Full Court Press

by Todd Hafer

  Reality hit Cody too late. Alston had already moved to the left side of the hoop, where he collected the ball as it came off the glass. He squared his feet and hit an easy two-foot jumper.

  Angry at himself for being suckered, Cody forgot to get his landing gear down properly. He landed awkwardly on his left ankle, stumbled, and crashed into the back wall. The wrestling mat kept him from cracking his head, but he felt a hot needle of pain shoot into his ankle. He tried to take a step on it and felt it start to buckle. Carefully, he sat on the floor to assess the damage.

  He saw Alston standing over him, holding the basketball. Is Alston going to offer to help me up? he wondered. Or at least ask if I’m okay?

  Alston shook his head in mock sadness. “Nice defense, your gracefulness. Martin, you are so getting clowned. Right in front of Coach, God, and everybody. I only wish your girlfriend was here to see this.”

  “I don’t have a girlfriend,” Cody snapped, too loudly. All heads turned in his direction.

  “Right. That Robyn chick with the funky glasses? The one who’s a better player than you are? You love her, and you know it.”

  “She’s just my friend,” Cody protested.

  “Not if she could see the way you’re playing. I bet you get cut tonight.”

  “Alston!” Coach Clayton’s voice was weary but firm. “That’s enough.”

  “And Martin, go see Dutch and get some ice on the ankle. Goddard, you come in for Martin. And please, for the love of Bill Russell, won’t you try to play a little defense on Mister Alston before he starts thinking he’s All-World?”

  Coach Clayton paused and studied his clipboard.

  “Oh, and one more thing. Glazer, Turner, and Martin, I want to see each of you in my office after practice tonight.”

  Cody shot a glance at Coach Clayton and then looked away. He felt as if something huge—Doug Porter, for example—had just crash-landed on his chest.

  Cody limped the length of the locker room, pausing occasionally outside Coach’s closed office door to strain his ears for bits of the conversation with Turner. But it was all murmurs and mutters. Glazer had left ten minutes ago, the veins in his moist eyes looking like tiny red branches. He had offered Cody a quick, wounded glance, and then bowed his head and trudged away.

  Moments after that, Pork Chop had come in. Chop was uncharacteristically quiet. He lightly slapped Cody on the back, as if he were trying to kill a mosquito. Then as he turned to leave, he said, “Call me, Cody. Tonight. No matter what happens.”

  Cody sat down in front of his locker. He looked at his ankle, trying to determine if it looked swollen. He rose to pace again, then forced himself to sit. Coach had ordered him to “stay off that bad wheel,” but anxiety kept driving him to his feet.

  He looked at his watch. Turner had been in there for eleven minutes now. What were they talking about? Would Turner exit crying too?

  I should probably say something to Turner, Cody thought. I should have said something to Glaze. He tried to think of a Psalm or Proverb about comfort, but nothing came to mind.

  Cut. That’s what he was going to be. He bounced the word around in his head. Cut, cut, cut, cut. Cut! He remembered sixth grade, when he had sliced a blueberry bagel and his left hand along with it. Mom had bandaged that cut and dozens of others through the years. But now she was gone. And besides, there was no Band-Aid that could help a cut like the one Coach Clayton was about to give him.

  Chapter 4

  Smells

  Like

  Team Spirit

  You look like you’re gonna eject from that chair, Martin,” Coach Clayton observed. “Sit back. This is gonna take a while.”

  Cody tried to relax on the cold metal folding chair that faced Coach Clayton’s desk. The coach sat on his desk, rather than behind it, his long, narrow feet dangling only an inch from the floor. He cleared his throat. “Martin, do you know why you’re here?”

  Cody thought of the two tearful departures he had witnessed within the past half hour. He stared at Coach Clayton’s game-weary Converses.

  “No, Coach. Not really. I’m—I’m sorry about what happened at the tail end of practice. I don’t know what was wrong with me. I was just having a bad day. I—uh—think I was getting tired near the end, and—”

  “Tired, Martin? I don’t think so. You’re probably the fittest guy out there.”

  No excuses, no excuses, no excuses, Cody told himself. He felt tears forming and tried to blink them back. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.

  He had recited that line a hundred times during Mom’s funeral. It kept him from crying then. Maybe it would work now, too. He felt Coach’s eyes on him and forced himself to move his eye contact from shoes to face.

  “Martin, do you know what the hardest thing is for a basketball coach to find these days?”

  Cody shrugged.

  “It’s defense, my man. Big D.” Coach Clayton hopped from his desk and began to pace the length of the office, which took him six strides, round-trip. “Defense is hard and dirty work, Martin. And in this age of showtime, run-and-gun basketball, few athletes have the will to play hard-nosed, all-hustle, in-your-face- like-an-insurance-salesman d-e-e-e-e-fense!”

  Cody swallowed hard. Here it comes. The gripe session for letting Alston school me.

  “Martin, you’re not the fastest guy on the team, are you?”

  “No, sir.”

  “And you’re not much of a leaper. And even though I’m impressed you can shoot with either hand, your shot needs some work.”

  Great, great. Let’s give a detailed list of all my flaws. What’s next? My haircut’s ugly, and I have six zits on my face?

  Coach Clayton stopped pacing and stood in front of Cody. “But there’s one thing you can do, Martin. And that—never mind what happened tonight against Alston—is play me some defense.”

  What game is this guy playing? Okay, I got your point. I’m no good at anything but defense, and tonight, with making the team on the line, I didn’t even do that. Just cut me already, so I can call my dad and tell him I’m a failure. That’s just what he needs right now. No wife and a loser son.

  “Do you know what I’m trying to say to you here, Martin?”

  “Um, that I’m good at only one part of basketball, and when I’m up against somebody talented, I’m not even good at that?”

  Coach Clayton leaned forward and smacked his hands together so loudly that Cody almost ejected from his chair.

  “No! Cody Martin, I have you in PE. I watched you play football this year. I talked to Coach Murphy about how you guys stacked up in hoops last year. And during these tryouts, I’ve watched you like Pork Chop watches dessert being served at Mamie’s House o’ Pies. Here’s the juice, my man. You can cover anyone in this league—Alston, Rick Macy, Keenan Jones, anybody.”

  Coach Clayton settled himself on his desk again. “But you cannot get all nervous or starstruck, or whatever you were out there tonight. I didn’t know if you were gonna guard Alston or ask him for his autograph.”

  “I’m sorry, Coach.”

  “You should be sorry, Martin. Good grief! Is Jason Kidd on our team?”

  Cody thought this could be a trick question, but he coaxed the obvious answer from his mouth.

  “No, sir.”

  “Correct! Is Michael Jordan making another comeback and using our league to tune up?”

  Cody managed a small smile. “No.”

  “You’d better believe it’s ‘No’! Those guys don’t play here. Neither do Larry Bird or Magic Johnson. Neither does Pistol Pete, may God rest his soul. So you see, all I’m asking you to do is guard thirteen-and fourteen-year-old boys. Boys pretty much like you—only a few of them, like Alston, have facial hair. But that doesn’t make them players. If that were the case, Santa Claus would be MVP in the NBA. You got that, Martin?”

  Cody nodded.

  “Listen, son, this league has enough pretty boys, showboaters, and
posers, But we’re woefully short on dawgs.”

  Cody cocked his head. “Dogs?”

  “Not ‘dogs,’ Martin! Dawgs! D–A–W–G–S. This team needs a pack of wild, defense-crazy dawgs, and I want you to lead ’em!”

  “Me, Coach?”

  “Yes, you, Numb Noggin’! I want you to play that gnarly, in-your-face D I’ve seen you play, save for about two minutes earlier tonight. I want you to lead the league in floor burns. And I want more than that. I want you to swat shots like a horse swats horseflies, which you can do with those long monkey arms of yours. Man, for the love of Kevin McHale, you have some long arms on you! Use ’em! Also, I want you to steal like Jesse James. I want to put you on every team’s best scorer—and I want you to drive him crazy. I want you to be all over him like a nasty, burning rash that just gets worse and worse the more he scratches it!”

  Coach Clayton hopped from his desk again. “Stand up, Martin.”

  Cody stood slowly and found himself staring into Coach Clayton’s Adam’s apple. The scene reminded him of Rocky Balboa and Ivan Drago in Rocky IV. “You feel how close I am to you, Martin? You experiencing the ambiance of the pastrami sandwich I wolfed down right after practice? It’s uncomfortable, isn’t it?”

  Cody nodded.

  “That’s how I want you to make every opponent feel.” He palmed a basketball from his desk and bounced it slowly, punctuating each name. “Macy. Washington. Jones. Locke. Cabrera. And, when we practice, that’s how I want you to make Alston feel. He needs that. He needs the work.”

  Coach Clayton handed the ball to Cody. “This is your ball now, Martin. It’s a game ball. And from now on, I want you to think that every ball is yours. When the other team has it, they’re just borrowing it, understand? You gotta think, ‘That’s my ball, and I’m getting it back.’ I don’t care if you steal it, rebound it, or have it left to you in a will—you get that rock back. You put the bite on every glory-grabbin’ gunner in this league, okay? I want you to be my dawg. Are you my dawg, Martin?”

  Cody smiled, “Yes, Coach.”

  Cody watched Wednesday tryouts from the bench. Dutch, the team’s stocky trainer, shuttled him fresh ice packs on the half hour—for his head, not his ankle. His ankle was only mildly sore, but he had awakened with a fever he figured was over 100 degrees. His dad wouldn’t have let him go to school, but he was gone when Cody woke up.

  Before practice, Coach Clayton felt his forehead and tried to send him home, but Cody protested, saying, “I want to stay and be a watch-DAWG!”

  The coach chuckled. “Watch-dawg! I like that. Okay, Martin. You can stay. Just don’t breathe on anyone.”

  Coach Clayton ran the team through agility drills, then set up mini-scrimmages again. He put Gannon and Alston on the same team, and they alternated launching shots from twenty feet and beyond. Combined, they hit about one-fourth of their attempts.

  While Gannon and Alston dueled for the title “King of Deep Downtown,” Pork Chop’s team dominated. Chop planted himself in the low post and powered in an assortment of hook shots, turnaround jumpers, and drop-step lay-ins. Anyone daring enough to get in his way ended up being body checked out of the play—and sometimes on the seat of his pants.

  On Thursday, Coach Clayton held Cody out of scrimmages, “just as a precaution,” but he was allowed to shoot free throws and go through passing drills. When it was time to scrimmage, the coach hand-picked what Cody was sure would be the starting five for the season opener—Brett Evans and Dylan at forwards, Pork Chop at center, Alston and Lang at guard. This quintet abused all comers.

  From the bench, Cody watched Alston like a cop on a stakeout. He noted that Alston drove to his right eight out of ten times, loved to use the behind-the-back dribble to elude a defender on a fast break, and, when double-teamed, tended to leap into the air first, look for options second.

  Next time I guard you, Cody thought, I’ll be ready.

  That night Coach Clayton went cut-crazy again. He dismissed everyone but Gannon, Pork Chop, Alston, the Evans twins, Dylan, Slaven, Sam Hooper, Lang, Mark Goddard, and Cody “Dawg” Martin.

  At the beginning of that Friday’s workout, Coach Clayton gathered his eleven players at midcourt.

  “Congratulations, Raiders,” he began. “You’re the team. I’m keeping only eleven guys this year, because that’s how many are good enough to play ball for me and not embarrass themselves, their country, their school, or their immediate and extended families. You see, in my system, everybody plays. I don’t believe in carrying benchwarmers. If I want my bench warm, I’ll set it on fire.”

  In the two weeks leading up to the season-opening invitational “Grant Hoops Classic” tournament, Coach Clayton focused on creating game-like situations. He drilled the basics of the 2–1–2 zone defense and the half-court trap. He installed an offense in which nearly everything went through Pork Chop on the high post. And he devised a never-fail way to beat a man-to-man full-court press—“Give the ball to Alston, and everybody clear out of his way!”

  And everyone shot free throws—lots of them. Twenty at the beginning of practice, ten in the middle, and fifteen at the end.

  “You need to get used to shooting under various levels of fatigue,” the coach told his team after a particularly grueling practice session. “You must shoot the ball the same way, whether you’re fresh as a daisy or dead-dog tired. I’ll be here every morning at 6:30 a.m. if anybody wants to come in and improve this part of his game.”

  Cody showed up the next morning. Bart Evans was the only other Raider in the gym. Coach Clayton shot them both a quick smile.

  “Good to see you, men. Try to get a hundred makes. Keep track of how many shots it takes to get you there. And a month from now, I think you’ll see a big difference.”

  At practice that night, the team scrimmaged under game conditions. Coach Clayton pulled Cody aside and instructed him, “Dawg Mister Alston everywhere he goes.”

  “I’m gonna dissect you, Martin!” Alston whispered, as he crossed midcourt on the opening possession.

  Cody said nothing. Then he pretended to go for Alston’s unconvincing fake pass to Slaven on the right wing. And when Alston fired a bounce pass toward Dylan on the left wing, Cody pounced on it like a cat on a mouse.

  As he drove in for an uncontested layup, Cody heard Coach Clayton whoop and shout, “Nice D, Martin! Great anticipation!”

  This was followed by, “Alston, if you’re going to telegraph your passes, why don’t you just save yourself the trouble and broadcast them over the sound system? I can fire up the announcer’s mike if you want.”

  The next time Alston brought the ball upcourt, he faked the pass to his left, then went right, just as Cody suspected he would. The pass was crisper this time, so Cody didn’t get a clean steal. But he did bat the ball downcourt, where Gannon scooped it up and charged to the top of the key, his favorite location from which to miss a shot.

  Gannon’s line drive smacked hard off the backboard, and everyone froze, expecting Coach Clayton to blow his whistle and launch into his Gannon-tailored lecture on shot selection. When the coach did neither, Gannon chased down his miss, drove to the basket, and carefully laid the ball into the hoop.

  Alston swore and tried to catch Cody napping, pushing the ball up the right side of the court. Cody picked him up before he reached midcourt. On cue, Alston dribbled behind his back, trying to move the ball from his right hand to his left. Cody darted to Alston’s left side and poked the ball away before he could regain control. Five seconds later, he laid the ball into the basket, left-handed. He hoped Coach Clayton noticed that he went lefty.

  Late in the scrimmage, Alston hit two rainbow jumpers with Cody right in his face. But Cody’s team, made up of mostly second teamers, won the scrimmage 20–18.

  At the end of practice, Coach Clayton assembled the squad on the front row of bleachers.

  “Raiders,” he said, “you’re lookin’ tough. We have a legitimate shot at taking the tournament, even with Cent
ral and Mister Rick Macy in the field. But we’re at opposite ends of the bracket, so we’ll have to make it to the finals to discover if Macy’s all he’s cracked up to be.”

  “Coach, can I say something?” The question came from Alston, who usually said nothing, unless he was trash-talking.

  “Sure, Mister Alston. What’s on your mind?”

  “If Martin D’s up on Macy the way he did me tonight, we can beat Central—get revenge for the three times they spanked us last year.”

  Pork Chop nudged Cody with his elbow and whispered, “Did you hear that, Cody? Alston big-upped you! Will wonders never cease?”

  Cody shrugged. “Apparently not.”

  On a cold Friday afternoon in November, Grant faced Maranatha Christian School in the opening round of the tournament. It was, as Coach Clayton noted after the game, “the worst mismatch since Michael Jackson married Lisa-Marie Presley.” The final score was 40–18, Raiders.

  Cody and the second unit entered the game late in the first quarter and hit the Lions with a full-court press that made crossing midcourt seem like crossing the Red Sea—without the waters being parted.

  In the second round, on Saturday morning, Grant dismantled Holmes. Apparently the Holmes coach didn’t scout the Raiders in the first round, because Cody and his Dawg Pack forced thirteen first-half turnovers, resulting in ten easy baskets.

  As he did in the Maranatha game, Coach Clayton called off the Dawgs when the lead reached twenty points. Final score: 42–24.

  To no one’s surprise, Grant squared off against Central for the tourney championship on Saturday afternoon. During his pregame pep talk, Coach Clayton grew so excited that he kept breaking chalk sticks as he tried to diagram plays and defensive adjustments on the locker room chalkboard. He had to finish drawing up an inbounds play with a stub of chalk no bigger than Cody’s little toe.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, brushing chalk dust from his just-bought blue jeans, “on paper, Central has a stronger team. But thank heavens, this game is played on hardwood, not paper. I have a feeling that if we can keep the score close, we might get an opportunity to steal the game at the end.”