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  • The Tribes
  • Chee Brossy (bio)

They play dirty, says the old man from Escalante,his lower lip out frowning. He shakes his head,Did you see them talking to the refs?The game is tight and the boys lithe, fast, shoulders and arms glistening,sweat shining off contours of biceps in a brand of youth.The Lagunas and Acomas against the whiteand Hispanic small-town boys like it has always beensince you can remember.The LA coach, a bald chihuahua of a man, has drilledinto them, if not a structure then a tensile elasticity,so they press, run the fast break and pass.The string between their hands comes alive on the court,the boys loving the patterns growing there.In the fourth quarter they break free of the Cowboys,themselves a stringy well-balanced teamwith a heady point guard and aggressive, attacking wing.Yet the blue Pueblo boys emerge, passes unfolding like wings.The ball sails past the Cowboys in orange jerseysleaving them lurching. The blue defense is everywhere,sneakers squeaking on the lacquered floor, trapping the corners,their little coach mirroring them on the sideline,squatting in a defensive stance then hopping at a steal,holding out his hands, fists clenched,palms up. But it’s the boys who run smiling to each other, high fiving,and the crowd of blue-shirted fans—entire towns,both of them, Laguna and Acoma—roaring, shakingplastic clappers and pom-poms. When the orange and blackbleachers across the court stand up to reply— [End Page 128] men in cowboy hats and camouflage, the mothers holding signs—beginning their Go Raiders cheer, the blue crowd raisesits deafening L-A-Ha-awks, drowning them out.A stirring. Both sides raising voices,shaking fists, throwing heads back and yelling,tribes again: Oh, I remember this, I remember whyI don’t like you. This acid tang in my mouth,burning, animal kicked awake, neck fur bristlinguntil you hear its full roar.Blue against orange, brown faces against white.The blue have more and their yells burythe orange. The tallest cowboy waves his arm at the other sideas if to sweep them away then sits down because he can’thear himself anymore. The rest of the orangereturn to their seats until there is only one woman,a mother, standing against the blue roar. She holdsGo Raiders Go above her head, waves it and howls,pausing only to catch her breath and howl again.No words, just anger and war, sons fighting sons.To the boys on the court it’s their game,and they’re trying to win, to beat that tall boy,short boy, skinny boy, muscled boy to the ball,a good shot, the pressure is on but we can stillget a good shot. The Escalante man standingat his seat waiting for the next game when his teamwill play, in his red polo shirt and white crew cut,switching from English to Spanish, points his chinat the blue crowd, says, Pendejos, and shakes his headto his seated friends, glares, his brow furrowing,lower lip sticking out, his audience a few womenand you. You get angry and say out loud to no one in particular,That’s right, the Indians beat the cowboys,they killed them in that last quarter did you see that?Because in the end you are not above this.You are one of the tribe on the enemy’s side of the stands,and a few people turn around and stare,and you scowl at each other. Still the blue roar rises, [End Page 129] drowning out even you. The last buzzer sounds. The orange boyscover their faces with towels, slump in their folding chairs,and stretch their long legs in front of them,heads in hands. At the other end the bench empties—the blue boys jump and hug teammates,yell to the rafters, wave their arms to blue family,louder, because tomorrowthey will play for the championship, for the title,against the private school, the tallest team in the state, the Christians. [End Page 130]

Chee Brossy...

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