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small it couldn’t keep five people out of the rain, and Mavis, with curlers perpetually in her peach-colored hair, was the postmaster. Sam came out of the government outpost, thankful his only contact with the outside world was junk mail.
    From his worn-down wicker chair on the porch of the Blue Willow, old Rip called. “Hey, Coach!”
    Though his name was Henry Van Winkle, the rawboned man was fondly referred to as “Rip” because of his ninety-two years. Sam crossed the street, then paused in front of the inn.
    “Hello, Rip. Holding down the fort?”
    “Ya seen the Norwegian kid?”
    “Yes.”
    “I’ve waited all my life for this,” Rip said with a gummy smile. He kept his dentures in his pocket, except when he ate; Rip claimed it was because they fit poorly.
    “He doesn’t play basketball,” Sam said.
    “I heard you wasn’t going to coach anymore.”
    “That’s right. I’m through coaching.”
    “You quit one year too soon.”
    Sam nodded and laughed. “Or four years too late. See you later.” He walked up Main Street toward school.
    “You quit one year too soon!” the old man called after him. “The kid’ll play!”
    His words caught in Sam’s mind. Though there were a few diehards like Rip in the ranks of Willow Creekians, they were generally regarded as quaint or sentimental in their blind allegiance. Every community had fans like that. But most people in Willow Creek regarded these diehards with tolerance and humor because, maybe, secretly, within the most cynical of Willow Creekians, there was a hope that still flickered. Someday they would win a basketball game. Sam recognized that flame somewhere within his being, as well, hidden under a pretense of indifference. Others assumed his cynicism had been hammered into his spirit by eighty-six losses, but his coldness had been there long before Sam ever heard of Willow Creek.
    Now it seemed fate had mistakenly blinked for an instant and allowed a shaft of good fortune to shine down upon him. Perhaps guardian angels could no longer bear silent witness to this test of human fortitude and endurance. Maybe they finally had cast their miraculous attention on this creaking Western town with no visible means of support where, through years of utter bravery and silent heroism, these unathletic boys laced on their game shoes and showed up on the court only to be battered and run off the floor.
    By the time Sam reached school he had squelched the urge to tamper with the winds of fate that whistle through the open heart of loss.
    S AM HURRIED DOWN the outside steps and cut across the basketball court in front of school, where he found several kids were taking turns heaving a scuffed-up basketball at the metal backboard and rim. It had been a good day for Sam, a day filled with classes and work, without a moment’s pause.
    “Sam! Sam!”
    He turned and saw Diana leaning out a second-story window. She waved. “Wait a second, I’ll be right down.”
    He paused at the edge of the court, slung his corduroy sport jacket over his shoulder, and wondered what this was about. Curiosity clashed with a growing anxiety in his chest. Although he thought others might consider her face plain—she never wore makeup and it was often hidden under long, maple-sugar hair—Sam had seen her in gym clothes on more than one occasion and tried desperately to obliterate that sensual image from his memory. But he couldn’t deny that his primitive brain stem vibrated at the sight of her, his Paleolithic DNA began a mating dance, and he’d had the notion that that was the path he should take, lose himself in as much carnal pleasure as he could find. Immediately guilt and its many henchmen had shut down all further response, shaming him with Amy’s memory. So he appreciated the fact that at school Miss Murphy dressed as conservatively as a nun.
    “Sam,” she called and bounded down the front steps. She hurried across the schoolyard in a full denim skirt and a blue,