. And you could hear it, too; the universe seemed to slow down; it was just Harry, off his feet again, the ball poised over his head, his wrist flicking forward... There was no sound except the drawing in of thousands of breaths, and the popping of flash bulbs in a ripple behind Harry as he went up for each shot--no other sounds as the ball arched over the Agent's outstretched hand, up toward the dark ceiling high overhead, then down to the basket...

"Splash! He's got it! Three more for Harry! This is unbelievable!" And then the whole place would just explode as time snapped back to full speed, even as the Agents carefully corralled the ball and brought it back down the court, netting two points with one second left again, like they had all season long. They were playing defense this time, our guys, but what can you do when the other team never misses?

I wonder if the Agents were asking themselves that. They certainly didn't seem to be doing anything any differently than they had throughout the whole season. They still showed no inclination to try double-teaming Harry. Martin didn't make every shot, of course, but he was making enough to keep pace. The team was down by just two points at the half. Harry came bounding over to the sideline.

"Coach, we're doin' it! We're--"

"We're losing, gol' durn it! What're you jumping around for? Are you gonna lose this game, or are you gonna win it?"

"I'm gonna win it, you old bastard!"

"Then shoot it like you mean it! Stop clowning around! We can't afford to have you missing shots! You put each of them through the twine, you hear me?"

"I hear you, coach." Harry and Poppy glared at each other, neither wanting to admit the argument had ended in agreement. Harry went and sprawled down courtside, a flock of trainers descending on him. Poppy sat in his chair. Usually, he spent halftime pacing around, barking at players, assistant coaches, mascots, or whoever was handy. What do you say at halftime in a game like this, though? It was just numbers, now: sixty-seven percent, or better than that, actually, since we were down by two. And a whole half left to play.

The buzzer sounded, and the team went back to work. Get the ball to Harry. Get it up. Get those three points. Come on.

"Smith for two..."
"Harris for three!"
"Brown for two..."
"Harry lets loose with another three!"

It was pure insanity. I've always meant to see if I can gather the numbers and find out if there was a sharp spike in heart-attacks nationwide during that game. I think I must have come close to passing out once or twice; in fact, although I've listened to my own replay dozens--if not hundreds--of times now, I still can't really remember the particulars of most of that second half. There was Harry, in the air with the ball, his wild hair bobbing; there were the Agents, plodding down the court; there was coach, standing on the sideline, following the ball with his eyes like he was at a tennis match; there was the score, going up steadily for both sides, and the clock, seeming to take forever to tick down. It was close; it was so close...

But the end, I remember like it was etched in crystal. With thirty-five seconds left, we got the ball back, down by five. Coach called time, but he didn't use much of it. All I remember him shouting was:

"Get the ball down to Harris, fast! Harris, make the shot!"

Lee took the in-bounds, spun and sent it straight to Harry. He caught it, whirled, and went up, but in such a hurry that he was slightly off-balance, falling sideways. He had to shoot it with just one hand.

"Harry catches, spins on the three point line, jumps... The one-handed shot... It's good! He got it! The Agent lead is just two points! Thirty-one seconds left to play! Jones to Johnson, he's doubled... Johnson to Smith... Smith to Brown... Brown for two... We're down by four, with just six seconds left on the game clock."

Coach called time. Harris beamed at me as he walked over to his sideline. "Best look I got all day," he said.

Poppy huddled them up, and I didn't hear what was said. When they got back out, Lee hurled the in-bounds all the way down court to Martin.

"Lee--flings it down the court to Harry, two feet back from the line! He throws himself sideways... It's up... It's good! Two seconds left! We're down by just one point!"

Problem was, everyone knew that the Agents would just run out the clock. So we'd have to foul, they'd make the two free-throws, and, if we were lucky enough to have fouled in time, we'd have to shoot a three with less than a second to go, just to have a prayer of sending the game into overtime. This didn't look good.

"Williams takes the in-bounds... He's doubled! Passes to-- Walker! Walker lays it up and in! We lead by one! Walker stole the pass and banked it home! Two tenths of a second left on the game clock! Can you believe it?"

To answer my own question: I sure couldn't. Instead of going for the foul and hoping to get a three to take us into overtime, Poppy had had the guys double-team immediately, knowing that the Agents always pass out of a double-team, and Lee had somehow come out of nowhere to intercept the pass. I couldn't remember the last time the Agents had lost a pass; heck, I couldn't remember the last time someone had seriously tried to take one from them. The audacity of the thing was astounding.

It would have been perfect, if only Lee had managed to take those last fractions of a second off the game clock. But he had to be sure his shot would go down, and with an Agent closing in, he'd had no choice but to put it up when he did. And this put us in a real bind, because two-tenths of a second, while not enough time to catch and shoot, was still enough time to flick a pass and a shot, and the Agents never missed. Once that ball was in the air, it was as good as sunk; and nobody doubted that an Agent could hit from anywhere on the court if they needed to.

"This is it. Two tenths of a second left, Agent ball; they're down by one. Jones will put it in play. Jones throws... Smith...misses! Smith missed the shot at the buzzer! The game is over! We've won! We've won!"

The place was an absolute madhouse. Nobody would have believed it, but there it was: the game was over, and the points were on our side. Lee was beside himself. I guess he never figured he'd wind up making a winning shot like that, especially not in this game, where Harris had been the appointed man of destiny. To the best of my recollection, Harris was literally bouncing around the court, mobbed by fans and team-mates. Nobody had ever had a game like that. I really don't think anyone ever will again, even Harry himself.

Poppy announced his retirement that same day. I like to joke that he couldn't go on, having lost his scowl. Once everything died down a bit, I went to meet him at the usual place--a dark old dive, where the owner knew it was in his interest to keep snoopers out, and not to tell any outsiders the coach was there. He'd finally started letting me in after I'd been trying for about a year, but only on condition that anything said inside was off the record. Well, it's been long enough now that I think I'm clear to give the details of this particular meeting.

I sat down next to Poppy. He didn't look up. I ordered a drink, and we both sat there for a while, not saying anything, not looking at anything in particular. Finally I couldn't take it anymore.

"Poppy, you gotta tell me just one thing."

"No I don't, knucklehead: I'm retired." There was something strange in his voice. I looked up. He was grinning--the old son of a gun was actually smiling ear to ear! I wouldn't have recognized him.

"Okay, okay; I need you to tell me something, 'cause it's driving me crazy."

"What?"

"Why'd you have them go for the steal? Why not foul? How'd you know we could get a steal?"

"Oh, that." Coach--Poppy--took a sip of his drink, then leaned back in his chair a little. "Well, best we could do with a foul was overtime. Don't tell the kid I told you this, but even he couldn't have gone another quarter out there, not like he'd have needed to." Poppy chuckled to himself.

"Yeah, but the steal--that was crazy!"

"Not the way I saw it. See, that was their weak spot."

"Weak spot? What weak spot?"

"Passing, knucklehead! Pay attention! Don't you remember that practice of theirs that we saw?"

"Yeah, and they were doing nothing but practicing passing. But they were still amazing at it! I think I can count the passes of theirs that I saw get picked off during the season on one hand."

"That's because everyone gave up, 'cause there wasn't no point in wasting energy on defense when you were gettin' your head handed to you anyway. Listen, knucklehead. I got to thinking about them a lot toward the end of the season. I didn't want to go out settling for second place--"

"Aw, come off it. Everyone knows they didn't count--"

"The championship's the championship, dammit! This was my shot at it, and be darned if I'm gonna let a bunch of blamed goose-steppers from Washington take it from me!" He glowered at me. I threw up my hands in surrender, and he continued. "Durn right. So I got to thinking how you could hurt 'em. Then I remembered that practice they ran, and the early games they had, where a few people got a steal off them here and there, back when people were still trying.

"So I went back and I watched tapes of those steals, real close. Over and over. And I saw something." He paused, took a sip of his drink, then continued. "Those weren't bad passes, at least as far as the guy throwin' 'em was concerned."

"What do you mean? They got picked off."

"Sure, but they were goin' where the Agent thought he wanted 'em to go. What happened was, the fella on the other team faked 'em--looked like he was going one way, then suddenly went the other, and got in the way of the pass."

"So they could be fooled."

Poppy nodded. "Yep. But that meant something else, too. It meant that they didn't have perfect teamwork."

"Huh?"

"Don't play dumb, knucklehead. You an' me both know that everyone thought they had some kind of hive mind--always acted in unison, like they had one brain, right?"

"Oh, yeah. Yeah, they never argued, or went the wrong way, or anything."

"Aha!" Poppy almost shouted with glee. "Yes they did! Just a little, they did." He settled back in his seat again, chuckling to himself. "See, when they got those passes stolen, that could only have happened because the defender wasn't where he should'a been in the first place."

I had to think about that for a moment. "Because they always took their sweet time, and they wouldn't have run a pass play to a guy with a defender in position to pick it off, whether he was looking or not."

"Right!" Poppy slapped the table. "Exactly! That means that their own man wasn't where he should'a been, not quite. One of their guys had screwed up the play!"

"But they never looked like they'd screwed up. They were so coordinated. Their passes, their shots were so perfect..."

"That's just it! This's how I figured it. Individually, see," he wagged a finger at me, "Individually, they were perfect--perfect basketball machines."

I think it was about then that I realized we were talking about them in the past tense, like they weren't around anymore. And in fact, they weren't, as far as anyone knew, then or since. The league would announce the dissolution of the team in the off-season, for "lack of funding" or something like that. Jones, Williams, and the rest of 'em were never heard from again. Funny how-- Oops, Poppy was still going. Another slap of his big hand on the counter pulled my attention back.

"Hah! Couldn't miss, could they? Nope. Individually, they were about the most flawlessly formed and trained athletic specimens you ever saw. I don't wanna tell you how many nights I sat up trying to figure who'd been able to pull that off." Poppy shook his head, and shrugged. "Well, I dunno. Someone's got the answers, and I'll bet you they aren't pretty. I can't say I care to know what they are anymore.

"Anyhow, their only problem was teamwork. Oh, sure, they were plenty good at it--better than anyone I've ever seen--but not perfect. Individually, they were perfect; but that's just it: they were individuals, and once in a while, they had slightly different ideas about what play to run."

"That's why they were practicing passing!"

"Right again, knucklehead! I knew you'd get there some day. Don't worry, it took me a while, too." Poppy pretended to commiserate, patting my hand. I pretended not to want to give him a good punch in the shoulder, just once. We had an understanding. "So, I knew we had a chance at stealing one. Making them pass was easy--everyone knew they'd do it as soon as you double-teamed 'em, every time. They had that drilled into their heads real good. I knew we didn't have a chance if it went to overtime, so I had to go for the steal. Lee's a pretty sneaky guy, so I just told him to wait for the other guys to double, and keep his eyes behind him. Odds were against it, sure, but sometimes long odds are still the best you've got to work with. And sometimes things just work out."

Poppy shook his head, still grinning to himself. Yeah, Lee'd deserved to make that steal, if anyone had. He'd told me just a few days earlier that he figured he gonna join Poppy in the ranks of the leisurely unemployed. I didn't blame him one bit. Heck, I envied him. Not many people get a chance to go out in a blaze of glory like he'd had.

A sudden snort from Poppy startled me out of my reverie. It really didn't pay to doze off around him.

"There's just one thing I can't figure out," he said, more to himself than to me.

"What's that?"

"Smith. He missed. He just plain missed the last shot. I sure didn't plan that; when Lee had to put up the shot with time left, I thought it was over; I'd blown it. There was no way they'd miss that shot, not after making everything they put up--every single blamed shot--all season long. No way, no how."

"Because they were perfect..." Something was nagging at me.

"Yeah. But they miss a flick shot like that. Jeez. Well, like I say, you do what you can, and sometimes you just get lucky." He snorted again.

"But they miss a pass-and-shoot like that... A pass..." That's when it hit me, so hard that I couldn't stop from grabbing Poppy to stop myself from being blown over.

"Hey! Watch it, knucklehead! Jeez! You're too wound up for this business. Get out before you have a coronary, kid."

"But don't you see? It's like you said!" A small part of me realized that I was coming across like a nut-case, but I'd never figured something out--something basketball-related, anyway--before Poppy had, and I had to get it out before he got to it himself. "Teamwork--passing--was their weak spot! There was a chance two of them might have different ideas about where they should be!"

"Yeah, yeah. I already told you that. Get to the point. They didn't miss that pass."

"Yeah, they did!" I was almost jumping up and down in my seat. "Jones threw it perfectly, of course, but Smith wasn't quite where Jones thought he'd be." Poppy was staring straight at me. "Smith had to adjust to catch the pass, just ever so slightly, and it screwed up his shot!" Now Poppy was staring straight through me.

"Jeez. You're right, knucklehead." I think that was the proudest moment of my life up to that point, hearing those three words come out of that man's mouth. "Having to take a pass like that and flick it in without catching it... They'd never practiced a pass like that. They'd never had to, because they'd never even come close to a situation where they had to make the last shot. They'd always been way ahead, and just dribbled out the clock. Well... I'll be darned." Poppy sat back, dropped his arms for a second, then turned and shook his finger at me. "That's why I always say, kid, practice--"

"--practice, practice! Hah! I thought you were supposed to be retired!" This time I did chuck him on the shoulder. Fortunately, he pretended not to notice.

Yeah, Poppy was a good guy. When he passed on, just a little while back, his funeral had about the biggest turnout I've ever seen. Martin Harris--Martin Harris the superstar--was there, crying like he was fresh out of high school again. Harry turned out good, Poppy. You'd have been proud.

As for myself, I got out of the basketball business a few years later. Poppy was right, I was too jumpy for it, but it wasn't even that, in the end. The next few seasons were good, but nothing could touch that year the Agents played, and got beat. I moved on, for a change of scenery.

Well, I'll get to that in the next chapter. It's funny though, something came up just yesterday that made me think of that crazy season all over again, the season that these days everyone seems to have written off as faked, or made up, or rigged--how could a team make every shot but one, after all? My agent--not that I'm a star myself, these days, but you can't do without one when you're trying to make a name for yourself in the writing business--my agent, who's been shopping around early versions of the book, including early parts of this chapter, rang me up, said he'd got someone who was interested--really interested--in picking up the rights, especially after reading the basketball parts. A--let me see, here...ah, yeah--a Mr. Jones.

Hah! Same name as the guy who blew the pass to Smith--or Smith blew the play he was supposed to run. I guess we'll never know, 'cause nobody ever found any of them, after that game, and this small-time book publisher sure as shooting wasn't the same robotic jock who never missed a shot; it was a pretty common name, after all. Just one of those funny coincidences. After the first year or so of trying to sell the story to anyone, and finding that it was already yesterday's news, I'd left it gathering dust in the back of my head all this time, then I finally dredge it up from the ol' memory banks, and bam! There's a Mr. Jones for me.

Yep, Poppy was right about that, too: sometimes things just work out.

Excellent. Excellent... So that's why Thomas Anderson decided to coach Hardball--The Agents failed him in the championship, and he lost all bets. No wonder he was so pissed at Smith all the time.

Nah, I'm just messing around. This is one fine piece of written craft, Rarebit. Very inspiring.

Genius.

(Sweeeeeet. You could get paid for writing fiction. Oh... wait )

Bravo!

Sweet as Rare.

They should hire you to write and direct the Space Jam Sequel.

Best used 25 min. of my year so far.

Gripping, excellent story Rarebit.


Doc