The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian by Alexie Sherman Page A
Authors: Alexie Sherman
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layup and I fouled him. But I'd learned there are NO FOULS CALLED IN FULL-COURT ONE-
ON-ONE, so I grabbed the loose ball and raced for my end again.
But Coach blew the whistle.
"All right, all right, Arnold, Roger," Coach said. "That's good, that's good. Next two, next two."
I took my place at the back of the line and Roger stood next to me.
"Good job," he said and offered his fist.
I bumped his fist with mine. I was a warrior!
And that's when I knew I was going to make the team.
Heck, I ended up on the varsity. As a freshman. Coach said I was the best shooter who'd ever played for him. And I was going to be his secret weapon. I was going to be his Weapon of Mass Destruction.
Coach sure loved those military metaphors.
Two weeks later, we traveled up the road for our first game of the season. And our first game was against Wellpinit High School.
Yep.
It was like something out of Shakespeare.
The morning of the game, I'd woken up in my rez house, so my dad could drive me the
twenty-two miles to Reardan, so I could get on the team bus for the ride back to the reservation.
Crazy.
Do I have to tell you that I was absolutely sick with fear?
I vomited four times that day.
When our bus pulled into the high school parking lot, we were greeted by some rabid
elementary school kids. Some of I hose little dudes and dudettes were my cousins.
They pelted our bus with snowballs. And some of those snowballs were filled with rocks.
As we got off the bus and walked toward the gym, I could hear the crowd going crazy
inside.
They were chanting something.
I couldn't make it out.
And then I could.
The rez basketball fans were chanting, "Ar-nold sucks! Ar-lold sucks! Ar-nold sucks!"
They weren't calling me by my rez name, Junior. Nope, they were calling me by my
Reardan name.
I stopped.
Coach looked back at me.
"Are you okay?" he asked.
"No," I said.
"You don't have to play this one," he said.
"Yes, I do," I said.
Still, I probably would have turned around if I hadn't seen my mom and dad and grandma
waiting at the front door.
I know they'd been pitched just as much crap as I was. And there they were, ready to
catch more crap for me. Ready to walk through the crap with me.
Two tribal cops were also there.
I guess they were for security. For whose security, I don't know. But they walked with
our team, too.
So we walked through the front and into the loud gym.
Which immediately went silent.
Absolutely quiet.
My fellow tribal members saw me and they all stopped cheering, talking, and moving.
I think they stopped breathing.
And, then, as one, they all turned their backs on me.
It was a fricking awesome display of contempt.
I was impressed. So were my teammates.
Especially Roger.
He just looked at me and whistled.
I was mad.
If these dang Indians had been this organized when I went to school here, maybe I would have had more reasons to stay.
That thought made me laugh.
So I laughed.
And my laughter was the only sound in the gym.
And then I noticed that the only Indian who hadn't turned his back on me was Rowdy. He
was standing on the other end of the court. He passed a basketball around his back, around his back, around his back, like a clock. And he glared at me.
He wanted to play.
He didn't want to turn his back on me.
He wanted to kill me, face-to-face.
That made me laugh some more.
And then Coach started laughing with me.
And so did my teammates.
And we kept laughing as we walked into the locker room to get ready for the game.
Once inside the locker room, I almost passed out. I slumped against a locker. I felt dizzy and weak. And then I cried, and felt ashamed of my tears.
But Coach knew exactly what to say.
"It's okay," Coach said to me, but he was talking to the whole team. "If you care about something enough, it's going to make you cry. But you have to use it. Use your tears. Use your pain. Use your fear. Get mad, Arnold, get mad."
And so I got mad.
And I was still
layup and I fouled him. But I'd learned there are NO FOULS CALLED IN FULL-COURT ONE-
ON-ONE, so I grabbed the loose ball and raced for my end again.
But Coach blew the whistle.
"All right, all right, Arnold, Roger," Coach said. "That's good, that's good. Next two, next two."
I took my place at the back of the line and Roger stood next to me.
"Good job," he said and offered his fist.
I bumped his fist with mine. I was a warrior!
And that's when I knew I was going to make the team.
Heck, I ended up on the varsity. As a freshman. Coach said I was the best shooter who'd ever played for him. And I was going to be his secret weapon. I was going to be his Weapon of Mass Destruction.
Coach sure loved those military metaphors.
Two weeks later, we traveled up the road for our first game of the season. And our first game was against Wellpinit High School.
Yep.
It was like something out of Shakespeare.
The morning of the game, I'd woken up in my rez house, so my dad could drive me the
twenty-two miles to Reardan, so I could get on the team bus for the ride back to the reservation.
Crazy.
Do I have to tell you that I was absolutely sick with fear?
I vomited four times that day.
When our bus pulled into the high school parking lot, we were greeted by some rabid
elementary school kids. Some of I hose little dudes and dudettes were my cousins.
They pelted our bus with snowballs. And some of those snowballs were filled with rocks.
As we got off the bus and walked toward the gym, I could hear the crowd going crazy
inside.
They were chanting something.
I couldn't make it out.
And then I could.
The rez basketball fans were chanting, "Ar-nold sucks! Ar-lold sucks! Ar-nold sucks!"
They weren't calling me by my rez name, Junior. Nope, they were calling me by my
Reardan name.
I stopped.
Coach looked back at me.
"Are you okay?" he asked.
"No," I said.
"You don't have to play this one," he said.
"Yes, I do," I said.
Still, I probably would have turned around if I hadn't seen my mom and dad and grandma
waiting at the front door.
I know they'd been pitched just as much crap as I was. And there they were, ready to
catch more crap for me. Ready to walk through the crap with me.
Two tribal cops were also there.
I guess they were for security. For whose security, I don't know. But they walked with
our team, too.
So we walked through the front and into the loud gym.
Which immediately went silent.
Absolutely quiet.
My fellow tribal members saw me and they all stopped cheering, talking, and moving.
I think they stopped breathing.
And, then, as one, they all turned their backs on me.
It was a fricking awesome display of contempt.
I was impressed. So were my teammates.
Especially Roger.
He just looked at me and whistled.
I was mad.
If these dang Indians had been this organized when I went to school here, maybe I would have had more reasons to stay.
That thought made me laugh.
So I laughed.
And my laughter was the only sound in the gym.
And then I noticed that the only Indian who hadn't turned his back on me was Rowdy. He
was standing on the other end of the court. He passed a basketball around his back, around his back, around his back, like a clock. And he glared at me.
He wanted to play.
He didn't want to turn his back on me.
He wanted to kill me, face-to-face.
That made me laugh some more.
And then Coach started laughing with me.
And so did my teammates.
And we kept laughing as we walked into the locker room to get ready for the game.
Once inside the locker room, I almost passed out. I slumped against a locker. I felt dizzy and weak. And then I cried, and felt ashamed of my tears.
But Coach knew exactly what to say.
"It's okay," Coach said to me, but he was talking to the whole team. "If you care about something enough, it's going to make you cry. But you have to use it. Use your tears. Use your pain. Use your fear. Get mad, Arnold, get mad."
And so I got mad.
And I was still
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