Full Court Press

by Todd Hafer

  Cody didn’t know his coach’s religious affiliation, but on this afternoon he would prove to be a major prophet.

  Chapter 5

  Laying It

  on the

  Line

  Near the end of a fiercely competitive championship battle, Cody watched the leather sphere teeter on the edge of the front rim.

  “Come to me, ball,” he whispered.

  As if on command, the ball dripped off the iron. Cody blasted off from the hardwood like a 120-pound rocket. To his left, he saw Macy rising with him. That could be trouble. Macy was five foot nine, three inches taller. And he had decent hops.

  Cody willed his body to go higher. He stretched his arms and extended his fingers. The ball settled onto his fingertips.

  As soon as Cody touched down, he made eye contact with the referee under the basket. He knew there had to be less than five seconds on the clock. The Raiders needed a time-out. He was about to make a “T” with his hands when Macy landed—right on top of him. Cody’s head erupted in sparks of pain.

  Cody blinked and watched the world slowly come into focus. He realized he was lying in the middle of the free throw lane, looking up into Coach Clayton’s red, watery eyes.

  “You okay, Cody? I think you were knocked colder than my ex-mother-in-law’s heart.”

  Cody touched the top of his head gingerly. He winced as he felt an egg-size lump. He tried to arrange his words before he spoke.

  “I think I’m okay, Coach. My head hurts, but I’m all right, I guess. Hey—did I draw the foul?”

  The corners of Coach Clayton’s mouth curved upward. “Yes, you drew the foul.”

  “All right! So, I make two free throws, and it’s game over?”

  “That’s how it works, Cody. Two from the charity stripe, and we’re Grant Hoops Classic champs. Are you okay to shoot?”

  “Yeah, I guess so. But, Coach?”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s true what they say about seeing stars.”

  Coach Clayton smiled again. “Right now I just need you to see yourself hitting two from the line.”

  Coach Clayton extended his hand and pulled Cody to his feet. The partisan crowd clapped enthusiastically. Macy came over and leaned his head close to Cody’s. To the packed Grant Middle School gym, it looked like a show of sportsmanship.

  “I think your rock head cracked my elbow, Martin.” Macy sneered.

  Cody tried to muster a confident laugh. “I think it’s the other way around.”

  “Sure hope the pain doesn’t affect your concentration—or your aim. It would be a shame to choke in front of your home crowd and cost your team the championship. Think about that when you toe the line.”

  Cody thought of several responses, none of which would please Blake or his dad, who were sitting behind the Raider bench. So he settled for a blank stare.

  Macy gave Cody a fraternal pat on the back and took his place along the perimeter of the free throw lane.

  Cody stood at the line. The scoreboard read Grant—47, Guest—48. Only three seconds remained on the clock.

  “Okay, gentlemen,” the squatty referee said. “We’re not in the bonus, so it’s one and one. Play the miss.”

  “That’s right,” Cody heard Macy hiss. “The miss-s-s-s!”

  Cody felt his knees turning to oatmeal. The ball felt heavy and foreign in his hands.

  This stinks! he thought. Is this ball regulation size? It feels too big. I don’t even know if I can get it to the rim. Aw, that’s all I need—to lose the championship on an air ball!

  He wondered what Coach would say—what his teammates would say. He thought of how everyone would look at him in the hallways on Monday—how they would whisper behind his back and wag their heads disappointedly.

  Why does it have to be me? God, what have I done to deserve this? Why can’t Alston be up here? He lives for this kinda stuff. Maybe I could faint right now. If I can pull off a convincing face-plant, maybe Alston can shoot for me. I think there’s a rule that provides for a sub—

  The referee’s whistle snapped Cody from his thoughts. He pried the ball from Cody’s tense fingers. “Time-out, white,” he called.

  Cody shook his head. Calling a time-out to ice the shooter was good strategy, but not your own shooter. He and all the other puzzled Raiders circled around Coach Clayton on the sideline.

  “What’s up, Coach?” Alston asked. “Why did you call a time-out at a time like this? Martin looks like he’s about ready to cry.”

  “Terry,” Coach Clayton began, “shut up—please. Let’s remember who the coach is.”

  Alston dipped his head and muttered something Cody couldn’t decipher.

  “I have good reason for this TO. To celebrate the championship, we’re all going to Louie’s Pizza after the game.”

  He pulled his cell phone from the breast pocket of his well-worn, navy-blue blazer. He punched in a number and held the phone to his right ear. “Mike,” he yelled, as the Grant Middle School band began its assault on ‘Sweet Georgia Brown,’ “Coach C. here. Listen—those victory pizzas we talked about earlier today? Start making ’em. We’ll be there in about twenty-five minutes. Yeah, that’s right. Pitchers of pop, too. And hang on a minute, Mike—”

  Coach Clayton looked at Gannon. “Gannon, you’re still a vegetarian, right?”

  Gannon nodded his head sadly. “Yes, my mom’s still forcing me.”

  Coach Clayton yelled into the phone again. “Yeah, I’m still here, Mike. Listen—make one of those pizzas all veggie, okay? Gannon and I are vegetarians, at least for this weekend.”

  The coach said goodbye and slipped his phone back into his pocket. He scanned the eyes of his team. “Any questions?”

  No one said a word. Even Alston could only manage a weak whistle.

  “Okay then. You’ll all need to hustle and get showered after Cody drains these two shots. I want to get to Louie’s while the pizzas are still hot. And your parents are invited, by the way.”

  The Raiders broke their huddle and headed back to the game. Coach Clayton tugged on Cody’s jersey.

  “Cody, it’s six-thirty, you got it? It’s six-thirty.”

  Cody started to frown, but then a small smile of recognition creased his face.

  He walked to the line, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. It is six-thirty, he assured himself. It’s early in the morning, and I’m here, as I am every weekday. Won’t leave the gym until I hit a hundred free throws. One hundred. These are just two more. It’s just me, a ball, and a hoop. No crowd. No distractions.

  He opened his eyes. He dribbled the ball three times, then brought it to eye level, his fingertips finding a seam. He made sure his right elbow was straight and close to his body. Now the ball didn’t seem large and foreign. It felt perfect as it rested on his fingertips, as if it belonged there. He eyed the rim, bent his knees, and flicked his wrist.

  He knew when the ball left his hand that it would find nothing but net. The crowd exploded into cheers and roars of approval, but the noise seemed faraway. Cody wanted the rock back—now.

  Macy was saying something to him but it was lost amid the noise.

  The ref handed him the ball. “One shot, gentlemen. Play the miss.”

  “There isn’t going to be any miss,” Cody whispered. He went through the routine again. Dribble, dribble, dribble. Ball to eye level. Elbow straight. Bend the knees. Release, rotation—The ball splashed through the net. Gannon and the Evans brothers raced to congratulate Cody, but he was already sprinting downcourt. He knew that neither team had a time-out left, so the Grizzlies’ only hope was a long pass and a miracle catch-and-shoot.

  On the inbounds play, Clay, the Grizzlies point guard, lobbed a desperation pass that went right to Pork Chop at midcourt.

  Interception! Cody thought, as the nasal blare of the buzzer signaled the end of the game.

  Cody had been in a few midcourt victory celebrations, but never as the center of attention. He felt a hoard of hands patting his
shoulders and back. He wondered if one of them was Robyn’s. His eyes met Coach Clayton’s. The coach raised his arms and pointed to his watch. Cody saw him mouth the word

  “pizza.” He began to swim his way through the sea of bodies to the locker room.

  It was only three blocks to Louie’s, so Cody had told his dad he would walk to the party. He stood at center court of the dark gymnasium, his basketball under his right arm. He released the ball and dribbled four times, listening to the dull echo of leather on hardwood. He looked to the rafters.

  Father God, thank you for today, he prayed silently. You know how Dad and I feel about praying over winning or losing a basketball game. You have my word that I’ll never do that. I’ll just keep praying to represent you. So I didn’t ask you to help me make those free throws. I think you have more important things to worry about. But somehow I felt you were with me there on the line. And I thank you for that. I think the only thing that kept me from fainting was knowing that you love me no matter what. And by the way, thanks for this game. I really love it. I want to play it ’til I die. And then—well—I hope there’s basketball in heaven. Amen.

  Cody pushed a wet comma of cinnamon-colored hair up on his forehead and dribbled slowly toward the free throw line, the same place he had stood thirty minutes earlier. He hit twelve free throws before one curled out. Then he made two more.

  You know, God, the coolest thing about today wasn’t that I helped us win a championship. It was how happy it made everybody. Thank you for that. Especially for making Dad happy. He needs that.

  Cody heard street shoes clicking on the court. It was Blake. “Your dad’s saving us seats at Louie’s. I thought you might be here.”

  Cody fired a chest pass, which Blake caught adroitly. “Yeah. I’m sorry, B. I just don’t want to leave the court. It’s like there’s magic here.”

  Blake thumped his right fist against his chest. “I think the magic is in here, you know? Cody, you really represented your school well this afternoon.”

  “Thanks. And thanks for coming to the game. It means a lot to me. Hey, B?”

  “Yeah?”

  “My mom—do you think she could see me today?”

  Blake smiled sadly. “You always ask the toughest theological questions, Cody.”

  “Well—”

  “I don’t know, man. Here’s what I think—and this is just my opinion. They didn’t teach me this at Biola. I believe that heaven is a place of perfect happiness. I believe your mom can see all she needs to see to be perfectly happy. So if your game is part of that equation, I think she saw you. And if not, maybe she can read about it in ‘The Heavenly Gazette’ or something. Or maybe an angel can give her a report, like on ESPN.”

  “Yeah. Maybe. You know, she used to watch ESPN with me. She was the only mom I know who did that.”

  Cody saw that Blake’s eyes were moist. “I’m sorry,” the young pastor said quietly. “I’m sorry about the loss you and your dad are feeling. Mind if I give you a hug?”

  Cody mustered his best brave laugh. “Dude, you have been to too many of those men’s retreats. I’m okay, really. But thanks. Maybe you can hug Pork Chop when we get to Louie’s. He’d love that.”

  “I’m not risking getting between Porter and his pizza. Speaking of which—”

  “Okay, I hear ya. Let’s go eat. But hey, B—guess what? Macy stuck his pumpkin-sized head in the doorway before he got on the bus tonight. He yelled, ‘Hey, Martin, you were lucky on those free throws—I’ll see you later in the season, then again at Districts! In my gym.’”

  “What did you say?”

  “Nothing. I just turned around and hit a jumper from the baseline. But he will see me at Districts—’cuz I’m gonna be right in his face. I hope Mom can see that one, because I am going to put on a show! And I’m going to shut Macy down. He got only ten on me tonight. Next time I’m going to do all I can to hold him to single digits. I doubt that anybody’s ever done that.”

  Cody held the door for Blake as they left the gym. Then, before he let the door swing closed, he turned to survey the quiet court. “I don’t know if you could see it or not, Mom,” he whispered. “But that one was for you.”

  Chapter 6

  Gut

  Bucket

  Greta

  On Monday morning Cody walked down the science hall and noticed the masses parting in front of him, like the Red Sea during the Exodus. For a moment he hoped this was in response to the previous Saturday’s game-winning heroics, but then reality grabbed him by the collar and shook him to his senses. He knew that Greta must be walking behind him.

  It had started in the beginning of seventh grade, when Greta enrolled at Grant. On her first day, Alston and a few of his stooges noted her pimple-littered face, Salvation Army-reject clothes, limp, greasy hair, and distinctive aroma—a pungent combination of cheap cigar smoke and body odor. They quickly dubbed her “Gut-Bucket Greta,” after the containers that fishermen discarded the entrails in after cleaning fish.

  At first this moniker was used behind Greta’s back, but then it became more public. “Gut-Bucket Greta at three o’clock!” or “Greta alert!” someone would shout, whenever she came down a school hallway or entered the lunchroom. Then some of the students would hold their noses until she passed by.

  Andy Neale, Alston’s best friend, had taken the ridicule to an even lower level during Greta’s second month at Grant. While trying to avoid brushing shoulders with her in the English hall, he had lunged against the wall, holding his nose and faking the dry heaves. Alston had doubled over with laughter, and soon he and several other students did their own variations of the Neale wall hug whenever Greta approached. They gagged, they pressed their bodies against lockers, and they shouted personal hygiene tips such as “Why don’t you take a bath, you pig?”

  By mid-seventh grade, the students’ tormenting of Greta was less vocal but no less regular. As if it were their sacred duty, ninety-nine percent of the student body consistently treated Greta as if she were a leper.

  Cody never participated. He caught flack for it for a while. During layup drills, Alston would yell “Greta- a-a-a-a-a!” whenever Cody short-armed a shot.

  Neale razzed Cody, too, but only when Alston was around. At times, Cody felt proud of himself for refusing to join in the taunting. He wondered how he could tell Blake about the stand he was taking, because he was sure Blake would be proud of him. He hoped he could work it smoothly into a conversation, so it wouldn’t seem like boasting.

  On the other hand, Cody made sure he was never caught walking directly beside Greta. He would quicken his pace to pass her in the hallway, or curl off toward a drinking fountain if he saw her coming toward him.

  Robyn Hart was a different story. She did much more than shoot eye-daggers at Alston and his entourage. Any time she and Greta traveled the Grant hallways at the same time, she drew right next to her, sometimes linking her hand through the crook in Greta’s elbow, like a rock star’s security guard. And she rotated her head, like a tank turret, daring anyone to hurl an insult or launch into a fit of sound effects.

  A few times, Cody noticed her whispering into Greta’s ear as they walked the gauntlet together. Greta never showed much emotion. She tucked her chin to her chest and took quick, light steps toward wherever she was going. She didn’t even seem to acknowledge Robyn’s presence.

  During the week leading up to Grant’s regular-season basketball opener, Robyn took her Greta support to a new level. Outside the gym’s north doors, she stood in the middle of the lobby and delivered what came to be known as the Sermon in the Foyer, brandishing her vocabulary like a sword.

  “You bunch of gutless me-too monkeys!” Robyn began, addressing the approximately thirty students plastered against either side of the walls. “You are the ones who make me wanna puke! What has Greta Hopkins ever done to any of you? How do you think she feels about coming to this school every day? Think for one minute how you would feel. You are making every day hell for her. Yo
u are hurting her. You have hurt her over and over and over again. She endured this all of last year—all year! Think about that! And now you’re doing it again this year! It’s time for you to stop!”

  Cody approached the scene midway through Robyn’s sermon. He heard the word “stop” echoing in the hall and saw Robyn with her arm around Greta’s shoulder.

  For a moment, Robyn was silent, but Cody knew she wasn’t done. She was only reloading. While Robyn prepared her next volley, the futuristic “wop” of the tardy bell filled the air, and the congregation began to stir.

  “Nobody leaves!” Robyn ordered. To Cody’s surprise, almost everyone stayed, perhaps more out of shock than obedience. “You have damaged this girl enough. It stops today. It’s time to start acting like human beings. You can start by telling Greta that you’re sorry.”

  That brought a snort from Neale. Robyn whipped her head around to face him. “You have a problem with being a human being, Andrew Neale?”

  Neale looked to Cody. “Hey, Martin—control your woman, would ya?”

  Cody tried to will a witty yet heroic response from his mouth. He needn’t have bothered.

  Robyn marched toward Neale, stopping when her nose nearly touched his chin. “Why don’t you control me, Andrew? You think I’m afraid of you, just because you’re one of Alston’s tools? That doesn’t impress me.”

  Neale took a step backward. “Who cares what impresses you, wench?” he said.

  Cody felt Robyn’s eyes on him. This was his cue to beat Neale like a kettledrum. But he felt the strength seeping from him, like the air from an inner tube with a slow leak. He sized Neale up. They were about the same size and build. Neale was pale as a mime; the only sports he played were the computer variety. His jaw was definitely his strongest muscle. But still—