I couldn't tell whether the crowd in the gym was more excited about the basketball game or the chance to win a free pickup truck.

I mean, Turner, Indiana, is definitely crazy about high school basketball. Our town has 7,954 people. And on this Saturday afternoon, like all game days, it seemed as if 7,950 of them had turned out to watch the season-opening game of the Turner High Titans. Stores and service stations had shut down for the afternoon. Babies, kids, parents, and old people--even grumpy Mr. Broadworth in his wheelchair--made for one huge, screaming crowd.

I knew one person was definitely missing: Mom; she was in the hospital. And two other people I knew about were the Gould brothers, in jail for unpaid speeding tickets. But to give you an idea of how big high school basketball is in Tamer, Sheriff Mackenzie had come to the game. He left the Gould brothers behind with a radio to listen to the play-by-play broadcast.

And if that weren't enough to fill the gym, there were another six hundred fans for the Wolford Wolves, our opponents, from a high school fifteen miles away. The high school band, the cheerleaders, and television and radio crews added to the chaos.

Along with one hundred and fifty gray pigeons. And one unusuallooking brown pigeon.

Yes, pigeons. Around here, pigeons are a lot cheaper than doves. One hundred and fifty-one pigeons sat onstage, in a large cage, in front of the school band. They were about to be released as part of a promotion for Turner Chev-Olds, the local car dealership where my dad worked as head accountant.

I could see Dad from where I milled with the other players near the bench at the side of the court.

Dad stood on the stage beside the pigeon cage with a man named Ike Bothwell. Ike and his brother, Ted, owned Turner Chev-Olds. Ted wasn't here-he never showed up for anything fun.

Ike held a microphone, waiting for the ra-pa-pum marching band music to end. Seeing Dad and Ike together, I found it hard to believe they had been best friends since high school.

Dad, with his dark hair and long, lean face looked like Abe Lincoln without a beard. Dad wore what he always did-white shirt, black pants, black suspenders, and a narrow black tie.

Ike, with his usual unlit cigar in his left hand, was anything but tall and thin. His big black cowboy hat covered his bald head. His wide belly oozed over his belt like volcano lava hanging over the edge of a cliff Ike's checkered shirt, blue jeans, and cowboy boots were his trademark. He always wore them during his late-night television commercials, where he lit a big cigar and told folks to "Come on down to Turner Chev-Olds for the best old-fashioned deals in the state!" Except Turner Chev-Olds was losing money I knew that from Dad. And that was the reason for the pigeons.

Losing money or not, Ike was putting on a good face for the public. He grinned and tapped his feet to the band's music.

Dad just stood there with his arms crossed. He didn't like the pigeon-promotion idea. But then, even if Dad had liked the idea, his face would have still looked carved in stone.

Ike was crazy about the idea. He, of course, had thought it up.

The odd-looking brown pigeon had a little capsule attached to its leg by a tiny band of paper. Inside the capsule was a coupon that let the finder choose a brand-new pickup truck-for free. The way it was supposed to work was this: When the paper tore, as all paper does eventually, the capsule would fall from the pigeon's leg. If someone found that capsule, they'd get the truck.

That was the key word: If.

Two days earlier, when we'd talked about the pigeons, Ike had laughed a big belly laugh and told me that there was very little chance anyone would find the capsule. it could end up anywhere in the county in a lake, a garbage dump, a pile of weeds, a rain gutter. The whole point, Ike had said, still laughing, was the free publicity the car dealership would get

By the looks of the crowd in the gym, his plan for publicity was working. Television crews had cameras all around. The slick Hollywood-type six o'clock newscaster from Fort Wayne's biggest station--a hundred miles away-had positioned himself right in front of the stage.

Everything was set. All that remained was to release the pigeonsafter opening the double doors at the end of the gym so the pigeons could fly into the cloudless, windy day outside. Then the basketball game would begin, which was all I really cared about.

The rest of the guys on the Titans felt the same way. Looking down the line of blue uniforms, I could see that my teammates were restless. Some guys bobbed up and down on their toes. Others slapped their hands against their thighs. A couple glanced at the scoreboard and the huge 00-00 spelled out in tiny lightbulbs.

Finally, the music stopped with a few feeble wheezes from the trombones.

Ike tapped the microphone. It squealed out some noise.

He coughed into it to get our attention.

"Folks!" he shouted. His voice was so loud that several people winced. Ike, I guess, didn't get the concept of a speaker system. "It's time for the big kickoff of our biggest sales event of the year! Come on down to Turner Chev-Olds for the best oldfashioned deals in the great state of Indiana! Zero down and a couple hundred a month gets you a brand-new car!"

"Just let 'em go, Ike!" someone shouted from the crowd. "Let'em go!"

"Yeah, Ike!" someone else shouted. "I want that free truck!"

So did everybody else in town. Including my best friend, Tom Sawyer. Yes. Tom Sawyer. People bug him about his name all the time. Trouble is, he lives up to the name of Mark Twain's famous character.

And I was worried about Tom.

This morning, he had told me he had a plan to win the free truck, but he wouldn't give me any details. I hadn't seen Tom in the gym. I was half afraid he was waiting outside with a shotgun, ready to shoot the pigeons as they flew through the double doors.

"Folks!" Ike Bothwell shouted again into the squealing microphone. "You ask, and Turner Chev-Olds delivers. Will someone at the back please open the gym doors?"

The school janitor pushed them open. The wideopen space made a hole of bright light against the fluorescent light inside the gym.

Ike looked back at the high school band. The drummer nodded and started a long, theatrical drumroll.

Ike bowed, turned, and opened the cage door.

Nothing happened.

Those pigeons just stayed where they were.

Ike looked at the crowd watching him and grinned stupidly.

Still, the pigeons stayed inside the cage.

Ike shrugged and walked around to the back of the cage.

He waved his arms, trying to shoo them out.

The pigeons didn't budge.

Ike took off his hat and waved it. Still, the pigeons stayed in the cage.

Finally, Ike kicked at the back of the cage. It began to fall forward.

He yelped and hooked his fingers around the bars of the cage, but the cage just pulled him down with it.

It fell, door down, with a loud bang. The pigeons inside finally began to flap around, but they were trapped. Feathers flew everywhere, but the birds had no place to go.

Dad rolled his eyes. It was the only emotion he ever showed. Generally he does it with me when I've done something he doesn't like. Which is often.

Dad walked over and lifted Ike off the cage. Then, with the help of two trombone players, Dad got the cage upright.

This time, those pigeons made a beeline out the cage door. In a whirring explosion of gray, they burst into the gym and flew toward the open doors and daylight at the other end.

And, just as suddenly as the pigeons had exploded from the cage, my friend Tom Sawyer stepped into the doorway at the end of the gym. Armed with a giant butterfly net.