Coached
Marvin was the most successful coach in the Panevėžys Basketball Club’s long and illustrious history. He was stern, disciplined and uncompromising, but his methods worked, and he was well respected by the men who played under him. Since he had taken over the reins four seasons ago, the team had gone from winning three games per season to winning three consecutive championships. If they were to win a fourth championship, they would be elevated to Lithuania’s major league.
The night of the semi-final match against Mažeikiai, Marvin gathered the players in the locker room, getting ready to give one of his motivational speeches. Being the water boy, I had heard these speeches many times and they were not a thing to be missed. As I made my way into the locker room, Marvin looked over at me and hurried towards the door. “Players and administration only,” he said, leaning his arm on the door frame to obstruct my view. I peered over his shoulder and noticed two men in black suits and sunglasses.
“What about those guys?” I protested.
“Just make sure we have plenty of towels tonight,” he replied, and closed the door in my face.
During the game, the two men from the locker room sat on either side of Marvin, silent and unmoving. I eyed them suspiciously but said nothing to Marvin. It wasn’t until the third quarter, when Panevėžys was down by ten points, that one of the men leaned over and said something in Marvin’s ear. Marvin nodded and called out to the players on the court, “Hey, Kubulis!” A player immediately spun around in the middle of play. “Numaukite gynėjo kelnes ir meskite kamuolį iš kito aikštės galo!” directed Marvin. Without wavering, Kubulis marched up to the opposing player who was dribbling the ball. Seizing the player’s shorts with both hands, he pulled them down to his ankles. As the player scrabbled to pull his shorts up, Kubulis picked up the ball and with one arm, threw it towards the opposite end of the court. The ball hit the backboard and went through the hoop.
As the game went on, Marvin made similar commands to his players, each time preceded by one of the suited men saying something in his ear. Three players had been ejected, but could Marvin really be throwing the match? Surely not. We had come this far and were on the verge of hitting the majors. My fears were realised when, after a command from Marvin, a player pulled a knife that was concealed in his sock and stabbed the basketball.
Mažeikiai won the match by thirty-two points. As the players walked off the court, seemingly unphased by the crushing defeat, I followed Marvin out of the stadium. He headed towards a black limousine where the two men greeted him, shook hands, and laughed.
“You think losing is funny?” I exclaimed.
Marvin turned around. “So you have figured out my little game?” he asked, smugly. “First of all, I don’t give a damn about the majors. Secondly, I’m heading to Barcelona.” He got into the limousine and rolled down the window. “I almost forgot,” he said. “Here.” A wet towel flew out of the window and landed on my face. “I’ll drop you a line if we need a water boy,” he said, and laughed as he drove off into the night.
