Free Blind Your Ponies by Stanley Gordon West Page B

he’d done. And then, just as quickly, he bunched up his face. “I’m no good,” he said in a high-pitched voice known throughout the community.
    “We’re going to need you, Dean. We’ll practice a lot and you can learn.”
    “I stink.” The boy squirreled up his nose as if he could actually smell his inability.
    “Do you think you’d like to play, if you learned how?”
    “I can’t dribble or nothing. Scott’s better than me.”
    “I’ve seen you running around school. You run pretty fast. If you practice hard every day, you’d be surprised how quickly you can learn.”
    “Would I have a uniform?”
    “Yes, of course. And you’ll get out of classes.”
    Sam fished, wondering what bait would be needed to convince this country boy to lay his self-esteem on the line and step onto the varnished hard-wood. He knew how disgrace was still a stark reality for any kid who dared put on the Willow Creek jersey.
    “We’ll travel to other towns and eat at restaurants.”
    “McDonald’s!”
    “Yes.”
    “Bodacious!”
    Sam caught his breath. He’d pulled the correct dry fly from his fishing vest.
    “When we go to Bozeman, Mom always says we can’t afford to eat at McDonald’s.”
    Sam noted the boy’s patched jeans and faded flannel shirt.
    “Do you think you’d like to give it a try?”
    “I stink.”
    “Listen, Dean. Why don’t you come out for a few practices. See how it feels.” He ought to say, See how it smells. “If you don’t like it, you can let it go.”
    “Think we’ll win a game this year?” Dean asked.
    “I know we will, if you come and help us. What do you say?”
    Sam regarded the athletically-challenged schoolboy. Dean screwed up his face and tugged at his hat.
    “Okay. I’ll try, but I stink.”
    “Great. I’ll let you know when we’ll have our first practice. Thanks, Dean.”
    The bowlegged boy dashed back to his friends while Sam found hisbearings and caught his breath. He hurried through the town toward the Blue Willow in hopes of being distracted and lost in conversation for the remainder of his free period. He knew he would have to find something that Dean could do well and build on that. Dean Cutter was definitely not a boy with great self-confidence when it came to basketball, but after all, look where he grew up.
    P ETE STRONG SHUFFLED into the front room, having slept in until ten. He found his grandmother doing aerobics along with the
Bodies in Motion
gang on TV. The parrot hunched on the bar from its hanging cage and Tripod gazed from one eye while curled beneath the coffee table.
    “Glad … to see … you’re still … alive,” she said. “I’ll … whip up … some breakfast … in about … fifteen minutes.”
    “Up your ass,” the parrot squawked.
    “Grandma, did you
hear
that?” Pete said.
    “What a gas … what a gas,” Grandma said as she kicked to the left, then kicked to the right.
    By the time Pete had washed in the makeshift bathtub shower and dressed, Grandma was flipping pancakes in the kitchen with Tripod at her feet. Pete crossed the living room and the parrot cackled.
    “Piss your pants.”
    “Hear that?” Peter said.
    “Certainly, he said, ‘Miss the dance.’ ”
    “Grandma, I think you’re hearing is shot.”
    Pete pulled up a chair at the kitchen table.
    “Nonsense. I can hear a meadowlark down on Cooper Road.” She flopped a pancake on his plate.
    Shaking his head, Pete poured maple syrup over the first pancake. After chewing a heaping forkful, he spit it back onto his plate.
    “Yhaaaacck! What’s in the pancakes?”
    She doubled over with laughter. “Should’ve seen the look on your face!”
    “What’s in these?” Pete wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. “It tastes like soap.”
    “Just a little Joy. Thought you needed a little in your life,” she said, taking the plate and giving him a clean one.
    “Hairy old bitch,” the parrot said.
    “Merry old witch,” Grandma said. “His favorite name for me, merry