9C - uniquely charming

The Hi-Line has done it again. I am smitten. Some more.

I’ve savored the charms of sparsely populated, quiet, no traffic, low crime Montana for more than a year now since my cross-country move. But one thing I never thought would give me warm fuzzy feelings here, one thing I never thought would find a way to measure up — sports is that one thing.

I’m talking mainly about football and basketball, two of the greatest American inventions, right up there with sliced bread and Maxim magazine. I’m not much into wrestling, which apparently is king here. And that’s cool. I totally respect wrestling. Anything that involves dudes slamming each other on the ground is totally respectable.

It’s not that Montanans aren’t good at sports, it’s just that there aren't enough people here to produce the one in a half-million razzle-dazzling athletic freaks who make those of us in the stands say, “We gonna be seeing him in the pros.” This is a place where we play six- and eight-man football, out of necessity.

It’s really a game of numbers, and that beautiful low population we Montanans love so much — yes, consider me your adopted son — comes back to bite us in the arse when we’re talking sports.

I come from a sports culture that draws crowds of thousands to high-flying, fast-running phenom mutants who will soon be hurdling tacklers in the NFL and spin-dunking in the NBA. Said freaks start doing these things before they have a driver’s license, right after being dropped off at school by their mothers.

During my high school freshman year, we went to the state championship against a Southwest Dekalb High team led by a guy named Quincy Carter, who later led the Dallas Cowboys, among others, in the NFL. Now he’s a “free agent” and if you look him up, you might see a picture of his mug shot. But ignore all that. That dude was pretty impressive the day he bobbed and weaved and raced around our Parkview High defense. On the other side of the scrimmage line that night crouched a towering tackle named Jon Stinchcomb, who would go on to play on a New Orleans Saints team that would win a super bowl.

Last year, the town of Gainesville, where I lived before moving here, was proudly claiming and celebrating its native son Deshaun Watson, who has just led Clemson to a national title. It had been Deshaun mania for years in Gainesville.

So you can see why my expectations of Montana sports wouldn’t very high.   

But this past week’s 9C tournament taught me something different. I realized there’s more to enjoying amateur sports than Usain Bolt-like speed and Spud Webbish leaping abilities.

The 9C tournament enveloped a satisfying grit and warm, a unifying atmosphere reflective of what I’ve come to expect from this area. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.

The players, these high school students, most no bigger than me — they came to fight. They dove on the floor, they fought for rebounds after every air ball — and there were quite a few — they hustled back on defense. They sweated, they flailed — they gave everything they had. And then they gave more. They wanted to win, and Americans love watching people who want to win. Winning is awesome, wanting to win almost as awesome. You can want to win anywhere, and that includes here.

Nobody dunked and landed on anybody’s head in the 9C, but these kids fought.

And the crowd — people came out, all the way from Fort Benton and as far as Turner. That’s the warm unifying atmosphere part.

I remember an old man sitting in front of me during the North Star and Chinook girls game, the consolation game. “Come on, call it square!” he’d holler every five minutes. Then he’d throw his hands up at every air ball. He was really into it. He threw up his hands a lot. I guess the zebras eventually listened because in the second half the Knights ladies broke away and won.

And then, of course, Saturday’s championship game was sold out, the bleachers and seats filled by shoulder-to-shoulder spectators, screaming parents and screeching student sections.

Speaking of the kids — the students I mean — they never shat up, always hollering something, cheering after every layup, after every rebound, after the few made free throws. Their high-pitched shrieks resonated in the Havre High basketball auditorium constantly.

The 9C, I learned, is another reason for a spread out community to come together. It’s more than sports. There are many miles between local communities, but there’s a closeness rarely found here that even communities that are geographically closer don’t have.

The 9C is yet another reason to celebrate north-central Montana. The 9C is another reminder this area is a different world. And it seems we are perfectly fine with that. Winning is universal.