There are children here, more than 2,000 boys and girls, streaming down the 27 steps that lead from West Franklin Boulevard to the gymnasium of Westinghouse High School where the Warriors play.
Though it can be clouded by the reality of harsh neighborhoods, the egos of coaches and parents, the unrealistic dreams of playing in college or the pros and the insecurities of youth, high school basketball is still basically a sunny game, an exuberant display of coltish athleticism by players and of unbridled energy by fans.
In a pro sports age marked by spoiled millionaires and felons, and fans who sit on their hands or snooze in luxury boxes, watching 32 minutes of high school basketball will renew one’s faith in all that is right with games.
“Who would not be excited about a game here?” asks Chris Head, the Westinghouse coach, a few minutes before tip-off against the Cougars from Crane. “The game starts, we’re ready to roll.”
The Warriors have been rolling for more than three charmed seasons.
As the frosh-soph coach, Head guided the team to 70 straight victories. In his first season as varsity coach last year, the team was 31-1, losing to King in the Public League title game. The team entered this season ranked No. 1 in the area and the country, a stature blemished by an odd loss to unranked Curie in January.
There could, of course, be another blemish. The tournaments that will determine the state championships began after this article was written.
“Some people would like to see us lose. That’s why we get such big crowds,” says Jedda Richardson, a Westinghouse security officer, during halftime. “But it’s always fun. These are good kids. Traveling with the team is what it must have been traveling with the Bulls. Everyone wants to see us.”
Viewing the on-court battle, the rival crowds exchange shouts, screams, cheers, dances and the pounding of bleachers. The teams exchange baskets and the lead. By the end of the third quarter, the score is tied 41-41.
Few Warriors fans appear worried. The team’s main weapon had yet to be employed: its press, a beast of some dozen variations.
Early in the fourth quarter it is unleashed. It is a ferocious kind of ballet, a blur of limbs and colors.
With 5:16 left in the game and the score tied at 48, the Warriors press begins to devour the Cougars and the gym explodes with home-crowd frenzy a pleasant pandemonium.
Now, 54 seconds left. A ref’s whistle stops the action: Warriors up 60-52. The crowd collectively exhales for what seems the first time in minutes.
Final score: Warriors, 65, Cougars, 55. Excitement drains from the gym, as quickly as air from a balloon. In a while the gym is empty and there is no sound but the warm echo of youthful glee.
