There is a hint of a tiny drop of blood on our living room carpet. You must look close to see it. It's there because a referee called an intentional foul in the Salina Bi-Centennial Center Thursday afternoon.
Such are the relations of life.
Haven's boys earned themselves a trip to the state basketball tournament with a victory over Nickerson in the sub-state finals at Chaparral. On the strength of their 21-2 record, they were seeded fourth and were pitted against Mulvane in the opening round of state competition.
We debated making a journalistic trip to Salina for Thursday's game, but because of prior engagements and because we knew the Wildcat boys would handle Mulvane and advance to play Friday and Saturday we remained close to the home fires.
Although Haven fell behind in the first half, they came on strong after intermission and took a four-point edge into the final minutes of play. Haven's misfires at the free throw line in the final seconds gave Mulvane an opportunity to sneak back into contention and with ten ticks of the clock remaining, they took a 59-58 lead.
Then came the fateful whistle. Haven's Gerry Dickey was going for the basketball as he has all year, attempting to force a turnover to give the Wildcats a final chance to clutch victory. But the referee blew the whistle and called an intentional foul, giving Mulvane two free throws and most importantly, possession of the ball. One blown whistle does not a game make, but it did vanquish Haven's state title hopes.
As a result of that whistle, we did not travel to Salina Friday and Saturday. As a result of that whistle we were at a pitch party Saturday night.
Pitch parties are a Midwest social phenomenon. People in the East gather at cocktail parties to guzzle martinis and discuss how much influence William Safire's wife has on his daily column. In the West, they congregate on the beach with the latest hallucinogen of choice and discuss the impact of El Nino on the AIDS virus.
In the Midwest, our lives still salted by the work ethic, we feel uneasy about gathering just to drink and talk. Idle hands are the devil's workshop. So we shuffle cards and we make bids and we keep score and in between the hands we discuss life for a while. The conversation is light-hearted, children being mentioned much more often than William Safire. AIDS is more the punch line of a joke than a real concern.
The advantage of a pitch party, as opposed to a Midwest party without cards, is that there is social circulation. By winning a round a couple advances to the next table and changes partners. Parties without pitch resemble an Old Mennonite revival meeting--men on this side, women on that side. Pitch brings the sexes together comfortably.
While there is mingling there is also competition, another element dear to the hearts of Midwesterners. At the end of the evening, scores are tabulated and functional prizes are presented to the high and low scorers.
So it was that we brought home from the party a nifty, all-purpose-get-lost-in-the-woods-have-no-fear pocket knife. And so it was that Sunday morning Carly was examining the knife and closed the blade (she's a year away from Brownie knife safety training) on her finger.
Before she could arrest the trickle of blood with a band-aid, a wee drop floated to the carpet.
And so it is that pain was inflicted on our shortest offspring and a stain was inflicted on our carpet by some nameless referee in Salina.
It just makes you wonder why he blew that whistle, doesn't it.... ~T. Stucky
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