This article originally appeared on The Classical.
Gavin Diore is doubled over with his hands on his hips, sweat gleaming on the tip of his nose. The searing white fluorescent lighting unique to high school gymnasiums reflects harshly off the hardwood beneath his feet. It’s early evening on a Saturday, on Easter weekend, and the gym is full. Spectators spill from the mouth of a blue, steel-framed doorway; more wait in the hallway, craning their necks and peering over shoulders. Inside, people cluster in the four corners of the gym, while others gather along the sidelines, leaning against the white brick walls. On the stage adjacent to the court are a few other fans, legs dangling above the glowing hardwood. Each team has a cheering section of its own; pods of scurrying children tear along the baseline, adorned in replica jerseys of the men on the court. A frail, elderly man sits in a blue chair at the edge of the doorway. He leans forward when the action reaches the far end of the gym, propping himself up with his cane and wincing each time.
Diore’s team leads by seven points with three minutes to go when he picks up his sixth and final foul. He’s not happy about it, and the two referees wait unblinkingly with whistles in their mouths as Diore throws his arms up in frustration, pleads his innocence and finally storms off the court and into the locker room. Minutes later he returns in street clothes with a camera to his eye and a large smile on his face. His team, the Pilinians, go on to win, and Diore films the final minutes of it.
It’s shortly after 8 p.m. when the next set of teams files out of the blue locker room doors, forming layup lines as Top 40 blares from the sound system. The winner of this match-up, which pits Kentucky Fried Chicken against Viernes Janitorial, will face Pilinians in next week’s championship.
“Who will win?” says the woman behind the microphone, a Filipino accent thickening her words. “The flying chickens or the flying brooms?” If Kentucky Fried Chicken seems to have an especially raucous cheering section, and it does, it probably has something to do with the fast food empire’s recent arrival in this frozen corner of Canada, and the rows of cars that idled in wait for the greasiest mass-production chicken north of 60. Romy Gayangos, the General Manager of the league, sits beside the PA announcer, smiling. The sound system, along with the electronic scoreboard, are new additions this year, purchased after months of fundraising efforts netted more than $2,000. The teams that finished earlier return to the sidelines to watch the next group. This is basketball in Canada’s Yukon Territory.
A week later the championship game pits team KFC against the skilled but aging Pilinians. Collapsible stands unfold next the court and pour down the sideline at Porter Creek Secondary School. It’s a considerably larger space than the usual gym, but in tonight’s atmosphere, it feels full, even cramped. There’s not an empty seat to be found on the bleachers; a local reporter sits under the far basket, a zoom lens fully extended. The action moves fast, with each team playing a similar style that’s near pathologically focused on passing and getting an open shot. The shot clock never once comes close to expiring. On many of the possessions the ball doesn’t touch the floor.
Late in the second quarter, the premier of the territory and the city’s mayor shuffle into the stands nearest the exit. Their appearance is greeted by a round of cheers and applause and an announcement of their arrival over the PA system. They sit stiffly in the third row of the bleachers, constantly smiling but never removing their coats. They are also joined by Whitehorse’s Member of Parliament and Jocelyn. At the half, they take turns speaking to the crowd; the mayor points to Jocelyn, calling her the hardest working city councilor he’s seen in 31 years. In the stands, Mike watches, wide-eyed and emotional. What he might be feeling, so far from his home in so many ways, is hard to guess. Pride, at the very least, is palpable.
The teams enter the final quarter within seven points of each other. There is a season’s worth of build up in the final 10 minutes and a year’s worth of camaraderie and community converging on the sidelines. It gets loud, and the game gets close. The teams exchange leads on each possession and the crowd jumps up and down with every basket, the floor shaking with the rhythm of their cheers. The Filipino woman on the microphone rises to her feet and pushes her chair aside, the speed of her voice increasing and arriving at a higher frequency. It gets louder still.
Players on the sidelines cup their hands around their mouths, yelling instructions to teammates over the noise of the cheers. With 21 seconds remaining, a KFC flying chicken drops in the game-tying basket, a left-handed layup, and gets fouled. Along the sideline, his teammates, all 13 of them, link arms as he toes the free-throw line. He takes three dribbles, exhales and knocks down the go-ahead basket. The gym erupts and Pilinians, eager to get momentum back on their side, rush down the court and turn the ball over. The gym gets louder and Pilinians begin fouling away the final seconds. The flying chickens hold on to win 75-70.
At center court, Romy and his fellow committee members pull golden trophies and silver medals from a cardboard box. They wear black t-shirts with ‘committee’ written on the back in white block text. The stands empty as everyone in attendance rushes the court. It’s chaos after that, a happy churn of cheers and camera clicks and congratulations. The premier and the mayor pose for photos with the teams, and family members crowd in as well. Ailene moves through the crowd. It’s nearly 10:30 p.m. and only three people working at the store. She makes the call on her cell phone and tells them to get ready, tonight’s going to be a celebration.
