Instructions For Making Indian Baskets

"Yes, man, basketball is very agreeable to me." I thought we were merely making conversation.

"Good, good, good, you play with us, now, now, now, goodby."

Fermin and the other boys, followed by the whole crowd in the plaza, hustled us to the rear of the palacio, where there was, in a manner of speaking, a basketball court.

After having walked 30 miles on sneakers, four oranges and three candy bars, and after three mescal boilermakers, I was not in razor-sharp condition. I had not been on a basketball court since being cut from a junior varsity high school squad 15 years before.

The basketball court sloped noticeably down the mountainside to the west. There being plenty of vacant land, the court was about twice regulation size, the out-of-bounds lines marked with stones. The surface was hard-packed dirt from which some of the rocks had been removed and the larger furrows filled. Wooden hoops for the baskets were mounted on small backboards, which stood a foot or so lower than standard. After a time the crowd lined up on the downhill side of the court so as to keep bad passes from literally missing by a mile and rolling down to the Rio Yalalag. The opposition (which I shall call the Jaguar AC, having never caught the name of the village they represented) showed up. The village presidents, a dignified man who was to referee, tossed up a soft soccer ball and the game was on.

The Zapotecs are strong, big-chested mountaineers who can carry packs that would stagger a mule. However, they run to breadth, not height. At 5 feet 11 (at home a midget for basketball purposes) I towered over the tallest of the other players by four or live inches. Also, both Yalalag and the Jaguar AC used an obsolete style of play. They brought the ball downcourt at a slow dribble, the dribbler screened by his teammates drawn up in a phalanx. They never drove in to the basket for a layup but shot from outside, using both hands, throwing the ball up from between their knees, like foul shooters 30 years ago.

Reaching easily over the heads of the Zapotecs, I took the ball, jumped a few inches off the ground and stuffed it through the sawed-off basket as effectively if not as gracefully as the Big Dipper himself. At a lumbering trot I raced (comparatively speaking) to the other end of the court, arriving in time to block, like Bill Russell, the first between-the-knees shot of the Jaguar AC. These revolutionary tactics killed the hometown crowd. They whistled and shouted. Some diplomat yelled in Spanish, for my sake, "El Gringo Grande."

The Jaguar AC, however, was not amused. After we Yalaltecas scored a quick six points, the Jaguars took time and commenced a ferocious argument. It was not necessary to understand Zapotec to catch the drift of the debate. "Where the hell did you get this ringer? If he's from Yalalag, I'm Goose Tatum. The commissioner is going to hear about this."

When the game resumed, the crisis settled itself, as my effectiveness proved to be limited. My problem was that, after coming up with a rebound or blocked shot, I had great difficulty deciding which of the 15 or so players (the teams fluctuated between five and nine men to a side) were Yalaltecas. Everyone seemed to be 5 feet 5, broad, brown and screaming for the ball. When I passed off, the chances were 50-50 that I would give the ball to the Jaguar AC.

Attempting to counteract this difficulty, Fermin had the Yalalag boys identify themselves by yelling, "Hallo, gringo, goodby," but after a basket or so the Jaguar captain shrewdly stole our signals. The confusion was tremendous.