Running on Empty

a very short Indian basketball essay

Photo by Sean Foster on Unsplash

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Many years ago, in 1986 or 87, my all-Indian basketball team traveled to Lapwai, Idaho, to play a Nez Perce Indian team. The Nez Perce tribe has always had legendary basketball players. Over the years, a few dozen Nez Perce men and women have played college hoops. Their high school teams have won multiple state titles.

Our team was a mix of Spokane and Coeur d’Alene Indians. None of us had played college ball. But, at full strength, we were a decent team. We’d even won the championship in the highest division of a Spokane City League, defeating teams who had a few college players on their rosters.

But, even at full strength, we were no match for the Nez Perce. And worse, only five of our players showed up for the game.

My father was the coach, my older brother was the big man, I was the small forward, and our three other teammates were cousins who were all under 5-8 in height.

We lost 172 to 72 in a forty-minute game.

But I did manage to score 55 of our points by relentlessly shooting three-pointers—dozens of them—so many of them that I could barely lift my arms after the game was over.

It was one of the most ridiculous performances of my life and also one of the most pointless because we lost by a century of points.

As we drove back home toward our reservation, we ate boloney sandwiches and drank Pepsis from a cooler.

But then, a few miles south of Spokane, we ran out of gas.

It was three in the morning. We were six Indians. Even if somebody had happened to drive past, it was doubtful they would’ve stopped to help us.

So we had to push the van for miles to the nearest gas station.

But, before we made it to that 24-hour oasis in Spangle, my big brother stopped pushing the van. He was a great basketball player. Had court vision like a magician. But he weighed over 300 pounds and had just played a forty-minute basketball game. He was exhausted.

He stepped away from the van, sat down on the snowy embankment beside the road, and started weeping.

We stopped pushing the van and silently watched him cry. I shed a few tears of empathy. After all, think of how many Indians have wept in the snow during the last five hundred years.

Then, after twenty minutes or so, my father yelled at my brother and gave him a brand-new nickname.

“Okay, Wounded Knee,” our father said. “Enough crying. We need to start pushing again.”

My brother laughed. We all laughed. Then we started pushing again.

I don’t remember when we stopped calling my brother “Wounded Knee.” I think, at some point, the nickname was shortened to just “Knee.”

But I’m laughing now as I write and read this essay.

Man, we Indians know how to survive every loss.