Pretty Girl Gone (Mac McKenzie #3)

Pretty Girl Gone (Mac McKenzie #3) Page 38

Coach Testen lived in one of those newer homes designed to appear much older, larger, and grander than it actually was. It had a brick front, eccentric angles, high windows, pronounced gables, vaulted ceilings, and exposed staircases. It would have gone for $350,000 in my neighborhood, probably twice that in John Allen Barrett’s. Even so, its dominant feature was an attached two-car garage and the wide asphalt driveway leading to it, the black of the asphalt in sharp contrast with the snow piled on either side. I walked up the driveway to a narrow concrete path that led to the front door and used a knocker that resembled brass but seemed lighter. Coach Testen opened the door as if he were expecting me and I wondered if Suzi Shimek had called him.

Testen was closer to seventy than he was to fifty, yet he looked as well preserved as Suzi. There must be something in the water, I decided. His eyes were bright and he still had plenty of light-colored hair that seemed to suit the sunny smile and aw-shucks demeanor he presented the moment he found me standing at his front door. I suspected the smile and easy manner were part of a carefully constructed facade, but it’s already been established that I’m cynical.

Testen seemed overdressed for just hanging around the house—black loafers with tassels polished to a high gloss, neatly pressed black slacks, a brown, blue, and white cashmere sweater worn over a white cotton dress shirt, tennis bracelet on one wrist and gold watch on the other. Yet what surprised me more was his size. Testen was short—no more than five-five. I had expected a basketball coach to be taller.

Like Suzi, Testen welcomed my company.

“It’s always a pleasure to chat about the Seven,” he said.

“I, for one, enjoy meeting a local legend,” I replied, laying it on a little thicker than probably was necessary.

“Please,” Testen said, although he was obviously comfortable with the label. “Most of the people living in Victoria today probably don’t even know who I am.”

“I’m sure that’s not true.”

“Come with me.”

I followed Testen down a corridor toward the back of the house.

“People in Victoria are pretty excited about the basketball team this year,” he said. “We have a young man—a Somali named Nooh Mohamud Abdille—he’s the real deal. There’s talk that the NBA could make him a lottery pick right out of high school. Plenty of scouts have been following his development closely even though he’s still a junior. I’ve encouraged him to play at least one year of D-1; spend a year in college before trying to make the transition to pro ball. But I’m not his coach. I haven’t been on the bench for a couple of years. Instead, I’m the old coach now, emphasis on old. The kids don’t listen to me.”

Testen paused outside a closed door.

“Still, Mr. Abdille and his teammates will have to go a long way to achieve what we did.”

With a flourish, Testen opened the door and waved me into the room. Two large windows all looked out on the backyard. The rest of the walls were covered with a banner that screamed “Go Wildcats!” several pennants, two basketball jerseys—one white with red numbers, the other red with white numbers—a Victoria High School letter jacket, framed pages from the Victoria, Minneapolis, St. Paul, Mankato, Rochester, and Duluth newspapers proclaiming the Seven’s championship, and dozens of photographs, most in black and white, some in color, of Testen and his team in action. There were also shelves crowded with other memorabilia—two autographed basketballs, a half dozen trophies in assorted shapes and sizes, medals, and even more framed photographs. In the center of it all was a huge trophy mounted on a round platform.

I felt as if I were visiting a shrine.

“I collected most of what you see, but a lot of it was sent to me,” Testen said. “People send me things. A few years ago during the thirtieth anniversary celebration, we put it all on display for the public. People seemed to get a kick out of it.”

“All this for a basketball game?” I asked.

“It wasn’t just a basketball game.”

Testen moved slowly to the huge trophy and set his hand on top of it.

“This is a replica,” he said. “The real trophy is locked away in the school.” Yet the way he caressed the golden basketball made me think it was real enough.

“You have to understand something about the times we lived in to fully appreciate what the championship meant.” Testen spoke as if he was reciting a speech he had given many times, yet never tired of. “We had just lost the war in Vietnam. Because of the growing Watergate scandal, Congress was preparing to impeach the president of the United States. OPEC triggered the first energy crisis in America—people who had never wanted for anything were suddenly waiting in long lines to pay soaring prices for gasoline if it was available at all, and our government’s response was to encourage us to lower our thermostats and wear sweaters. The post–World War II boom was finally ending, inflation was rampant, and the nation began spiraling down into what seemed like an endless recession. The first Earth Day brought millions into the streets to demonstrate over the environment, there were riots in Boston over desegregation and busing, and feminists and anti-feminists protested just about everywhere over Roe. v. Wade.