CHARLIE HALF-COURT
BY
KEITH LAUFENBERG



In 1950, sportswriters were asked to pick the greatest all-around male athlete of that half-century. The overwhelming choice was a Sauk-Fox Indian named Jim Thorpe.



Coach Francis 'Mike' Michaelson shook his head indolently, as he glanced over at the bleachers where a young Indian sat. Michaelson, who even the students just called Mike, was the head coach of the varsity basketball team, at Northwestern High School, and he knew who the Indian lad was, as he had been coming to watch the varsity team scrimmages for the past couple of days. The majority of the players on the team knew who he was too, because for a 15-year old reservation Indian he had an awesome reputation. His name was Charlie Two-Feathers and he was a full-blooded Sioux Indian, from the He-Dog tribe, living on the Rosebud Indian Reservation. He was also a superstar point guard who had scored a phenomenal 55 points in one game, just the previous year. Michaelson had only seen him play one time but had recognized at once the boy's amazing talent and unlimited potential. Nevertheless, he was surprised when the smiling lad had approached him that very afternoon, just before practice, with the idea of becoming a starting guard on his varsity team. This feat had been done only once before but that by a 6'4'� 16-year old center, not a 15-year old who was barely 5'7'� tall. The normal procedure was for the players to start on the junior varsity and play for one or two years before graduating to the varsity. Of course, for Charlie Two-Feathers, who had grown up on the reservation, nothing in his life could ever really be considered normal.
Many of Charlie's childhood friends had long ago succumbed to a predatory disease known as tuberculosis, a disease almost non-existent in mainstream America, but there was no hospital or even one full-time doctor on the reservation, even though there were plenty of places to buy liquor and alcoholism had claimed many of Charlie's boyhood pals, along with three-quarters of the reservation's population. The fact that 80% of the reservation's population was unemployed, and only 10% even owned a telephone, contributed immensely to the state of depression most of the alcoholics shared and predisposed many of them down the road toward drinking as a way of escaping their bleak realities. Also, almost no one owned a car and there was no public transportation, so to have and keep a job, especially outside of the reservation, was nearly impossible.
Charlie's mother had six children, by six different fathers, and she received no financial help from any of them. She received a monthly welfare check but she was an addicted alcoholic and spent most of it on liquor, including Lysol-based Kool-Aid when nothing else was available.
Charlie Two-Feathers grew up in a three bedroom house; a three bedroom house that was typically inhabited by a dozen or more people, not including his five brothers and sisters. The family suffered through stifling summers that saw the thermometer top out past 110 degrees and winters that saw freezing sub-zero temperatures, and in the same non-insulated structure. Charlie and his siblings were also in almost constant danger of the spillover from any number of drunken brawls in and around their house.
Salvation, for Charlie Two-Feathers, had come in the form of a broken-down basketball court. He loved watching NBA games on the small 13-inch black and white television set that was the family's only source of entertainment and had begun watching them in 1975, at age 4. He made his way, a year later, at age 5, to the litter-splattered basketball court and began throwing a tennis ball at the hoop. He wanted to fly through the sky, just like he had seen Dr. J do, and began dreaming of doing just that regularly. At age 6, he graduated to a multi-patched rubber basketball that he had scrounged from a friend's father and immediately began moving further and further from the basket, as every year passed. By age 10, he could make 25% of his shots from half-court and by age 12 that would rise to 50%.
At age 13, Charlie Half-Court participated in an Inipi ceremony with a tribal elder. An Inipi ceremony is a ceremony where knowledge is sought, from a greater power than is known to man, on this earth. In Charlie's case, he fasted for four days and then entered a tipi that was boiling hot, red-hot rocks placed in the center being the source of this heat, and when the tent-flap was closed it became a veritable sauna. Charlie beseeched Wakan Tanka, the Great Spirit, for a vision and he got one. He had a vision of himself, flying through the air with a basketball in his hand amid thunderous applause from a packed crowd watching him. The only thing that he couldn't understand was a flash of an eerie bright light and a loud warning not to leave the Real People, just before he awoke and returned to the real world. Charlie had been crying and had only been able to stop when the light returned and enveloped him, for a soothing moment of absolute peace and tranquility. He had put that memory to rest, however, when he returned to the court the next day and began working on his slam-dunk. He practiced on a 9' high rim and was dunking it easily within a month. At age 13, he was touching the rim on the regular 10' high basket and at 14 he made his first slam-dunk in an inner-tribal match, and he was barely 5'5'� tall that first time, barely a year ago this very day. He knew then that his destiny would be written on the wind and in the air, on a basketball court. His mastery of the dribble was second to none and at 5'7'� no one could steal the ball from him, or even come close to touching it. He had also developed a shot that he became famous for, on the reservation, a half-court shot that he made a phenomenal 50% of the time. It would earn him his nickname 'Charlie Half-Court, one day, when he made three out of three from that awesome distance, to win a close inner-tribal match.
Coach Michaelson ended the varsity practice session by clapping his hands and blowing a whistle he had around his neck.
'Aw'rye guys, enough for today, take a lap and hit the showers.'�
Michaelson ambled over to the bleachers, to see if he could persuade the Indian youth everyone knew as Charlie that it was a futile idea for him to think he could play on a varsity level at his age and size. He couldn't fathom the Indian youth's logic at all; how could the boy think that he could make the varsity as a freshman, when Northwestern finished second in the country, just the previous year, and had been State Champs for over a decade straight. Michaelson had only had one other Indian ever, on his starting varsity team, in all his twelve years as the head coach, even though he actively encouraged them to try out. The facts were that most of the reservation Indians never made it to high school and, of those that did, as well as those that didn't, the majority of them were budding alcoholics and totally anti-social. The amount of alcoholism and violence that they confronted daily on the reservation carried over into their everyday existence and so many were eventually expelled that Michaelson had just about given up on them, as a group, even though he understood that the system failed them entirely when it dealt with the individual instead of the real problem, which was poverty and hopelessness.
The only Indian youth Mike had started on his varsity team was Willie Smith, almost four years in the past. Smith had been a 6'7', 19-year old senior, who had been heavily recruited by every major university in the nation and Mike still had nightmares whenever reminiscing about his past teams and Smith's eventual fate. It had been in 1983, when Smith had been celebrating an undefeated season, and three drunken companions had shot and killed him, senselessly and needlessly, over a dollar bill that Smith had dropped on the floor of a restaurant. Michaelson had been the one called to identify the body and he never forgot the sight of the best center he had ever had on his team, lying ignominiously on the coroner's cold, slate slab, in the county morgue.
Michaelson came alongside the bleachers where Charlie was sitting and rasped:
'Say Charlie.'�
'Say Mike. Kin I try out today?'�
'Charlie, you need to see Coach Bob Karl.'�
'I gotta try out for jay-vees? I can't even try out for the varsity?'�
'Charlie, we've got six seniors coming back this year that are all over six feet and'�'�'�'�.
'I bet I can out-jump 'em all.'�
'Charlie, I don't think it's such a good idea for you too try out, you know?'�
'You mean cuz I'm from'nah rez, huh Mike?'�
Michaelson reached down and picked up a basketball from the floor. Staring across the gymnasium, he spied three of his starters heading for the showers and yelled at one of them:
'Joey! Joey Darrow, c'mere.'�
Joey Darrow, a 6'2'� senior and Mike's starting point guard for two years straight, caught sight of the coach, who was waving him over, said something to one of the other players and ambled over to the bleachers. He smiled at Mike, then Charlie and said:
'What's up Mike?'�
Michaelson smiled at Darrow and barked:
'Joey, you know Charlie, don't you?'�
'Sure, everybody knows Charlie Half-Court, whadayah say Charlie?'�
'Say man.'� Charlie had heard the slight mockery in Darrow's voice; he knew that Darrow was being heavily recruited by most of the major colleges.
'Joey, I want you to go one on one with Charlie here; full court; you take it out.'�
Darrow smiled lazily when Mike handed him the ball. He winked at Charlie and began dribbling the ball between his legs and behind his back, all in the fraction of a second.
But, Charlie wasn't going for it because Charlie knew a psych job when he saw one, as he had worked a few of them himself, in his time on the hardwood. He returned Darrow's wink and smiled widely, as he clambered off the bleachers and Darrow realized if he were to beat Charlie he would have to do it all by himself, man to man, one on one, talent against talent and that was finer than fine by him, as he surveyed his 5'7'�, 130 pound opponent.
As they walked to the center of the court, Mike marveled at the contrast. Joey Darrow was an 18-year old, 6'2'�, 165 pound all sinew and muscle starting guard and he was an impressive and imposing figure; wearing cotton gym shorts, knee-high cotton socks with 'N.H.S.' sewn on the sides, and a silk shirt with 'ALL STATE CHAMPIONS' emblazoned across the back. Darrow appeared to have just stepped out of the pages of a Sports Illustrated magazine, which, in a year or two, had a very high probability of happening.
Charlie, on the other hand, was 5'7'� and 130 pounds, soaking wet. He wore a pair of cut-off blue jeans, a white undershirt and a pair of sneakers that were almost completely worn through on the soles, while the canvas sides were starting to shred so much you could barely make out the rubber ball on the sides, which identified them as US Keds. Mike smiled at the difference between the two opponents and realized that if it weren't for Charlie's remarkable reputation and the fact that he was an underprivileged Indian, a group Mike still had a soft spot for, he wouldn't be anywhere near this gym, much less facing off with Mike's best point guard in his long career of coaching basketball. Mike figured that if Charlie could even stay with Darrow he would let the junior varsity coach know and insure a starting position for the boy there. He waved at Darrow and barked:
'Okay Joey, take it to the hole. Ah-er, Charlie, just guard him as best you can son.'�
Charlie grimaced at the tone of Michaelson's banter and walked to the center of the court with Darrow, where Darrow immediately began his magic show, dribbling the ball through his legs and behind his back, all in a millisecond, and all with a cocky smirk of confidence on his face. He faked left, than quickly broke to the right of the court where Charlie met him head-on and guarded him as if he was taking food off Charlie's plate. Darrow growled at Charlie and glanced towards Michaelson, but Mike let Charlie guard him close, not even bothering to take his whistle out. Darrow smiled laconically and head-faked twice, then took three quick strides towards the basket and leaped into the air, the round-ball in his massive right hand, over his head, and just as he moved it towards the basket and Charlie's hand grazed it, his blistering speed and honed reflexes allowed him to whip the ball in a 180 degree arc, whereupon he transferred it to his left hand and masterfully tossed it into the basket, in a picture perfect, underhanded reverse lay-up.
Charlie's jaws tightened and he scowled, as Darrow did a slow, shuffling victory march to the bleachers, where Mike sat, grinning wolfishly at the performance he had so silently and stoically predicted, to himself. When Darrow handed the ball to Michaelson and then turned and headed towards the showers, Charlie shook his head and pleaded with Michaelson, for a second chance.
'Coach, ah, don'cha think I could have jus' one more try? Just one more try, Mike?'�
Michaelson smiled indolently and glanced over at Darrow, who had turned around upon hearing Charlie's voice. He returned Michaelson's sardonic grin and barked:
'It' s all right with me Mike.'�
Michaelson shifted his gaze to Charlie, whose plea had been packed with an emotion he seldom heard anymore. He threw the basketball back to Darrow and barked:
'Go for it then.'�
Darrow's game-face returned, as he walked towards the center court and began his masterful dribble again. He head-faked Charlie twice, took a step to the left and then broke to the right and Charlie was glued to his every move. He pulled up at the top of the key and faked a jump-shot but Charlie didn't go for it and slapped at the round-ball. His fingers slid across the Wilson trademark just as Darrow's cobra-like right arm snaked the ball back into his possession and he resumed his hypnotizing dribble. He head-faked and stutter-stepped Charlie out of position twice, just playing with him, letting him know that he could take it to the hoop anytime he wanted, or so he thought. He cat and moused Charlie once more putting the ball through his legs then behind his back and Charlie let him, for Charlie's eyes were like two lasers, as his heart pounded and the adrenaline pounded in his ears. Charlie was aware that Darrow was the cobra and he let him be, for Charlie was determined to be the mongoose; he knew Darrow favored his right side and he knew Darrow was used to playing against taller opponents, he could see it in his dribble, it was just a tad too high and Charlie would take advantage of that, at the first sign of a mistake, which Darrow made when he faked right, then left and then went right. Charlie had faked going for the left fake but had held back and when Darrow broke to the right side of the court, Charlie's right hand whipped out so fast and sure that it made contact, perfectly, with the ball and it rolled out of Darrow's grasp and down the court, where Charlie quickly scooped it up and headed for the opposite court. Darrow stopped halfway down the court when he saw Charlie's blistering speed, as he laid the ball against the backboard and it swooshed through the net.
Charlie walked towards the bleachers smiling, even as Joey Darrow was already morosely moping around Michaelson, complaining that he had been hand-checked and fouled. Michaelson waved Darrow's complaints away and congratulated Charlie. Charlie's mischievous grin enhanced Darrow's glumness, especially when he winked at Darrow. Michaelson smiled and handed Charlie the ball, then said:
'Charlie, this time you take it to the hole.'�
As Charlie walked towards the center-court, Michaelson grinned at his star point-guard and rasped, tongue-in-cheek:
'Joey, just guard him as best you can son.'�
Darrow frowned and whined:
'Geez-zuz, Mike, c'mon man, one lucky play.'�
'Well, we'll see about that, Joey me'boy, hit the wood.'�
Darrow strode to the center-court fuming and Michaelson smiled, pondering silently that now Charlie was in for it. Darrow was the best point-guard Mike had ever coached but he needed a backup and maybe Charlie would be it, Michaelson now pondered, rooting silently for Charlie, if only he could just stay with Darrow a little. Darrow was the key to the team's offense and defense, as he was a phenomenal ball-handler, as well as a threat from the outside perimeter, where he reminded Mike of Larry Bird and then when he went to the basket of Pistol Pete Maravitch, with some of the slickest moves he had ever been privileged enough to coach and then, when he made more assists than any other point-guard in the conference, he reminded Mike of the great Magic Johnson, with his bullet-like passes, which always appeared to have radar attached to them. He was almost always double-teamed nowadays and his passing ability was being honed every time they suited up. It seemed to Mike that it was no longer a question of whether or not Joey Darrow would, someday, play in the NBA, it was only a question of when. All the major universities had been recruiting him and Mike knew that there was at least one NBA team that was sending out feelers if he would consider being drafted right out of high school.
As he watched the two disparate youngsters go one-on-one, Michaelson's countenance quickly went from one of inherent interest and piqued curiosity to one of wonder and disbelief, when he saw that Charlie did everything that Darrow did, only a step, or even two steps, quicker; he was a human whirlwind and it was no contest. Charlie Half-Court more than lived up to his reputation and nickname when he smiled at Darrow from just inside the line separating the two sides of the court and faked a dribble, which Darrow went for and then made a perfect jump-shot from the half-court line; the ball never even hitting the backboard or rim but nothing but net. Darrow was flabbergasted but he hadn't seen anything yet, as Charlie dribbled past him and leaped from just inside the foul line to come abreast of the basket where he rammed home the round-ball, his 130 pounds actually shaking the rim, before he dropped to the floor. Michaelson would later measure Charlie's vertical leap at 49'� and would never stop to be amazed by him. He called them over to the bleachers and Darrow, never beaten one-on-one before, sniffed.
'Geez Mike, I'm ah-er, really tired, might be comin' down with the flu, y'know?'�
'Ummm, hit the showers Joey, we'll talk later.'�
As Darrow shuffled disconsolately towards the showers, muttering to himself, Michaelson stepped off the bleachers and came alongside the thin, small-boned, full-blooded Sioux Indian and wrapped his arm around Charlie's bony shoulders.
'Charlie, I gotta tell you something son; you're the best damn ball-player I've ever seen and I've seen just about all a'em.'�
'Geez thanks Mike; I jus' hope I can help the team?'�
Michaelson was already fantasizing coaching the best team in the nation and he smiled widely at Charlie and barked:
'Charlie, I gotta funny feelin' that you are gonna BE THE TEAM'�

-2-
CUSTODY

Your forefathers crossed the great water and landed on this island. Their numbers were small. We took pity on them and they sat down among us. We gave them corn and meat. They gave us poison in return.---Sagoyewathha (Red Jacket) Seneca.


Jimmy Levine took a thick stogie out of his mouth and studied it, then smiled at Coach Michaelson and barked:
'Geez Mike, I come here to watch Joey Darrow play and whadah I see? A friggin' whirl wind? Where'd diz kid come from anyways?'�
Levine's thick New York accent always brought a smile to Michaelson's demeanor; there weren't too many New Yorkers living in South Dakota, in 1986. He smiled at Levine. The man was huge, maybe 6'6'� tall and over 300 pounds. Mike knew little about the man, other than he had once been a promising center, while attending Duke University, sometime in the 60's and he was an inveterate gambler who made trips to Las Vegas at least twice a year. He also knew he was an investor who seemed to have an endless supply of funds. Levine claimed to be nothing more than a retired businessman, who had made his millions in the garment district of New York's grimy downtown jungle, but it was rumored that he had connections that could put a man at the bottom of a lake if he didn't hold up his end in any of the countless business deals Levine was into. Michaelson, who was born and raised in nearby Mitchell and had never left the State except to take an occasional vacation, shrugged his shoulders and barked:
'Jimmy, he's from the Rosebud Indian Reservation.'�
Levine's face erupted into a large smile and he took the cigar from his mouth and growled:
'Yeah, wid a name like Two-Feddahs I din t'ink he's from da Bronx, youse know Mike? How tall is he, anyways?'�
'He's five-seven and a half Jimmy.'�
Levine's face contorted into an almost maniacal grin.
'Five-seben and he dunked it?'�
'Yup, this is the kid I was talking to you about over the phone last night.'�
'Yeah, youse said good not fee'fuggin'nom'inul. Diz kid's dah best I ever seen.'�
'Jimmy, right now I'd put him up against Steve Sagan and bet on Charlie.'�
'What? Shotgun Steve. Notre Dame? He's six't'ree, two hundred pounds?'�
'Charlie's the best I've ever worked with Jimmy, the best pure talent I've ever seen.'�
'And you been takin' him home and all?'�
'Right, everyday after practice; he's got no way of getting around, you know?'�
Levine put his cigar back in his mouth and puffed for ten seconds, then, removing it, he stared at it, turning it slowly in his fingers. He licked a sliver of tobacco from his front tooth and spit it out noiselessly.
'I hope he grows annudah foot Mike, youse know. Boy's so skinny?'�
'Jimmy, remember the shot he made at the buzzer? From half-court?'�
'Yeah, a lucky shot Mike, still the kid's good, no doubt about it.'�
'Jimmy, I don't think you noticed but they double-teamed Charlie the whole game, starting whenever he got the ball past half-court.'�
'I noticed that Mike but'�'�'�'�'�'�'�'�..
'Jimmy, the kid's nickname is Charlie Half-Court. I'll take you out right now and he'll make two outta three shots from half-court; jump-shots!'�
'Youse a kiddin' me, right?'�
'No way, this kid is the real thing.
'Yeah-yeah, I can see he's dah gen-you-.wine article. How much'll we need, anyways?'�
'Well she said a hundred a month would do it.'�
'And Charlie's gonna live wid youse?'�
'That's right Jimmy.'�
'Geez'zuz Mike, what kinna woman sells 'er own child?'�
'Jimmy, Charlie's got five brothers'n'sisters and one of 'em's brain-damaged.'�
'Brain-damaged?'�
'Right, his mother's an alcoholic and she used to drink Lysol when she didn't have the money for liquor.'�
'Gee'zuz Mike, what'ah we getting' into?'�
'Jimmy, I wanna save this kid. C'mon, when's the last time you've seen such raw talent?'�
Levine removed a pair of thick-framed black glasses, the lenses of which looked like coke bottles. He rubbed his eyes and stared straight at Michaelson.
'To be honest wid youse Mike, I never have, not like diz kid. Youse know, I grew up in Flatbush and we wuz poor, youse know. There was six a us and my lil' bruddah Hymie din' make it, fuggin' doctahs wooden operate 'cause we wuz broke, fuggin' quacks. My muddah, god rest'tah soul, never had no money, nuttin'.'�
Michaelson had always thought of Levine as a crusty, heartless businessman but now he seemed to see something human come through and he could swear he saw a tear forming at the corners of the old faker's eyes. He was taken aback at the forcefulness of Levine's next statement but it brought a huge smile to his face.
'Youse got the c-note a month Mike and annudah two-fifty for his room'in'board and youse let me know if youse'll need anymore.'�
'This is awful kind of you Jimmy.'�
Levine's cigar drooped, as he grinned, then jumped up when he noticed Charlie, walking down the hallway. Mike called the Indian youth into his office and Levine leaned down and put his arm around the boy's small frame, then barked:
'Mike, youse take good care a Spud Webb here and we'll jus' see if Muddah Nature can't toin'im into annudah Doctah Jay, huh?'�
Charlie gave off an ear-to-ear grin when Michaelson nodded and said:
'Charlie, you're gonna come and live with me for awhile.'�

-3-
THE DEAL


Whiskey is a great and monstrous evil and has reared a high mound of bones. So now all must say, 'I will use it nevermore.'�---Handsome Lake, Seneca.




Jimmy Levine puffed contentedly on an imported Havana cigar that must have been a foot-long. He took it out of his mouth and smiled at Michaelson, who was busy lighting his own. Levine reached for a snifter of brandy and refreshed his and Michaelson's drinks. Both men were celebrating the deal; Levine, along with an army of lawyers, had negotiated an unprecedented 150-million dollar, multi-year contract for Charlie, who had blossomed into a 6'4'� superstar point guard. No basketball player had been the recipient of such media attention since Darryl Dawkins had been drafted straight from high school into the NBA, as Charlie now was, and the media was in a frenzy, especially considering that Charlie had scored an unprecedented 100 points in his last game, a game that had won his team the national championship and sealed Charlie's fate, as a superstar nonpareil. Levine sipped his brandy and barked:
'Heh, it all paid off, huh Mike. More'n Jordan, hell more'n any basketball player before; ah he's gonna be bigger'un Jordan, hell, he's gonna be the bigges' t'ing in sports, we got ourselves a franchise here, pal.'�
Michaelson smiled and lifted his glass to toast Levine when the phone rang. He grabbed it on the second ring and Levine frowned when he saw Michaelson turn a deathly pale. Levine watched, as Mike slammed down the phone and walked to a big-screen television set and flipped it on. Levine took the cigar out of his mouth to ask Mike what was going on when the newscaster on the screen caught his attention. It was Dan Rather:
'And at six o'clock Pacific time on the Rosebud Indian Reservation, located in Rosebud South Dakota, high school superstar Charlie Two-feathers, known as Charlie Half-Court for his phenomenal half-court shot was reportedly shot several times by one or two unidentified gunmen, on the Rosebud Indian Reservation. The unidentified men are reported to have been two teenaged Native Americans who were reported to have been intoxicated on a mixture of Lysol and Kool-Aid. The names of the assailants are being withheld pending an arraignment but it has been reported that both of the men have made a statement that they were shooting at Two-Feathers' new Cadillac, mistaking it for a government official's car. A gala event had been planned for Two-Feathers' NBA debut when he recently signed an unprecedented one hundred and fifty million dollar multi-year deal. Two-Feathers is said to be in critical condition in a hospital in Pierre, South Dakota and is not expected to live. More on this story, after a word from your local station.'�

-4-
CHARLIE'S VISION IS FULFILLED

We did not ask you white men to come here. We do not want your civilization, we would live as our fathers did and their fathers before them.---Crazy Horse, Oglala Sioux.

I felt as if I were dead and traveling to the Spirit Land; for now all my old ideas were to give place to new ones, and my life was to be entirely different from that of the past.
Charles Eastman, Santee Sioux.


Charlie Two-Feathers laid in the emergency room and his heart stopped. As the doctors worked to revive him, an eerie bright, spellbinding light flashed before his eyes and his spirit rose above the table. He stared down at his earthly body and was mystified and then a vision appeared in front of him, a vision in the form of another Indian, who appeared to be almost totally white. He spoke in the Lakota dialect but Charlie understood every word, even though he had never learned the language.
'Ah, Charlie Two-Feathers, it is indeed you lying there but it is not yet your time, for the Great Spirit has not yet called you.'�
Charlie stared at the Indian, who was much smaller than he was and who had a single eagle feather in a thin dark band, wrapped around his forehead.
'Wha what? Who are you?'�
'I am Lakota, just like you and I am here to take you to the Spirit World and show you what you are intended to do with the gifts the Great Spirit has bestowed upon you.'�
'Ah, ah-ah, I feel at peace now. Can't I stay like this? I don't wish to go back to my life as a basketball player. Can I'�'�'�'�'�'�'�'�'�
'Umahhh Charlie, come now with me, we will fly and I will show you what the Great Spirit wishes for you to do. Come now Charlie.'�
Charlie stared at his earthly body feeling totally at peace, as he watched as it grew smaller and smaller, as he rose higher and higher in the air and then his old husk of a body was gone, and he passed through the roof of the hospital.

EPILOGUE
THE CIRCLE OF LIFW

What is generally considered a success---acquisition of wealth, the capture of power or social prestige---I consider the most dismal failures. I hold when it is said of a man that he has arrived, it means that he is finished---his development has stopped at that point.
Emma Goldman, Harper's Magazine, December, 1934.




The newscaster smiled at his co-anchor and then into the camera, as the light, signaling that they were back on the air, flashed on.
'And this from the world of sports, Charlie Two-Feathers, who was also known as Charlie Half-Court in the mid 80's and was said to have been the best high school basketball player in history and had been drafted into the NBA but never played pro ball, has died in a plane crash off the coast of Alaska, where he had gone on a mercy mission and was delivering supplies to a group of Inuit Native Americans. The light beech craft airplane he was in crashed, killing both Two-Feathers and the pilot. Charlie Two-Feathers was fifty-nine years old. Say Bill, do you remember this Indian? A little before my time, I'm afraid.'�
The anchor nodded at his elder colleague, the station's sportscaster, who nodded back at him.
'Ah yes I do Russ. In fact, I remember the story quite well. He was a tremendous basketball player, had an unbelievable shot from half-court but as I seem to remember he was shot by some drunken Indians and never recovered apparently enough to play ball again. Ah, he did force the authorities to let his two assailants off, however. As a matter of fact, if I remember correctly both his attackers joined his crusade.'�
'His crusade, Bill?'�
'Yes he claimed to have had some sort of vision or out of body experience in the hospital and he became a preacher of sorts.'�
'Oh yes, wasn't he the one who convinced the various tribes to relearn their old ways, speak in their old dialects and return to their mothers Bill?'�
'Hah-heh. Not exactly Russ, he preached that we, ah he included us, that is everyone who came to his lectures, that we return to Mother Earth.'�
'Mother Earth? Wait a minute, wait a minute Bill, wasn't he the one who sued the federal government for the return of all the Indians' lands to them?'�
'Yes, hey I thought you were too young Russ?'�
'Well, it is history and the Supreme Court ruled on that case.'�
'Oh, that's right, you've got a law degree, don't you Russ.'�
'Ah-rar-er, a few credits short but I'll finish, ah-er, anyway I do remember that case. I remember they made a big deal out of this basketball playing Indian and questioning him as to why he turned down all the endorsements that would have made him a multi-millionaire, a real circus, instead of a legal action, if you ask me.'�
'Yes well you have to remember that he scored a hundred points in a high school game; now Wilt Chamberlain did that in the NBA but the high school game is much shorter and more restricted and it's a record that may well never be broken. A real shame how he turned out too. I mean, I remember that he said that he could still play the game but that the Great Spirit had other things for him to accomplish and they didn't include basketball.'�
'The Great Spirit?'�
'Yeah Russ, you have to remember the Indians were very superstitious.'�
'Yeah, sounds like it Bill. I mean the Great Spirit? Mother earth?'�
The sportscaster smiled and nodded, as the anchor turned towards the camera, took his cue, and cooed:
'And now, on the home front'�'�'�'�'�'�'�'�'�'�'�'�..................

Want to comment on this Short Stories? Sign up to Edit Red and you will be able to comment on Short Stories and get access to: Upload your own stories and poems, get readers and their feedback, promote your work...