High School
RIVALRY
Phil Wohl
Copyright 2014 Phil Wohl
CHAPTER ONE
Pete Berman sized up his competition like a predator lining up its prey. Gerry Williams dribbled once with his left hand, stopped on a dime, and nailed an open 15-footer. He had played on the Fellingwood Varsity Basketball Team since his freshman year, and was now a 16 year-old boy in a man's body. Pete sat on a board of the old splinter-ridden, wooden stands fixed on Gerry, but he was unable to defend his turf. His team was losing badly again, and the waiting was pure agony.
Pete’s athletic life was put on hold for an entire year while his mind caught up with his body. The school's principal, a former major college basketball player, suggested that he repeat the tenth grade in order to graduate at age 18 instead of 17. He had been advanced at an early age, but was slow to mature with his older classmates. The tenth grade would be repeated, from Geometry to Biology, although he carried a solid but mediocre C average from the previous year. Principal Berry felt that Pete had an average chance to play basketball in college if he stayed on course, but was sure that Pete would be highly coveted by many colleges if his mind was given a chance to catch up to his growing body.
By the middle of his second tour of duty in the tenth grade, Pete had sprouted from 6'1" to 6'5", and was now the same height as Gerry Williams. He was on the sidelines for the year in order to comply with county rules, which specified that he must compete in successive years. This would be a time of learning, of sizing up the competition and, last but not least, growing socially.
The year turned 180 degrees from a complete waste of time to a clear view of things to come. Sections of Pete's brain might have been underdeveloped, but his memory and ability to analyze and break down opponents was quite advanced. Years of going over positioning with his father had paid off, as they watched games together and always spotted the same flaws in a defense or potential opportunities on offense.
While he sat and observed, Pete realized how simple the game was. Actually, it was love at first shot. The immediate gratification of a rippling net opened his eyes wider than a hot fudge sundae. The calming sound of a basketball thumping against the ground... dribble, dribble, dribble. The trajectory of a ball floating toward the basket, spinning in the opposite direction of its target... swish! A marriage between basketball and fingertips was arranged at an early age. Without this bond there would be no gratification, just a hard rubber ball clanking violently against a metal rim.
As a child, the basket seemed as far away to Pete as the moon. It was difficult to maintain any sense of form while heaving the ball in the general direction of the basket. Pete’s father, the form specialist, would repeatedly say, “Make pretend your arms are a wheel by moving them around in a circular motion between your waist and your chin.” The natural clockwise motion combined with following the shot through by raising his arm skyward and curling his wrist after release, caused the ball spin backwards. The target was the front of the rim, and the backspin gave even a marginal attempt a chance of being successful.
The year marked the first time in years that Pete was among people of his own age. Always pushed ahead because his physical ability, the pace had finally slowed enough for him to blink, to see situations for what they actually were not what he thought they would be. Now at 6’ 5”, Pete was the B.M.O.C. (Biggest Man on Campus), although most people did not know him by site, much less his name. In high school reputations are mostly earned, although many are often fabricated at the expense of the innocent. Pete’s dream was not to be popular, just to be someone that no one would ever forget.
In Pete’s off year, the West Valley Basketball Team would endure an endless 4-16 season. The Rockets lacked leadership, and Coach Terry Andrews was at the helm for the first year following a year with the junior varsity. He had been Pete’s coach the previous season, a year in which Pete had been promoted to the varsity team before the end of the year. Coach Andrews’ junior varsity team had won only a handful of games but Pete, even at 6’1”, averaged 18 points per game. He became only the third junior varsity player in the school’s history to be advanced to the varsity, with the other two players being the ex-varsity coach's sons.
Lou Berman, Pete’s dad, was no stranger to Harry Silverman, the former West Valley Varsity Basketball coach. The two were hardened hoop warriors that had battled it out many evenings in local pick-up games. Square-jawed Harry was about 6’2” and a solid 215 pounds, while steely-eyed Lou stood at 6’4”, weighed 225 pounds and was about as wide as a sequoia tree. Harry wasn’t half as skilled as Lou, but nearly made up for it with a general indifference toward mankind, better disguised as sheer strength and intensity. The two men squared off many times as a result of heated exchanges, but had grown to respect each other somewhat over the years. Coach Silverman liked Pete’s game and figured that any son of Lou’s must be a tough kid who had a real feel the game.
During Pete’s first practice with the varsity team the previous year, he discovered what a “suicide” was and why it would make his life miserable for the foreseeable future. Players ran from the baseline to the foul line, then back to the baseline, then to center court, then back to the baseline, then to the opposite foul line, then back to the baseline, then to the opposite baseline, then back to where it all started. After three of these feet scorchers, the air made Pete’s lungs burn like a four-alarm fire. He normally hated practice and this would only serve to enhance his dislike of these monotonous two-hour sessions.
The prominent members of the team were the two forwards, Rich Silverman and Jim Scala. Silverman, the coach’s elder son, was a tough player like his dad and, at 6’4”, had an excellent shooting touch. Earlier in the season he broke the school scoring record with 42 points in a game. Pete, being the eternal pessimist, was never impressed with Silverman’s game and thought that he got by with brute strength: like father, like son. The other forward was Jim Scala, a gangly 6’5” left-hander who had unlimited shooting range. Pete observed that if you could combine the two stars into one player you would have a complete player that shot from long range and was also a fierce rebounder: a profile that he hoped to complete.
Pete attended every varsity game during his off year, and both doubted his own ability and knew he would make the difference during each encounter. There was a fine line between cockiness and modesty, with his moods changing with each lead change, missed shot, and dive for a loose ball.
On the occasions that Pete scrimmaged against the varsity team, he showed much of the form that his teammates would eventually come to rely on. He had a knack for stepping up and taking the big shot. He simply wanted ball when the game was on the line.
One Saturday afternoon he was paired with a group of alumni against the varsity's starting team. Many of the older players knew Pete as the little kid that trailed his father each weekend as they played basketball at the local park. They knew his father as a bloodthirsty competitor, but reputations stay with the man and each must be earned. Pete never thought about earning respect, he just played and everything else seemed to fall into place.
The eleven point game was over as quickly as Coach Andrews could yell in disgust, “Okay, everybody on the line!" When a coach has his players run suicides in the middle of practice, odds are he didn’t like was he saw. Pete and the alumni moved the ball like the Boston Celtics and ran the break like the Los Angeles Lakers. The varsity managed to scratch a single point off them on a fluke bank shot from the foul line.
One of the defining moments in Pete’s off-year then took place. Jimmy Flaherty, a multi-sport star of the previous decade, shouted out, “You guy
s ready for another beating?"
Coach Andrews quickly turned and looked at Pete, who returned his plea for help with a confident nod. The teams would be slightly adjusted. Pete would play with the varsity team and the graduates would add another big stiff from the Labrea Tar Pit of alumni. The coach knew he was building for the future because the present was about as bright as a blackout. The adrenaline in Pete’s body was shooting around like a bullet in a steel tunnel. This was his moment to get his team back, and feel that he was part of something gain.
The extra four inches Pete added over the year would come in handy this day. His opponent would be 6’ 7” John Curry, a boney specimen that had played some Division II basketball before resting more comfortably in Division III. At 28, Curry had been around the block a few times and thought he could show the young hot-shot a thing or two. The game would once again be to 11, counting by one’s with no foul shots or overtime. Six people in the gym were 100% sure of victory. Now all Pete had to do was convince the other four West Valley players that they could win again.
Pete’s teammates had played with and against him since they were 10 years old. They knew each other’s games real well. In fact, before Mr. Flaherty could close his mouth, Pete was completing the end of a pick-and-roll with longtime friend Dino Rizzo. The cloud had been lifted from the top of the Rockets’ gym, affectionately called The Launching Pad. Following a bunch of give-and-go’s and a picture-perfect back-door play executed by Steve Fuller on a bounce pass from Pete, the alumni decided to call time out to gather their composure and collective breaths. Anger and denial filled their huddle, as Curry suggested they play a two-three zone defense. The Rockets’ huddle was filled with more five’s than the Federal Reserve Bank. Coach Andrews had a twinkle in his eye when he told the team to be patient and make the older legs play defense.
After another miss by the alumni and a rebound by Pete, Gary Edmonson, the team’s point guard, slowly brought the ball up the court. Pete looked down the court then jogged by and said the words, “They’re in a zone, let’s press them after the ball goes in.” Just as the alumni settled into the defense of the aged, Pete positioned himself on the right wing, with Dino on the other wing, Big Arnie Schueller on the foul line, and Steve Fuller running the baseline. The team moved the ball around a few times until Pete had an open 15-footer. The ball had just barely tickled the twine when Gary yelled out “21!” which signaled a 2-2-1 full court zone press. Pete knew he was the one in the back and raced back to the opposite foul line. He caught the court-long pass in stride, like he was playing touch football on the street, and handed it off to Gary, who was back to being the consummate point guard. The alumni backpedaled into the zone and then watched Pete back up to 18 feet and drill another jumper.
The next three times down he connected on shots from 20, 22, and 24 feet, and the final shot was as close to out-of-bounds as you could legally be. The team had thrown a shut-out, but not a word was said. In a span of 10 minutes, Pete had successfully convinced his other four teammates that they should once again expect to win. They had rediscovered the simplicity of the game and played the way they did as kids. Youth has a way of being recaptured when you least expect it, but these Rockets grew up beyond their years on that icy-cold January day.
CHAPTER TWO
Fellingwood High School was a basketball power that not only had the largest student body in the county, but also was a perennial favorite to win the county championship. The Rams had beaten West Valley by 33 in their only meeting the previous year. Left unchecked, their star Gerry Williams scored 30 points and grabbed 13 rebounds.
During his off year, Pete was solely focused on Williams. Pete's father had never seen his easygoing son so intense. For years, Lou Berman warned Pete that he would have to get tougher and often doubted that his son would be able to overcome such a fearsome obstacle.
Pete Berman's interest in Gerry Williams had quite a deep-rooted history. He and Gerry attended the same basketball camp during the summer between their sophomore years, prior to the realignment of the conferences. At the time, Fellingwood was not in West Valley's league because of the relatively long distance between the towns. The new conference alignment was based on student population, pitting such powerhouses as Fellingwood, East Shores, Lakeview, and Pikesville. West Valley was hardly a sports juggernaut, as their only basketball championship had come decades earlier when canvas high-tops and Ford Mustangs were all the rage.
Pete's coach that summer was none other than Sal Pagnozzi, the head coach of the Fellingwood Rams. Sal was a large man, tipping the scales in excess of 350 pounds on a low carbohydrate day. Sal was a sly dog, requesting three of his lesser players along with Pete, while he placed Gerry Williams on one of the better teams. Sal was going to make sure Pete would not present a threat to his team, by breaking his confidence into little pieces before the season even began.
There was only one problem with Pagnozzi's plan: Pete didn't know politics, he knew basketball. The first time the two teams met, Sal refused to play Pete against Gerry. Coach Pagnozzi was looking for the element of surprise but Pete was ready. After this initial game, Pete was anxious and Sal knew it. The teams met three other times and Sal repeated the same strategy, although his team lost each game. Pete came off the bench and scored at will, but was exiled to the sideline when the game was on the line.
When the all-star teams were picked, Pete's name was conspicuously omitted. Sal had stacked the deck with three of his own mediocre players instead. Pete was inwardly furious but soon became aware of Sal's master plan. Instead of sulking, he went right back on the court for a lunchtime pick-up game. The sides were picked and as fate would have it, he was paired against his much-coveted buddy Gerry Williams. As Pete ran down court next to Gerry, he noticed that the 6'5" Williams ran completely upright and wasn't particularly blessed with strong legs. The 195-pound wonder-boy had a decent upper body, but he was as stiff as a person undergoing an x-ray.
The domination was quick and unmistakable. First a jumper from the right hand side, then a hook shot in the lane. Pete was always a team player first and foremost, but on this day he found himself with only one opponent. Gerry tried his patented up-and-under move, but Pete had seen that one a few times and stripped the ball out of Gerry's hands. The next time down, Pete anticipated a crossover move and forced Gerry into an errant shot.
By the time the one-sided game ended, Pete had both outrebounded and outscored Gerry 5-0. Coach Sal was at a staff meeting and could not save his star pupil. Gerry had no idea who Pete was and wrote the game off without a further thought. For Pete, the rivalry had begun the moment he first saw Gerry that previous winter. Without even knowing who Gerry was, he sensed an air of arrogance from the blond-haired All-American boy. He thought to himself after the game, that no player would ever walk on his team in their house again. The rivalry had begun, yet only one side was aware of it.
Pete's sophomore year ended with a unique and unexpected twist. It was a lazy mid-May afternoon and he was walking through the hallway between periods, when Annie Landros brushed by him. The six-foot tall, powerfully built Landros, had seen Pete in the gym before while playing on the basketball and volleyball teams. He said, "Hi, Annie." She smiled, nodded and then kept walking down the hall without breaking stride.
Later that day, the phone rang at Pete's house. He ran down the hall and picked the call up.
"Hello."
"Is Pete there?" a female voice asked.
"Yeah, this is Pete."
"Oh. Hi, Pete, it's Annie."
Pete thought for a moment and then the light suddenly was lit.
"Oh, Annie. How are you?"
"I'm fine," she replied then quickly transitioned from the small talk to the thrust of her call.
"I just wanted to know if you would go to the Junior Prom with me?"
Pete temporarily lost consciousness and the simpl
y replied, "Ugh, okay."
"Oh, that's so nice of you! Okay, I'll see you at school tomorrow, she beamed.
Pete grunts, "Bye" and hangs up the phone. He thinks to himself, "What the hell was that all about? Why is she asking me to the Junior Prom? And why did I say yes? I don't even know this girl. I just said "hello" to her in the hallway once. I mean, I know who she is, but I don't really know her."
Once word got around that Annie and Pete were going to the prom together, his friends went for the jugular. Being a sophomore, even if it was for the second time, Pete was not ready for such an onslaught. His immaturity was the main reason he stayed back the extra year. Steve Constantine, the twelfth man on the basketball team, was especially graphic and brutal. He would say things like, "Man, she's going to eat you up," or "Just don't let her take you to the beach. Before you know your clothes will be off and sand will be everywhere.”
Pete was petrified. He had never seen a live girl naked, choosing instead to get his education only from movies and gentlemen's magazines. He had never really even kissed a girl before, aside from a quick peck on the lips with a girl when he was 12 at summer camp. Putting his experience in baseball terms, Pete hadn't even stepped out of the dugout. To make matters even worse, Annie was being real nice to him. She didn't seem to be the ruthless hooker the guys were building her up to be. Pete's imagination was once again getting the best of him, just as it did when he went to Randy Aaronson's sixth grade sleep-over party. Jared Berg was recounting the story of the Cropsy Monster when one thing led to another, and Pete called his dad to go home and sleep in his own bed.
The prom night finally arrived after few more long agonizing weeks. It was a warm June night, not that Pete needed any help opening his sweat glands. Pete’s friend Nicky Villano drove up to his house to pick him up. Nicky was a long 6'4", which was a height he had reached when he was only 13 years old. Nicky was no stranger to the Berman's, as he had played against Pete many times when they were growing up. Pete would usually foul the clumsy Nicky out of every game, and Lou Berman would implore Nicky to jump rope and do other drills to improve his coordination and agility.