Vibiana in the Half-court Set

On Saint Vibiana’s side were the usual suspects and my dad taking up two seats.
The Blessed Sacrament fans were so loud Coach Jenkins had to shout each play into my ear. Early on, one of their moms dogged me, running along the sideline screaming miss it, miss it, until the referees ordered her to leave. Only Callie was unaffected by the taunting. Junie set picks and Callie pulled up, torpedoing the ball through the hoop. The very emptiness of her expression as she ran up the court was its own kind of taunt.
On defense, Junie flung herself at the twins, but grew too cautious when she got into foul trouble. We were stymied on offense, our only inside points coming from Callie swooping in on the fast break. We needed a tall body in the paint, banging on the twins, an obstacle: we needed Scholastica, though beside the twins she was like a long skinny French fry. Challenge them, I screamed, and Scholastica nodded as if she understood and I think she did understand but instead of attacking she drifted demurely along the perimeter, as far from those two as possible. Despite Scholastica’s willful disregard, we kept a lid on the game, and with about two minutes left, held a two-point lead.
But then Junie fouled out, the twins muscled in, and we were tied. Callie fouled out next, unable to repress her tears on the walk back to the bench. “Chin up,” Coach Jenkins hissed. A twin made her foul shots and we were behind. The gym walls echoed with a ferocious chant: SA-CRA-MEN-TO, SA-CRA-MEN-TO. I glanced at the sidelines to get the play and Coach Jenkins was like a guy moving his lips with no sound coming out. If we couldn’t score over the twins, an impossible barrier in the middle of the paint, our season was done.
My main girls sat stunned on the bench, Callie gnawing on a pulled-up corner of her jersey, two slick tracks of tears running over her cheeks. Junie’s face was a stiff and angry mask. For the first time in my life, Coach Jenkins looked like he didn’t know what to do. I got close to Scholastica, standing on tiptoe to say into her ear, “You quitting? I need you inside.” Again she nodded as if she understood. At this point even the sober nuns were screaming SA-CRA-MEN-TO, although just then a voice, a clear angelic tenor, sliced through the clamor. A brogue. VI-BI-AN-A, VI-BI-AN-A. Our few straggling parents joined in lustily, passionately, not about to be drowned out by the bigger group. Not about to lose. With seconds left, my father’s voice was all I heard. Delmy inbounded and I took the ball downcourt, maybe astonished but not really to see Scholastica planted beneath the basket, between the twins, feet planted good. I rifled the ball to her open palms, and her long arms rose higher, higher still, forcing the ball toward the net, just as both sisters hacked her in the face. Scholastica went down and the ball hiccupped through the net, tying the game. She popped up instantly, a ribbon of red from her nose to her chin, right hand lifted, index finger nodding, plus one.
I didn’t even need to watch. Scholastica never missed a free throw.