Free Sea of Crises by Marty Steere

referees, the older of the two, noticed him and gestured.
    “Yes, I want the captains over here,” he said.
    Nate’s counterpart, the Evansville captain, was the guard who’d taken the final shot. The boy was talking in an animated fashion to the other referee. He tapped his left forearm with his right hand and pointed at Matt. Nate glanced back at his brother. Matt had an odd look on his face.
    “Gentlemen,” said the older of the two referees, “Evansville is claiming there was a foul on the final shot. I’m afraid I was screened out on the play and didn’t see it clearly.” He looked at the other official. “Gene, did you see a foul?”
    The other man shook his head. “There was definitely contact,” he said, “but I thought it was incidental.”
    “No,” the Evansville captain exclaimed, “he hit me on the arm.” And he again pointed at Matt.
    “Sorry, son,” the older official said, “I’m afraid…”
    “Ask him,” the Evansville player interjected.
    The official shook his head. “That’s not the way it works.”
    “To hell with that,” the Evansville coach said. “Why not just ask him? He can speak for himself.” He looked at Matt. “Did you foul?”
    “Now hold on a second,” Coach Hamilton said. But everyone had turned to look at Matt.
    Nate looked back again at his brother as the senior official said, “Son, you’re not obligated to respond to that.”
    Matt had set his jaw.
    Oh, no, Nate said to himself. No. He opened his mouth to speak, but Matt beat him to it.
    “Yes, sir,” he said. “I think I did.”
    “There you go,” the Evansville coach said immediately, throwing his arms in the air once again. Looking at the head referee, he added, “You’ve got to call it now.”
    The official looked at his colleague, who simply shrugged.
    Coach Hamilton said, “I’ve never heard of anything like this.” But it wasn’t very compelling, and he seemed to know it.
    The senior official took a deep breath. “Ok,” he said, and he turned toward the scorer’s table, blowing his whistle. “We have a foul on Jackson. Number five. Number one for Evansville is at the line shooting two.”
    After a moment, he added, “Put three seconds back on the clock.”
    It took a couple of minutes to clear the court. The public address announcer tried his best to explain the situation. As it dawned on the Evansville fans that their team still had a chance to win the game they’d just lost, a great cheer went up. The reaction from the Jackson supporters was much different. Nate could hear the boos and catcalls through the general euphoria of the Evansville crowd.
    Peter had brought with him a series of hand-painted signs that he’d been flashing throughout the game to the delight of the Jackson faithful, his theme apparently somewhat loosely inspired by the mythical snow creature of the Himalayas. Nate had seen a couple during the game. “Sas-squash Evansville.” “It ain’t over Yet-i.”
    Now, as the head official blew his whistle and handed the ball to the Evansville captain at the free throw line, Peter stood defiantly, holding over his head a sign Nate hadn’t yet seen.
    “Abominable”
    Nate had taken up position along the side of the lane, hoping for a miss and an opportunity to snag the rebound. He felt a tap on his hip and turned to see Matt, an intense expression on his face.
    “Get me the ball, Nate.”
    All Nate could think to do was nod. Then Matt turned and jogged up the court.
    The Evansville captain bounced the ball a couple of times. Then he flexed his knees, lifted the ball up in front of his face and flicked his right wrist, sending the ball upward in a pretty arc. Nate knew it was good from the moment it left the boy’s hands. It passed through the rim without drawing iron and barely ruffled the nylon of the net hanging below. The game was now tied.
    “One shot,” the referee reminded them all, then he again tossed the ball to the Evansville player. As before, the