One Small Town, One Crazy Coach: The Ireland Spuds and the 1963 Indiana High School Basketball Season

By Mike Roos

In the summer of 1962, the peripatetic and irrepressible Pete Gill was hired on a whim to coach basketball at tiny Ireland High School. There he would accomplish, against enormous odds, one of the great small-town feats in Indiana basketball history. With no starters taller than 5'10", few wins were predicted for the Spuds. Yet, after inflicting brutal preseason conditioning, employing a variety of unconventional motivational tactics, and overcoming fierce opposition, Gill molded the Spuds into a winning team that brought home the town's first and only sectional and regional titles. Relying on narrative strategies of creative nonfiction rather than strict historical rendering, Mike Roos brings to life a colorful and varied cast of characters and provides a compelling account of their struggles, wide-ranging emotions, and triumphs throughout the season.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Sep 17, 2013
• ISBN: 9780253010353

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Preface

This book has been a ten-year a labor of love—or fifty years, if you care to go back to the beginning. My father was in his second year as principal of Ireland High School, and I an eleven-year-old fifth grader, when the Ireland Spuds made the Sweet Sixteen of Indiana High School basketball in 1963. I was present for most of the games involved and regarded these people as my heroes and source of inspiration, a flame that has never died. In 2003, I attended the fortieth anniversary celebration of the Spuds’ accomplishment and recognized that this was a story someone needed to preserve and share with the world. My only regret is that it took me so long to hear the calling.

However, the book is neither a memoir of my own experiences (which would not be very interesting) nor a straight historical account of a magical season. In setting this story down for posterity, I wanted as much as possible to recreate as vividly as possible those long-lost times, which will never return, and the extraordinary people involved, and so I decided to employ some of the techniques of fiction in bringing the story to life. While all the significant events in this book are factual and true, at times I have reimagined moments and conversations in order for the characters to breathe more freely and appear to live on the page. In all of these recreations, I have made every effort to stay true to the spirit of the events and the personalities involved. I hope my methods not only make for a more enjoyable reading experience but also enable you to feel more powerfully the emotions of the characters.

Those emotions were indeed powerful, as anyone who went through the experience can attest. Why so? And why is this story worth the telling? There are several reasons. It’s true, the Spuds did not win the state championship as did Milan in 1954, the only truly small school ever to accomplish the feat while the Indiana state tournament was still a winner-take-all one-class tournament. But let’s not forget that the Milan accomplishment was no fluke. In 1954, the Milan squad was making its second consecutive appearance in the Final Four, with most of the same players who were there the year before. Milan demonstrated its greatness as a team by having to go through the Indianapolis Semi-State and defeating big school powerhouses like a young Oscar Robertson’s Indianapolis Attucks team. In 1954, both Bobby Plump and Ray Craft made the Indiana All-State Team, and both went on to play four years and star at Butler University. Plump set Butler scoring records and became one of the NCAA’s all-time best free throw shooters. In short, the Milan team did not overachieve. It was a worthy state champion and deserves all the glory it has received in Indiana basketball lore.

But I would argue that the odds against what the Ireland Spuds accomplished in 1963 were much greater than those against Milan in 1954. First, the population of the town of Ireland was less than half that of Milan and the school enrollment roughly half. Milan’s path through the Versailles Sectional and the Rushville Regional was probably much less challenging than the path facing the Spuds, since the Indians did not have to overcome any large-school powerhouses before reaching the Sweet Sixteen. In contrast, year in and year out, Ireland had to face the dominance of Jasper, Huntingburg, and Springs Valley, large schools that together had won more than two-thirds of all the local Sectionals in which Ireland competed. In addition, the Huntingburg Regional then hosted winners from the Washington and Vincennes Sectionals, most commonly the host schools, both of which were large enrollment juggernauts of long standing.

Not only was Ireland more handicapped by the size of its enrollment than was Milan, but it also faced a far greater handicap in the quality and size of its players. The tallest starter for the Spuds in the tournament was Pat Schitter at five feet ten inches. Forwards Dennis Red Keusch and Ron Klem were five-nine and five-seven, respectively. Their tandem of guards, Dave Small and Joe Lents, were both listed at five-eight. Small and Lents were fine players, but they were not All-Staters of the caliber of Bobby Plump and Ray Craft. The rest of the Spuds would have struggled to make most other squads. As a consequence, the Spuds were smaller than every team they faced, and naturally their height deficit only increased the farther they got in the tournament. Though no official statistics exist, it is unlikely that any other team as vertically impaired as Ireland ever advanced so far in the state tournament. Milan’s talented players, on the other hand, possessed better-than-average height, with several players over six feet. Milan never had to be intimidated by the height of its opponents the way Ireland did.

Then there are the two coaches. Both Marvin Wood of Milan and Pete Gill of Ireland replaced highly popular predecessors in the coaching position. And both believed in a disciplined style of play. But there the similarities end. Marvin Wood was by all accounts a fine upstanding citizen, still in his twenties when he took the Milan job. Though he faced some initial opposition from townsfolk who still supported former coach Herman Snort Grinstead, Wood soon won over the town with his team’s success. Pete Gill, on the other hand, came to Ireland out of a checkered and somewhat mysterious past, which had shown little promise of greatness. Principal Jim Roos (my father), a very straight arrow if there ever was one, followed a pure gut instinct in hiring Pete to replace the highly successful Jerome Dimp Stenftenagel, doing so without even checking references. Before coming to Ireland, Pete’s coaching career consisted of one year as head coach at Burnside, Kentucky, before moving to Indiana for a year as an assistant at Roanoke, then two years as head coach at Switz City, and one year at Turkey Run. At that point, his high school coaching record was a modest 66–48, with no postseason tournament wins to show for his efforts. The best he could say was that he hadn’t been fired from any of these jobs, perhaps because he left before his employers had the chance.

Yet there was no questioning the man’s passion for and knowledge of basketball. Everyone who knew Pete Gill, whether they loved or hated him, agreed he was an unforgettable character. Jim Roos took one of the wildest chances of his lifetime in hiring him, although he soon recognized that his hands would be full throughout the year trying to keep under control public relations disasters resulting from Pete’s highly unconventional antics. In sum, few people looking at Pete Gill’s record and his personality would have predicted a high degree of success, even without the other obstacles the Spuds faced.

And then there are the special personalities of the Spuds players. It is no slight against the extraordinary talents of the Milan players to say that the Spuds players each had fascinating stories, filled with their own unique and sizable obstacles. As I interviewed them individually, I recognized that each of them carried a book’s worth of material, and they all contributed heroically to the 1962–63 team’s success. I only hope I’ve captured enough of the highlights here for you to measure their heroism. And I do not use the word heroism lightly.

I assume that the Milan story, as much through the movie Hoosiers as through accounts of the actual team, is familiar to just about every reader likely to pick up this book. And that special team’s story and the golden period of Indiana basketball, the 1950s, has been preserved in the film, although more than a little fancifully, and in Greg Guffey’s fine book The Greatest Basketball Story Ever Told. But the 1960s also represented a golden age as well, the last decade before consolidation changed forever the tenor of Indiana basketball by wiping out the vast majority of little high schools, which had been competing alongside the big schools every year in the wide-open state tournament known as Hoosier Hysteria. Even though the single-class tournament continued through 1996, it was never the same again after consolidation took away the main identity of so many small communities throughout the state. By 1970, not only was Ireland gone, but also most of its opponents were as well, including Holland, Spurgeon, Otwell, Birdseye, Richland, Lynnville, Loogootee St. John’s, Washington Catholic, Chrisney, and Winslow. Ferdinand absorbed Birdseye to become Forest Park. Even Huntingburg lost its school name when it absorbed Holland and became Southridge. Of the small town schools, only Dubois has managed to keep most of its old identity, though it is now known as Northeast Dubois High School, no doubt because of its location in the most isolated part of the county. For better or worse, the world of 1963 was far different from the one we inhabit today. This book is an attempt to preserve, in some small way, a time and place that is long gone and will never return.

I could not have completed this project without the assistance of a great many people. First, I wish to thank the University of Cincinnati and my colleagues at Blue Ash College for granting me the two academic leaves that provided the time necessary for travel, research, interviews, and writing. The foundation of the book is the scores of interviews I conducted over an eighteen-month period, and I wish to thank the following people for being so generous with their time in tolerating my many questions: Henrietta Allen, John Allen, Ken Breitweiser, Jerry Canterbury, Joe Dean, Jim Eck, Pete Gill, Gary Grider, Connie Leinenbach Himsel, Delbert (Junie) Himsel, Tommy Hohler, Dennis (Red) Keusch, Ann Mehne Klem, Ron Klem, Kenny Leinenbach, Levi Leinenbach, Stan Leinenbach, Joe Lents, Sonny Lents, Bill Linette, Vince Mundy, Doug Padgett, Gary Rasche, Arnie Renner, Betty Roos, Jim Roos, Bob Sakel, Pat Schitter, John Schwenk, Father Carl Shetler, Alma Small, Bill Small, Dave Small, Herman Small Jr., Sam Small, Sheryl Eskew Small, Allen Voelkel, Pete Wehr, Morris Weidenbenner, and Anthony Wigand. It saddens me greatly that Pete Gill, Red Keusch, Levi Leinenbach, Father Carl Shetler, Alma Small, and Pete Wehr have not survived to see the final publication of this book. I will never forget the hours I shared with them, the memories, the warmth, the laughter, and the tears. We all feel their loss. In addition, I wish to thank my editors at Indiana University Press, Linda Oblack, her assistant, Sarah Jacobi, Angela Burton, and copyeditor Eric Levy, for their able guidance in seeing this project to fruition. Kirk Curnutt, of the Ernest Hemingway Society, also provided sound advice. Finally, I owe much gratitude to Don Daiker, Elizabeth Loyd-Kimbrel, Philip Luther, Jim and Betty Roos, Dave and Sheryl Small, and Minsun Kim, all of whom have read early versions of the manuscript and provided invaluable commentary and much appreciated words of encouragement. This book could not have been completed in this form without all of them.

ONE SMALL TOWN, ONE CRAZY COACH

1

Gloomsday

On the morning of Saturday, June 16, 1962, the sun rose over southern Indiana like an orange Rawlings basketball, but by midday it had morphed into an angry yellow seed hanging hot and sour over the tiny hamlet of Ireland, where the mood was decidedly glum. Coach Jerome Dimp Stenftenagel, beloved by nearly everyone in and around the village of some four hundred souls, had tendered his resignation at the end of the school year, following six consecutive winning seasons. In the last three, he had amassed a total of 59 wins against only six losses and had gone undefeated in the Patoka Valley Conference. These were easily the three winningest seasons in Ireland High School history, which stretched back to 1915.

Unfortunately, like every Ireland coach who had come before him, Dimp had never won a Sectional, had never gotten past the first round of the storied free-for-all Indiana state tournament. And like all but one Ireland coach before him, he had never beaten Jasper, the Spuds’ big and reviled neighbor to the east. And now nearly everyone in Ireland recognized that 1962 had been Dimp’s best chance—their best chance—maybe for a long time, because that tall and talented starting front line of Dave Baer, Ronnie Vonderheide, and Bill Small had graduated and was gone, and the replacements—most at least a head shorter than Baer, Vonderheide, and Small—were not promising. The golden era was finished.

So who could be surprised that Dimp was gone now too—heading north, way north, north of Indianapolis even, to Lapel, to start over again as a coach? He knew what lay ahead in Ireland, and he wasn’t about to beat a dead horse. And what clear-thinking person could blame him? Nevertheless, his departure was a bitter pill for the townsfolk to swallow. How could they ever replace him? And what could even the best basketball coach do with the bunch of likable runts of limited talent who would now make up the Ireland Spuds of 1963?

Just before two o’clock, Pete Wehr and Alf Leinenbach were sitting wearily in the shade of the awning outside Alf’s Tire and Auto Service garage near the center of town. Business was sluggish, the town almost comatose in the heat.

We ain’t never gonna win now Dimp’s gone, Pete said. Ain’t never gonna beat Jasper. Least of all this year, with what little we got comin’ back. Alf wiped some grease onto his overalls and spit into the oil-stained gravel, yet said nothing. Only did it the once, you know.

I know, Wehr, I know, Alf sighed. 1940. He had heard the story many more times than he could count.

Me, Max, Art and the boys. Four left-handers. Yessiree. Weren’t nobody could defend us. Beat the living crap out of Jasper, we did. Wasn’t even close, 55–39. That was a dang lot of points in them days.

Forget about it, Wehr. It’s gone. Leave it alone.

Pete rambled on. Then we lost the final to Petersburg. Of course, it was the Petersburg gym that year, so they had the home court. Dang Gil Hodges and them refs. We was up 17–13 with just two minutes to play. Alf Leinenbach groaned, as Pete Wehr paused briefly and then continued as the emotion built. Then Hodges fouled Charlie twiced, took the ball away twiced, and the refs wouldn’t call no foul, even though a blind man could see they was both a foul. He was their boy, Hodges. On his way to the big time. That was it. They couldn’t call no kind of foul on him, not their boy. Two buckets and we was on the short end. Final score: 20–19. That was it. That there was our best shot.

Alf groaned in disgust. Will you shut the heck up about 1940, Wehr? I’ve heard that crap about all I can stand. This here year, 1962, was our best shot, and we couldn’t do it. If this year’s bunch couldn’t do it, I don’t see how nobody can.

Pete Wehr bent to pick up a small stone and tossed it into the center of Highway 56. It’s hotter than blazes out here, Alf.

It’s boilin’ all right.

But we beat Jasper, didn’t we, now, Alf? And that’s a dang sight more than any other team can say.

Alf lifted his right foot and its dirty work boot off the ground. How would you like this boot in your mouth, Wehr?

The only bunch of Spuds to ever do it, Pete went on. Beat a Cabby O’Neill team, that is. That danged Irishman. That’s saying something. You gotta admit.

I don’t give a hoot what you did, Wehr. You didn’t win no Sectional and no team from this godforsaken town ain’t never won no Sectional, and if you don’t at least win a Sectional it don’t really mean nothin’ now, does it? Alf slouched back into his wooden folding chair. Jesus Lord, there ain’t nothin’ I want more before I die. He raised his eyes to the blinding sun. Just onced, Lord, just onced before they bury me back yonder in St. Mary’s cemetery, I want to see some Ireland boys cut down the nets and bring home the Sectional trophy. Just onced.

Pete Wehr curled his lip and frowned. Forget it, Alf. Ain’t gonna happen this year or likely never, but sure as heck not this here year. Back in ’40, now, boy oh boy, we was so close we could smell it, and Gil Hodges and them refs stole it from us. Ain’t no doubt about it. Plumb stole it from us.

Alf took off his dirty cap and slapped Pete across his bald head with it. In the name of Bobby Plump, I said shut your dang pie hole, you old coot!

Alf was prepared to take a couple more swats at Pete’s head when a most bizarre-looking vehicle just then rolled past, moving at a ponderously slow pace. With Alf’s hat paused in midair, the two men studied the automobile as it trolled by, a battered and dirty, two-toned cream and green ’59 Chevrolet Impala wagon chugging east and spewing blue smoke across Highway 56, the road that bisected the town of Ireland on its way to Jasper.

Good Golly Miss Molly, if that ain’t the ugliest machine on four wheels I ever seen! Pete declared.

Chevy should’ve quit for sure when they made the ’57, Alf said. The ’59—now that was never nothing but a big mistake.

Well, whoever the owner is of that vehicle sure ain’t taking care of it.

Why the heck should he? Alf spit again into the gravel.

What’s that license plate? UE? What county’s that? Never seen that one before.

Probably way up north somewheres, Alf said. Just passing through.

So why’s he driving so dang slow? Pete coughed, waving his arm through the cloud of exhaust smoke. Move along, fella! Take that heap to the dump!

While the ’59 Impala was surely one of the ugliest automobiles Chevrolet had ever produced, with slits and projectiles and bullet points along the front grill and two huge taillights shaped like the eyes of a hungover being from a distant planet, this one, with its acrid exhaust, bald tires caked in dried mud, two missing hubcaps, large dents and scrapes on the front and side, and several pieces of chrome missing, seemed even more likely to arouse fear, loathing, and suspicion.

Then abruptly, as the demented auto was about to pass Leinenbach’s Cafe a short distance down the road, it made a sharp turn to the right, into the lot in front of the restaurant, where it came to a halt. The car door complained loudly as it opened, and out stepped a wiry, pug-nosed man with a fair-haired crew-cut and a narrow black necktie dangling loose at the open collar of a short-sleeved white shirt, half out of wrinkled black trousers. The man flicked away a cigarette and stretched himself lazily, then tucked his shirttail back inside his pants. With his flattened nose pointing up into the hot air, he took note of the other sleepy businesses huddled around the town’s main intersection: Bartley’s Feed Mill, Wigand’s Grocery, Eskew’s Barbering and TV Repair Shop, the Shamrock Cafe, and Alf’s competitor, D-T Auto. He had a boxer’s profile and a protruding lower lip, and he moved in a studied manner, like an old-school Hollywood street cat—Jimmy Cagney or Edward G. Robinson or maybe Charlie Chaplin.

Beside him, in the center of the small parking lot, a brick planter overflowed with impassioned red and white petunias in full bloom. The man bent slightly to pinch off one of the blossoms with his fingers, lifted it to his nose to check the fragrance, thought momentarily about sticking it into his shirt pocket, but then flicked it casually into the air and watched it float gently to the ground.

He glanced at his watch and turned quickly to open the cafe door and step into the dark interior of the tavern. Inside he was met with a refreshing cavelike coolness, and when his eyes adjusted to the dimness, he found a few Saturday afternoon patrons staring at him from a long row of stools. Between bottles of liquor in the center of a shelf behind the bar, a Rawlings basketball glowed like a tabernacle in the center of an altar. Alf Leinenbach’s cousin Amos Leinenbach, known as Ame among the townsfolk, was proprietor of the place, which he had made reasonably known and reasonably prosperous owing to its hallowed fried chicken recipe, a carefully guarded secret, conveniently provided by Ame’s jolly mother when he opened the joint in 1949. As usual, Ame tended bar, and, along with his sullen flock of patrons, he was studying the mysterious stranger and his one unpolished black shoe placed aggressively at the top of the three stairs just inside the doorway. The fellow, who appeared to be in his early thirties, looked tough enough to hold his own in a boxing ring, slightly smaller than average in height yet clearly trim and fit. After a brief pause, he swaggered up to the bar, breaking the silence with a gruff and jarring nasally voice, a blend of an off-key tenor saxophone and a chainsaw. Anybody here could give a man directions?

He was greeted with silence. If the men had seemed interested in the stranger at first, now they seemed to find their frosted mugs of beer more intriguing. The stately, plump bulk of Amos Leinenbach stood before the bar mirror, drying a schooner with a towel.

Just whereabouts you want to go? he asked.

Well, now, said the stranger, placing his palms on the bar, I’m looking for a man name of Jim Roos. I believe he’s principal of your high school, is he not?

That’s correct, said Ame, tossing the towel into a heap in the corner. "I know Jim. A fine young fellow, fine as you’ll ever want to meet. Been here one year and straightened some things out that needed straightening. Jim Roos is the kind of man who wants no crooked sticks, if you know what I mean. I have a lot of respect for him. So what do you want with him?"

The stranger lifted his chin a little higher. I’ve got me an appointment with him is all.

Huh! A voice huffed from the dark end of the bar. Jim Roos don’t hang with your type, mister.

The stranger grinned. You don’t say. Well, I do have me an appointment with him is all I can say.

And who are you? said the man at the far end. His right eye was bandaged with a mess of cotton gauze held in place by a rubber band encircling a head of unruly gray hair. What’s your game?

Easy, Stevie, Ame said, raising his hand.

The stranger rested his elbows on the bar and thrust his boxer’s face forward. Mister, he said firmly and proudly, my name is Pete Gill. I’m a fighting Irishman is what I am. In a town called Ireland, if it’s worthy of the name, I would think folks would be kinda partial to such a man as me, at least show a little respect.

We ain’t none of us Irish, the one-eyed man at the end said.

Pete Gill bowed his head and chuckled. Then what, may I ask, are you doing in a town called Ireland?

Our German ancestors run the lazy Irish outta here a long, long time ago, before any of us was born, declared another man from the middle of the group.

Tell him, Leo! the one-eyed man called Stevie said.

That so?

Amos Leinenbach leaned over the bar and stared into Pete Gill’s eyes. So don’t think you’re gonna win any friends here, Mr. Pete Gill, just because you say you’re Irish. That’s all these boys are saying. We all come from hardworking German stock. About all we have in common with the Irish is we like our beer.

Here’s to that, Leo said, raising his schooner.

Yes, I can see how hardworking you all are, Pete Gill said, his eyes scanning the men resting comfortably on the row of barstools. Well, that don’t matter anyhow. You are what you are, and I am what I am. You asked me what my game was, so I’ll tell you. My game is basketball.

The room became quiet. Ame stared pointedly at Pete Gill and leaned back. Zat so? Well, now, young fella, basketball’s the game of just about everybody around here, including Jim Roos. In fact, it’s just about the only game in town, except for a little duck hunting. That and maybe some baseball on a hot summer’s day.

What did the Cards do last night, Ame? one of the men asked.

Beat the Giants, 5–2.

That’s three in a row. Who pitched? Leo asked.

Sadecki.

Dodgers lost. Puts the Cards six and a half back now, said Stevie.

What about the Reds? asked Pete Gill.

Mister, they was crushed by the Phillies, 13–8, said Leo. They’re a game back of the Cards now in fifth.

It’s a tough league, said Pete.

Say that again, Leo replied. Any one of five teams can win it.

Unlike that other league, said Ame.

Damn Yankees! Stevie snorted. Why can’t nobody knock them off their high horse?

Kinda like them jerks up the road, ain’t they? Ame said, followed by another dead pause.

Pete Gill broke the silence. You mean the Jasper Wildcats.

Someone coughed angrily. Mister, we don’t utter them words in here, Leo said.

What? ‘Jasper’? Pete Gill laughed. Huh! I ain’t afraid of no Jasper. I don’t like ’em, but I ain’t afraid of ’em. You fellas sure do hate Jasper, though, don’tcha? Really want to kick their butt, don’tcha?

Well, we give ’em what for in the Great Egg War, didn’t we, boys? Leo said.

The Great Egg War! Pete Gill laughed. Don’t believe I read about that one in the history books.

Sunday after the Sectional just this past March, Leo said. A bunch of their kids come to town and start throwin’ raw eggs everywheres, but they didn’t know what they was in for!

I heard an Ireland boy started it, another man said. Threw an egg at one of their cheerleaders after the game.

One-eyed Stevie slammed his fist on the bar, splashing beer out of several schooners. I don’t give a damn! he cried. There was no call for them to bring carloads of eggs here and bombs away on us after they beat us like that in the Sectional. Who do they think they are?

They say there weren’t no more eggs in any supermarket that day, Leo said.

Yeah, but they weren’t thinking, those boys, Ame chimed in. Because our boys had all the ammo they could ever want, what with all the chicken farms around here. So, naturally, our kids chased them right back outta here with their tails between their legs.

Yeah, and a whole lotta egg on their faces! Stevie said.

And everything else! Leo added. Everyone laughed raucously but then quickly fell back into silence.

Well, now, that’s a good story, said Pete Gill after a while. I can relate. Yes, sir, I can relate. You see, I hate Jasper too. Had a grudge against ’em ever since they beat my New Albany team in the Semi-State in 1948 when I was a junior. I wanted to get back at ’em so bad the next year I could taste it, and then Jeffersonville beat us in the Sectional, which never should’ve happened. And that was when Jasper went on and won the State.

With our boy, Dimp, Stevie said from the dark end.

I know that, Pete Gill said. I know Dimp Stenftenagel was on that Jasper team, and then he was your coach. And not a bad coach at that.

Huh! The best this town’s ever gonna have, Stevie said. And now we lost him.

Well, sir, Pete Gill said, I believe the good Lord has a reason for everything. Yes, Dimp, is gone, but he will be replaced. The question is, with who? That’s the $64,000 question, now, isn’t it? And let me tell you, boys, that’s just what I’m here for.

Meaning what?

Meaning I come to town to help you people smash hell outta the Jasper Wildcats. And I don’t mean with eggs! We’ll do it on the basketball court, the righteous field of battle. We’ll stuff a damn basketball right down their throats!

Stevie slammed his empty schooner onto the bar. Bullcrap!

Pete Gill took a step toward the far end of the bar. You want to make a wager on that, sir? Huh? I’ll wager you any thing you want. I happen to know this town is in search of a new basketball coach, and that’s what I’m here to talk to Jim Roos about.

Ha ha! came Stevie’s abrupt response.

Pete Gill advanced another step. Last week I sent Jim Roos my letter of application, and now I’m here to be interviewed for the job.

What a load of horse manure, said Stevie. Others at the bar too were shaking their heads in disbelief.

I guess you’ll be talking to my brother Levi then, Ame said.

How’s that? Pete Gill asked. My appointment is with Jim Roos, the principal, is all I know.

My brother, Levi Leinenbach, is the township trustee, Ame said firmly. He hires and fires all the school people. He’ll have something to say about who the next basketball coach is.

Well, I’ll be happy to talk to anybody I need to, Pete Gill said. I reckon Jim Roos’ll see to that.

I reckon he will.

Stevie rose slowly from his stool at the dark end of the bar and walked unsteadily through the gloom until he came within a foot of Pete Gill’s nose, where he stopped and let his one good eye drift slowly from the tip of Pete’s head to the dull black shoes on his feet. Then he sneered contemptuously. Mister whatever your name is—

Pete Gill.

Well, you’re nobody to me. Even with one eye, I can see a guy like you can’t even carry Dimp Stenftenagel’s jockstrap.

Pete Gill did not flinch. He clenched his fist and cocked his head to one side. Well, now, mister, he said slowly, I believe you’re blind in both your eyes. I played against Dimp in 1948. His team beat mine, it’s true. But I’m proud to say I surely held my own. I always hold my own, as a matter of fact, in every situation. And I swear on my life we would’ve taken down that Jasper team in ’49 if we’d had our crack at ’em. We had the better team. I know it like I know my own heartbeat.

Yeah, and I can see what I see, Stevie sneered. Dimp’s worth ten of you.

Pete’s square jaw tightened, and he spoke between his teeth. Mister, I hope I get a chance to see you eat those words. Dimp was a fine player, I grant you that. And he’s not a half-bad coach. But if this town gives me a chance, I’ll show you what a real basketball coach is, yes, I will. Pete looked at the clock above the bar. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m running a little late. I was supposed to be at Jim Roos’s place at two o’clock and it’s almost half past. If somebody will just provide me directions, I’ll leave you fellas to your beverages and be on my way.

Tell him where to go, Ame. Stevie grinned slyly and returned to his stool.

Ame chuckled and put both his meaty hands on the basketball behind the bar, then, turning and facing the center of the room, slowly and reverently raised it above his head, like a priest at high mass, as all eyes in the tavern watched.

Then he handed the ball to Pete. This is the body of our Lord. Take it and eat it. He handed the ball to Pete Gill and let out a loud roar of laughter, which the others echoed. Basketball, you might say, is our religion, Mr. Pete Gill. We live by it and we die by it. You see, we not only lost a dang fine coach this year, but we lost our best boys too. We know what lies ahead of us, and it ain’t too pretty. So you come in here talking basketball, you better mean every word you say.

Pete Gill bounced the ball twice on the floor, smacked it authoritatively between his hands, and placed it on the bar. I don’t blaspheme against the Lord, he said. But basketball is in my soul and in my blood, no man’s more than mine.

As he spoke, Ame filled up a frosted glass schooner with beer, then raised it with both hands over his head like a chalice, as all eyes once again watched. When he lowered the schooner, he put it on the altar of the bar and slid it toward Pete Gill. This is our blood. Take it and drink it.

But Pete Gill slid the schooner back toward Ame. Thank you, sir, but I’m not a drinking man.

Ame stared incredulously. You do any duck hunting, Mr. Pete Gill? he asked.

Duck hunting? Pete Gill look puzzled. No, sir, I don’t. Not that I have anything against it. But I took a few potshots at Commie Mig fighters in the Korean War.

I don’t care about that. Ame took a long gulp from the schooner and then turned his back to the stranger to begin rearranging the liquor bottles on the shelf. To get to Jim Roos’s house, he said without looking, go on down this road about half a mile east, take a left at the first gravel road you come to, then take the first right. Jim’s house is the second on the left, the last one before the cornfield. It’s a new house. A ranch with a carport. Red brick, white siding. Can’t miss it.

Pete Gill silently gazed at Ame’s back for a moment. You wouldn’t be spinning me a yarn now, would you, Mr. Leinenbach? Is that your name?

You can take my word, Ame said, still not looking up.

And stick it where the sun don’t shine! Stevie laughed again.

Pete looked down the bar at the hardened eyes staring back at him. Then he looked at Ame, who turned again to face him.

I’m telling you straight, Mr. Gill. Take it or leave it. Good luck with your job interview. Ame extended his hand.

Pete Gill accepted it and returned a firm handshake. Well, now, thank you very much, Mr. Leinenbach, but there’s just one thing I want to make clear.