terrorist attack. Nobody else had any intel on it. There weren’t any other unexplained deaths that week. And, needless to say, there was no bomb at the stadium on opening day, unless you count the Dolphins, who really stunk it up that year.
“I took my findings back to my boss. He wasn’t happy. We had words. To this day, though, I don’t know if he knew anything more than I did. And I’ll never know. He died of a heart attack a few weeks later.
“But I was finished. I couldn’t do it any more. I’d been in the business for twenty years, and it was time. I quietly retired and moved to Idaho. Where, by the way,” he added, with a new sharpness in his voice, “I would have been willing to let sleeping dogs lie.”
Afraid of what he might say, Nate turned and looked out the side window, idly watching vague dark shapes passing in the distance. Try as he might, he couldn’t reconcile the Matt he remembered with the one sitting next to him. He wasn’t sure he wanted to.
He closed his eyes and for a moment was no longer in the quiet, darkened SUV. Instead, he was standing under intense lights, a wave of noise assaulting him.
“ De -fense. De -fense.”
The chant had been started by the Evansville East cheerleaders and had been quickly picked up by the fans packing the stands surrounding them. The Barons, from the state’s third largest city, had brought a huge following. While the Mackey Arena on the campus of Purdue University in Lafayette wasn’t completely filled, it still contained more people than Nate had ever seen in one place. And the vast majority were there to support, at the top of their lungs, the defending state high school basketball champions.
The relatively small contingent that had accompanied the Jackson Generals did its best to counter, but it was badly outnumbered.
As the team broke the huddle on the sidelines, Nate glanced up to the spot where Peter and Gamma sat amid the Jackson crowd. At the moment, Peter had his back turned to the court and was flapping his arms wildly, exhorting the fans behind him to raise a cheer. Gamma was looking directly at Nate and clapping, her mouth open, yelling something he couldn’t possibly hear over the cacophony.
The mere fact that the boys from the tiny town of Jackson in rural Winamac County had managed to make it to the 1982 Indiana Regional Championship was a huge accomplishment. And, against the odds, Nate and his teammates had managed to make a close game of it. Everyone, especially the Evansville supporters, had expected a blow out. After all, the Barons had the two best players in the state, a pair of six foot ten behemoths with the nicknames “Everest” and “K-2” - earning them the inevitable joint moniker of the “Himalayas.” Jackson had only two players who stood over six feet: Nate at six three, and Skip Anderson, a gangly six foot seven junior whose only real basketball skill was his height. Still, Skip had played some inspired defense, and Nate had managed to score twenty points against the towering Himalayas, many on uncontested jump shots from outside while Everest and K-2 packed the lane down low.
K-2 had now just fouled out, and, in the process, had turned the ball over to Jackson. With fifteen seconds left in the game, and down by only one point, Jackson would have a chance at the last shot and an improbable upset victory. The prospect had the crowd in a frenzy.
Nate took up position near the foul line, where he could set a pick. Everest, who’d been covering him all night, stood just behind, leaning in, his long arms reaching around to each side, his hot breath ruffling the hair on the top of Nate’s head. Nate had hoped Everest might have been switched to cover Skip after K-2 fouled out, but the Evansville coach had obviously decided he wanted his best player to stay on Nate.
One of the officials blew his whistle. The ball was brought in under the opposing basket, and Matt, the Jackson point guard, began dribbling
“I took my findings back to my boss. He wasn’t happy. We had words. To this day, though, I don’t know if he knew anything more than I did. And I’ll never know. He died of a heart attack a few weeks later.
“But I was finished. I couldn’t do it any more. I’d been in the business for twenty years, and it was time. I quietly retired and moved to Idaho. Where, by the way,” he added, with a new sharpness in his voice, “I would have been willing to let sleeping dogs lie.”
Afraid of what he might say, Nate turned and looked out the side window, idly watching vague dark shapes passing in the distance. Try as he might, he couldn’t reconcile the Matt he remembered with the one sitting next to him. He wasn’t sure he wanted to.
He closed his eyes and for a moment was no longer in the quiet, darkened SUV. Instead, he was standing under intense lights, a wave of noise assaulting him.
“ De -fense. De -fense.”
The chant had been started by the Evansville East cheerleaders and had been quickly picked up by the fans packing the stands surrounding them. The Barons, from the state’s third largest city, had brought a huge following. While the Mackey Arena on the campus of Purdue University in Lafayette wasn’t completely filled, it still contained more people than Nate had ever seen in one place. And the vast majority were there to support, at the top of their lungs, the defending state high school basketball champions.
The relatively small contingent that had accompanied the Jackson Generals did its best to counter, but it was badly outnumbered.
As the team broke the huddle on the sidelines, Nate glanced up to the spot where Peter and Gamma sat amid the Jackson crowd. At the moment, Peter had his back turned to the court and was flapping his arms wildly, exhorting the fans behind him to raise a cheer. Gamma was looking directly at Nate and clapping, her mouth open, yelling something he couldn’t possibly hear over the cacophony.
The mere fact that the boys from the tiny town of Jackson in rural Winamac County had managed to make it to the 1982 Indiana Regional Championship was a huge accomplishment. And, against the odds, Nate and his teammates had managed to make a close game of it. Everyone, especially the Evansville supporters, had expected a blow out. After all, the Barons had the two best players in the state, a pair of six foot ten behemoths with the nicknames “Everest” and “K-2” - earning them the inevitable joint moniker of the “Himalayas.” Jackson had only two players who stood over six feet: Nate at six three, and Skip Anderson, a gangly six foot seven junior whose only real basketball skill was his height. Still, Skip had played some inspired defense, and Nate had managed to score twenty points against the towering Himalayas, many on uncontested jump shots from outside while Everest and K-2 packed the lane down low.
K-2 had now just fouled out, and, in the process, had turned the ball over to Jackson. With fifteen seconds left in the game, and down by only one point, Jackson would have a chance at the last shot and an improbable upset victory. The prospect had the crowd in a frenzy.
Nate took up position near the foul line, where he could set a pick. Everest, who’d been covering him all night, stood just behind, leaning in, his long arms reaching around to each side, his hot breath ruffling the hair on the top of Nate’s head. Nate had hoped Everest might have been switched to cover Skip after K-2 fouled out, but the Evansville coach had obviously decided he wanted his best player to stay on Nate.
One of the officials blew his whistle. The ball was brought in under the opposing basket, and Matt, the Jackson point guard, began dribbling
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