Before 2004, the Lady Wildcats made the state tournament only once in twenty years, that appearance a one-and-done affair against Bucktield. Then had come Hanna Compton. The greatest hater of all time, in Big Jim's opinion.
As the daughter of Dale Compton, a scrawny pulp-cutter from Tarker's Mills who was usually drunk and always argumentative, Hanna had come by her out-of-rny-face 'tude naturally enough. As a freshman she had played JV for most of the season; Coach swung her up to varsity only for the last two games, where she'd outscored everyone and left her opposite number from the Richmond Bobcats writhing on the hardwood after a hard but clean defensive play.
When that game was over, Big Jim had collared Coach Woodhead. 'If that girl doesn't start next year, you're crazy,' he said.
Tm not crazy,' Coach Woodhead had replied.
Hanna had started hot and finished hotter, blazing a trail that Wildcats fans would still be talking about years later (season average: 27.6 points per game). She could spot up and drop a three-pointer any time she wanted, but what Big Jim liked best was to watch her split the defense and drive for the basket, her pug face set in a sneer of concentration, her bright black eyes daring anyone to get in her way, her short ponytail sticking out behind her like a raised middle finger. The Mill's Second Selectman and premier used car dealer had fallen in love.
In the 2004 championship game, the Lady Wildcats had been leading the Rock Rockets by ten when Hanna fouled out. Luckily for the Cats, there - was only a buck-sixteen left to play. They ended up winning by a single point. Of their eighty-six total points, Hanna Compton had scored a brain-freezing sixty-three. That spring, her argumentative dad had ended up behind the wheel of a brand-new Cadillac, sold to him at cost-minus-forty-percent by James Rennie, Sr. New cars weren't Big Jim's business, but when he wanted one 'off the back of the carrier,' he could always get it.
Sitting in Peter Randolph's office, with the last of the pink meteor shower still fading away outside (and his problem children waiting - anxiously, Big Jim hoped - to be summoned and told their fate), Big Jim recalled that fabulous, that outright mythic, basketball game; specifically the first eight minutes of the second half, which had begun with the Lady Wildcats down by nine.
Hanna had taken the game over with the single-minded brutality of Joseph Stalin taking over Russia, her black eyes glittering (and seemingly fixed upon some basketball Nirvana beyond the sight of normal mortals), her face locked in that eternal sneer that said, I'm better than you, I'm the best, get out of my way or I'll run you the f**k down. Everything she threw up during that eight minutes had gone in, including one absurd half-court shot that she launched when her feet tangled together, getting rid of the rock just to keep from being called for traveling.
There were phrases for that sort of run, the most common being in the zone. But the one Big Jim liked was feeling it, as in 'She's really feeling it now.' As though the game had some divine texture beyond the reach of ordinary players (although sometimes even ordinary players felt it, and were transformed for a brief while into gods and goddesses, every bodily defect seeming to disappear during their transitory divinity), a texture that on special nights could be touched: some rich and marvelous drape such as must adorn the hardwood halls ofValhalla.
Hanna Compton had never played her junior year; the championship game had been her valedictory. That summer, while driving drunk, her father had killed himself, his wife, and all three daughters while driving back to Tarker's Mills from Brownie's, where they had gone for ice cream frappes.The bonus Cadillac had been their coffin.
The multiple-fatality crash had been front-page news in western Maine - Julia Shumway's Democrat published an issue with a black border that week - but Big Jim had not been grief-stricken. Hanna never would have played college ball, he suspected; there the girls were bigger, and she might have been reduced to role-player status. She never would have stood for that. Her hate had to be fed by constant action on the floor. Big Jim understood completely. He sympathized completely. It was the main reason he had never even considered leaving The Mill. In the wider world he might have made more money, but wealth was the short beer of existence. Power was champagne.