Behind Every Good Story…

...is another good story.

Blind Your Ponies, a novel by Stanley Gordon West, is being released today by Algonquin Books. This may come as a surprise to the tens of thousands of Montanans who have already read and enjoyed his story of life and basketball in small-town Montana. Mr. West self-published the book in 2001, and peddled it himself to readers in Montana and surrounding states. We loved it. The word spread, and now, nearly 10 years later, a major publisher has joined the Willow Creek Broncs' boosters club.

If you haven't read Blind Your Ponies yet, treat yourself.

Now, the story behind the story, from author Stanley Gordon West:

People told me that if I wanted to meet a nice gal I should take country-western dance classes. I was living alone, middle-aged, and yes, I’d like to find a nice gal to share life with. So, I signed up for dance classes at Montana State University in Bozeman where I lived. I showed up for the first class along with about fifty other people. The instructor assured us that he’d make it fun as he paired us off in a big circle.

And yes, right off there was a very attractive gal who caught my eye. The only problem was she came with a tall cowboy. At the teacher’s command we’d switch partners, the men moving up one space, and before long I got a chance to dance with her. She was down to earth and lovely and she warmed me with her smile. There would be ten lessons; ten Tuesdays when I’d be hoping she’d arrive alone. But the tall cowboy didn’t miss a beat and I figured there was little hope for me with the nice gal I met in the country-western dance class.

On the seventh Tuesday, once class was over and the dancers were heading out the door, I just about bumped into her, so close I could hear her saying to another gal, “I can’t find my brother.”

I turned on a dime and blurted loudly, “Your BROTHER?!”

By the time her brother found us, I’d found out she was single, had no current boyfriend, and I had her phone number. I waited two days before calling, not wanting to seem over eager. She accepted an invitation for dinner then dancing, trying out our new skills on the dance floor. She lived out of town a way, in the foothills of the Tobacco Root Mountains, about forty miles.

I felt a long-forgotten excitement as I turned down a narrow blacktop highway. It was nearly dark as I approached the softened lights of the quiet little village, a place I’d never been before, a place I’d never heard of—Willow Creek, Montana.

She lived in Willow Creek, worked at the Blue Willow Inn, the social center of the town, and had a boy who played basketball on the high school team. So, besides dancing, I went to games with her. None of the loyal fans who turned out for these games seemed to notice that they hadn’t won a game in over five years. Five years! But the six or seven boys they could muster to carry the Willow Creek banner played every one of those games as if their lives depended on it.

I was fascinated! It didn’t matter if they were behind by fifty points with a minute to go; they played every second of that last minute. It didn’t matter that they had only four players still on the court. It didn’t matter that the opposing team had wiped the floor with them physically and emotionally—and the strange thought came to me—spiritually. Don’t get me wrong, I’d seen plenty of favorite teams lose before. But this was different. The more games I went to the more I realized there was something unique going on here that I simply didn’t understand. What made these Willow Creek boys play like that?

The romance didn’t last, but I was hooked on the team and the town to which she had introduced me.

I was being drawn into the story of the team and of the village. I was enticed by the town’s legendary mystery: a bicycle-built-for-two and the legend of the Crow Indians whose desperate plight resonated deeply with these townspeople. When I first heard the legend I was haunted by it. I still am.

I no longer had a country-western dance partner but I had an obsession that engulfed me. I had to know where a town and its team got so much heart. For a time I became a fixture in the life of that team. At times, at the coach’s request, I even donated my body to play defense with a few other volunteer adults so the team had live bodies to practice against. It was much more tiring than country-western dancing.

I followed the team over Montana highways in the dead of winter to far-flung outposts and cracker-box gyms to find an answer to a single, driving question: “Why do they carry on in the face of utter and certain defeat?”