Ripples in Opperman’s Pond

Celtics basketball fans packed the Boston Garden, screaming and stomping for their home team. They thrashed the stale air with psychedelic posters: a big D alongside a white picket fence for D-Fense! And Go Celtics! The scoreboard shot off explosive candles, ending with We Love Our Celtics! Boston led the Indiana Pacers by two points with three and a half
seconds left in the season’s final game. The Pacers needed the win to make the play-offs. After they grabbed a rebound, Dick Caruthers, the Pacers’ coach, called a time-out.

“Listen, guys,” Caruthers shouted over the pandemonium to the circling team, black giants dwarfing the white guy in the center. “Boston expects an inbound pass to Randy. But that won’t work ’cause he’ll be double-maybe triple-teamed, a setup for a steal. Instead, Randy, you set the pick for Lamont, who’ll shake free in the far corner for the pass.”

The coach shrugged off groans and grimaces.

“Yeah, I know it’s a long pass. And risky. But Boston’ll be looking for the inbound to the shooting guard, not a power forward deep on the other side of the court.”

The grating blast of the buzzer signaled the sixty-second time-out was half-over. The coach quickened his tempo.

“Lamont,” he said, nodding at the big black forward, “stay on the far side of the paint. The inbound goes to you, and you drive to the key. The Celtics’ll think you’re taking it inside for a slam dunk and we’re settling for a tie to win in overtime. You’ll pull at least one, maybe both guys off Randy after the pick. Instead of taking the shot, pass to him. Randy hits
the three-pointer for the win. Clear?”

Lamont shook his head. “Too risky. Inbound to Randy, and him alleyoop to me. I guarantee that slam.” One ham-sized fi st smashed into the other open palm, appearing to seal his promise.

The coach waved off the comment with his clipboard. “That still only gets us two, and I don’t want to risk overtime in front of a hometown crowd in the Boston Garden. Indianapolis, it’d be diff erent. Do like I said.” A chorus of “hmms” ended the time-out. The huddle broke, and the team walked back on the hardwoods.

The Pacers executed the play exactly as planned: the pick, the long pass to Lamont, his drive to the basket, and a slick, behind-the-back shuffle to Randy Jackson. Both defenders peeled off to cover Lamont’s charge, and Randy hit his patented fall-away jumper as the game-ending buzzer sounded. The three-pointer finished his sixth consecutive two-thousandpoint season, guaranteeing the Pacers a play-off berth.

Not planned was Randy’s midair collision with the Boston guard. Seeing through the ruse at the last minute, the guard raced back to block Randy’s shot. His right elbow slammed above Randy’s left eye. Unbalanced, Randy landed on a bowed-out ankle, fragile ligaments suddenly supporting 225 crashing pounds.

Randy’s scream drowned the papery whisper of the ball’s swish as he fell. The crowd, still as death, held a collective breath. The trainer ran on court and stared at the badly turned left ankle, dark blood already ballooning the skin. “Oh, shit,” he muttered, then turned crimson as ESPN amplified the expletive in the quiet of the great hall.

Assistants carried Randy off court, his six-foot-seven frame writhing on the stretcher. Once in the locker room, team physician Peter Fredericks, rimless glasses teetering on the tip of his nose, bent his lanky frame over the ankle and injected it with lidocaine to kill the pain. Th en he iced and bandaged it tight to reduce internal bleeding. Fredericks stepped back, shook his bald head side to side, and muttered under his breath, “Doesn’t look good—not good at all.”

The red strobe from the ambulance outside washed the locker room in ruddy shadows as they loaded Randy for a CT and MRI of his ankle at the Mass General Hospital. On his way out, Randy flipped his teammates a thumbs-up. “Back in a few, guys,” he said with a forced smile. Heavy lidded eyes spoke his real feelings. The team moped around the locker room—no snapping towels or horseplay—and waited for the doctor’s return. Lamont glad-handed here and shoulder-squeezed there, assuring teammates Randy would be fine.

But the mood was somber.

Restless reporters milled in the hallway, predicting the Pacers’ chances in the play-off s. “Done for,” they concluded, already writing the next day’s obit. Two hours later, the doctor’s expression said it all. “The orthopedic chief at MGH examined him. The anterior talofi bular ligament has been stretched and probably completely torn,” said Fredericks. “Possibly the calcaneofi bular ligament as well. Lots of hemorrhage from ruptured blood
vessels.”

“Peter, English for Christ’s sake!” Caruthers demanded.

“Randy has a sprained ankle.”

“Why in hell didn’t you say that in the beginning?” the coach barked.

“Gotta make it seem complex.”

“It is complex, Dick. Grade 3 sprain’s the worst. I’ve hospitalized him a few days for intensive orthopedic therapy.”

“It’s not broken, so he can play, right?”

“No. His season’s fi nished. Treatment’s with RICE.”

“Rice? What the fuck you talking about?” Caruthers asked.

Fredericks backed out of the coach’s reach, palms up. “Sorry, only making a little medical joke. Or trying to. Acronym for rest, ice, compression, and elevation.”

The coach stepped toward him. “No play-off games? Even with a steroid shot… or whatever else it takes?”

“Absolutely not,” Fredericks said, voice firm.

“Ruin his ankle for keeps. Be happy if he’s healed in time for next season.”

“T is is May, goddamnit. We’re talking October.”

“I know, Coach, but he’ll be out at least three, four months.”

“So, five months, he’ll be okay?”

“Should be, if it heals properly.”

“He’d better heal properly,” said Caruthers. “There’s millions riding on that ankle. Don’t spare anything to make it totally normal again.”

“I won’t. He’ll be on medication for quite a while, though.”

“Double the doses. Triple them. Whatever’s necessary, do it,” the coach said through clenched teeth. “If he’s not at opening game, you won’t be either.”

Without Randy Jackson, the Pacers lost their first round play-off in four straight games, and their championship season died. “Everybody better pray Randy’s ankle heals by October,” Caruthers said as the team split for the off-season.