Rez Ball: Chapters 24–42

Their guards are playing stifling defense, waving their arms all over, deflecting passes, knocking the ball out of bounds.

He crashes into me, but I take the contact, hang in the air an extra second, and loft a teardrop of a shot into the air.

“Well, Tre. It’s official. You are a bona fide high school sports star. Like in every teen sports movie ever.”

“I like your Indigenous Baby Yoda shirt,” I say to her.

“Nice work, Wes. This comp video of Tre is legit. You’re gutsy, bro. Going down onto the baseline, or wedging your way into the front row. I get closetraphobic just thinking about it.”
Wes’s thumbs blur as he texts someone. “Thanks, fam. And I think you mean claustrophobic.”

Some of our fans cuss. Some throw their hands up in exasperation.

Our crowd cheers as loud as they did during that standing ovation.

After wolfing down Mickey D’s, we refill our pops for the ride home and waddle carefully like giant, sportily clad penguins across the ice through the parking lot.

You blatantly shoved someone during a dead ball. Unacceptable.

Kevin is icing his left knee, grimacing.

“But something of this magnitude deserves a moment. Our very own Red Lake Warriors are going to be featured in an upcoming issue of Slam magazine. To celebrate, we’ve shifted today’s lunch to pizza, and we ordered ice cream and cake from The Trading Post. Now, back to learning. Goooo, Warriors!”

Minutes later, Kevin hobbles in, but without crutches.

“Well, there are a lot of rumors floating around about a party last night. Allegedly, a lot of basketball players were there.”

Mom returns carrying a shell with sage burning in it.

“Wes Stately. He emailed our office with a short trailer of his documentary and a very enthusiastic message about why we should feature you. The story of your following in the steps of your big brother, playing in honor of him, and trying to lead the first all Native American team to win the state tournament. We were intrigued, to say the least.”

For the next several minutes, I answer Blair’s questions, and she compliments what she calls my “full and articulate answers.”

Our body movements, mannerisms, and movements are eerily identical.

Dad is sitting on the front-row bleacher at half-court, sipping coffee out of a thermos that has the Red Lake Warriors logo emblazoned on the side.

It could be a recruitment letter just for me, or it could be a generic letter sent to prospective students to encourage applications.

It could be a recruitment letter just for me, or it could be a generic letter sent to prospective students to encourage applications.

He was violent, filled with rage, and virtually invincible. He beat the hell out of the entire Justice League.

We closed the tribal council and all tribal functions to follow our boys to the regional championship. The casino is closing, and we don’t close that even for Christmas. We’re providing charter buses. They’ll be leaving from The Trading Post at two in the afternoon for anyone who needs a ride.

That huge turnout for the pep rally is going to look great in the documentary.

We quickly pass the ball around. No one stalls the offense by holding the ball too long or dribbling.

I know we had some tiffs, but you are one of the coolest, strongest, best people I’ve ever met.

Some wear Pendleton jackets, and others sport an assortment of Red Lake Warriors gear.

At the entrance, we flash our players’ lanyards and are ushered to our locker room by two security guards and a lady in a fitted skirt with a phone in her hand.

The current Timberwolves players’ names are on their respective lockers.

“Got these today from a guy I know who lives down this way. Asked him to get us footage of these guys. Let’s study a few of their main plays.”
The team is riveted.

The court shines with a watery sheen.

Twisting and contorting my body, I throw down a nasty dunk right in his grill.

Dallas corrals the loose ball, passing it to Kevin, who throws down a nasty two-handed jam.

“Don’t put any pressure on it. Step with your right foot. We’ve got you.” The crowd applauds when I stand, but it’s a somber noise. Like a celebration of life at a funeral.

I pull the laces loose on my left shoe, then tie them back as tight as I can like a tourniquet.

I suck at the whole platonic friendable thing.