“. . . till now I’ve . . . impressive individual performances. But . . . them start to come together as a team . . . lose a few . . . understandable, at this point in . . . still high hopes for . . . before all’s said and . . . turning point but . . . (laughter) . . . body knows how I hate a loss . . . to keep moving forward . . .”
“What in Sam Hill’d he say?” Cecil asks Ben.
“He said quiet down now, big brother, so we can hear what he’s saying. That’s what he said.”
They’re huddled around the radio in Cecil’s living area, head-to-head, like metal shavings drawn tangent to a magnet. But something’s wrong with the transmission. A storm somewhere between here and East Lansing has snowed the signal, obliging them to try and parse the post-game show from garbled parts of speech.
“. . . boys finally . . . their true colors . . . whatnot . . .”
Ben’s been wanting to visit Cecil since before Christmas, three cheerless drawn-out weeks ago. But that snafu with Chambliss had him near pie-eyed with anxiety. Odd because Ben’s no stranger to the art of the graft. But all the ways this kickback might go sour. All the lies he’s told, and especially to Becca, getting that stake together. It has him seeing things. Like the way, all the sudden, Becca seems too busy for him. All those takeout dinners and afternoon trips to the mall.
He knows this is all in his head. Of course it is. Even so, Ben’s not sleeping.
“. . . keep communicating on the court like . . . Big Country stepped up . . .”
Today’s away game against Michigan State gave him a reason to relax, to make an appearance at big brother’s, and the Cowboys rewarded them with another loss.
Nevertheless Cecil seems much improved since Ben’s last visit. Dressed in nothing but a robe and his lucky Tony Lamas, big brother sits back in his rig, crushes his beer can and surrenders a profligate, blustering belch. He lobs the spent tallboy into the trash basket, where it lands with a papery swish!, and fishes another silver bullet from the cooler on the floor.
“Eddie’s just spinning damage control,” says Cecil.
Big brother tabs open the can and slurps a fizzling pull of happy water off the top.
“Two losses,” he says. “Back-to-back. Stead of glib-glabbing on ’bout Lord-knows-what Sutton ought to just own it. Swallow his pride and tell the Pokes start giving Big Country the ball t’every opportunity.”
“I can tell you exactly what he’s saying,” Ben says.
“How’s that?”
“Winning’s a tricky, a downright deceptive thing. The Cowboys score the most points it’s nothing but blue skies for everyone.”
Cecil swigs and listens.
“But you learn more about a team when it’s losing,” says Ben. “Right now Eddie’s telling Teegins those last couple games showed him this team’s got what it takes. Mettle and whatnot.”
“True grit.”
“There you go.”
“Team’s only tough s’its big man,” Cecil says.
“Are you tight?”
Cecil straightens in his wheelchair. “So what if I am?”
“Pull your horns in. I won’t tell on you.”
“Two in a row. Out-hustled. Out-shot. Out-classed.”
“But in-sync for the first time all season. You’re too stewed to see this is a different kind of win.”
Cecil responds with a dismissive and impressively protracted burp.
Ben says, “The Cowboys make it to the Final Four, it will be every boy on the team who’s responsible for getting them there. But just one selfish player can bring it all crashing down. There’s something for you to think on.”
Cecil fixes on Ben. “You’ve been missing games, brother. What’ve you gotten into?”
“It’s this construction deal I’m working on.”
“Big one, is it?”
Ben nods.
“Seeing as how you’re playing hooky, I was wondering if you’d let me have your seat at that Kansas game.”
“Not if you’re planning to scalp it.”
“I’ve got this friend . . .”
“Since when has Cecil got a friend?”
“There we have it,” another terse burp. “Big Ben and that piss-ant last word of his.”
“I wonder if you’ve had one too many tallboys.”
“You know what I wonder about? I wonder why a man who seems t’have everything wants to keep hiding behind his big brother.”
Ben tries chuckling this off.
“It’s time for last call, brother.” He stands, scavenging the seat cushion for his belongings, and starts tossing empties into the cooler. “I should’ve cut you off twenty minutes ago.”
“I wonder about Becca.”
“Careful now.”
“Why does someone run away from a woman like that every chance he gets? And for what? Just to ass around with a broken-down old cripple?”
“You old mule. You have it exactly backward. I’m trying to help you . . .”
“Help less.”
“Said the man wearing the eight-hundred-dollar cowboy boots I bought him. Can’t you see I’m only wanting to get you back on your feet?”
But soon as he says it Ben wishes he could take the words back.
Cecil chuckles.
“About time a foot was put in big Ben Porter’s mouth. What about all this hellabaloo regarding communication and teamwork and gettin’ along?”
“Conversation’s not a team sport. The rules are different.”
“Conversation’s not a competition.”
“That’s what the loser always says.” Ben walks out, shouting over his shoulder. “I’ll mail the Kansas ticket.”
“Drive safe now, baby brother.”