Full Court Press
Page 9
In the stands, Greta tapped Robyn on the shoulder, tears gleaming in her eyes. “Do you think he’s pointing up at his mom, or at God?” she asked.
Robyn smiled, “Probably at both of them. They’re up there together—you know? And I have a feeling they’re both smiling big-time right now.”
There wasn’t much mystery about all-star number five. Antwan Clay was clearly the best player in the tournament, and now he had a medal and an MVP trophy to prove it.
Clay chest-bumped Macy and then took his place beside Cody as the quintet smiled for pictures. Between shots, Clay leaned in to Cody.
“Nice defense, dawg. If it weren’t for you, Macy might be holding this trophy right now.”
When Cody emerged from the locker room, his dad was waiting for him. He placed both hands on Cody’s shoulders. “You know what your mom always said about you—as an athlete, I mean?”
“Uh, no, I guess not.”
“She always told me you were gallant. Interesting word, huh? I never really knew what she meant. I guess I didn’t watch you enough to know. But after tonight, Cody, I know.”
“Thanks, Dad.” Cody said, leaning into his dad as he put his arm around him.
Epilogue
On the Monday after the tournament, Terry Alston caught up with Cody in the hallway and grabbed him by the elbow.
“Cody,” he said, “I just want you to know that I had nothing to do with it. Nothing at all. I can’t really tell you who did it, but it’s not someone who’s a student here. It’s not Neale, so don’t bring the war on him, okay?”
Cody didn’t even have time to say “Huh?” before Alston turned and jogged away.
Cody didn’t find out what the “it” was until Robyn approached him at lunch and led him to Greta’s locker.
In red marker, someone had scrawled “DEATH TO GUT-BUCKET GRETA!”
“Did she see this?” Cody asked.
“It’s her locker,” Robyn said quietly, just before she buried her face in her hands and began crying quietly.
Tentatively, Cody laid his hand on her shoulder.
“I tried so hard, Cody,” she said. “I tried so hard to stop it. I thought it was over.”
Cody tried to find Greta several times during the day. Finally he went to Mr. Prentiss’s office, where he learned that Greta had gone home early.
He suggested to Robyn that they visit the bus-house that afternoon, but she convinced him to “give Greta a little space and let’s talk to her tomorrow.”
But Greta didn’t come to school the next day. Robyn told Cody that she would check on her that evening, but that she wanted to do it alone.
On Wednesday, neither Robyn nor Greta came to school. Cody called the Hart house twice that evening but got the answering machine both times.
On Thursday morning, Robyn was waiting at Cody’s locker when he arrived at school. She smiled at him, but it was a sad smile.
“Come with me,” she said softly.
She led him to the Home Ec room, where a large platter of chocolate chip cookies sat on Ms. Young’s desk. They were covered with green cellophane. An envelope with CODY, written in large block letters, lay beside the cookies.
“Read it,” Robyn said.
Carefully, Cody tore open the envelope and removed a folded page of notebook paper. Somehow, even before he read the letter, he knew it was from Greta.
Dear Cody,
My family and I have decided to move. It is just too hard for me at Grant. My dad has a job possibility in Tennessee, and it’s warmer there. Which is nice, since winter’s here.
I won’t miss much about Grant, but I will miss you and Robyn. Thank you for being my friends and for standing up for me. No one outside my family has ever done that for me.
I hope you like the cookies. It’s your mom’s recipe. Robyn got it from your dad. I’m sure they won’t be as good as your mom’s, but I did my best.
I even stole some real butter, since all Ms. Young had was margarine. Please ask God to forgive me. Maybe someday I can pay the store back.
Also, I want to tell you that you are a great athlete. I am proud of how you played in the tournament. I watched almost all of your home games this year. I don’t think you saw me most of the time, but I was there. But even though you are a great athlete, you are an even better friend. And that is how I will always think of you. As my friend.
God bless,
Greta Hopkins
Cody swallowed hard and looked at Robyn. “What do we do now, Hart?”
“I think we say a silent prayer for Greta and her family,” she said. “Then we have a cookie.”
Cody closed his eyes and listened to the hollow echo of leather on hardwood as he dribbled the ball slowly at the free throw line of the empty Grant gym. He knew Coach Clayton would be in soon to lock up. He squared up and swished a free throw. Then he walked slowly to retrieve the ball as it rolled to a stop against the back wall.
“Good shootin’, dawg.”
Cody looked at Coach Clayton, his lanky body framed by the doorway.
“Thanks, Coach,” he said. “And I mean thanks for everything.”
“Thank you. You played like a sure-enough warrior this year.”
Cody held the ball against his hip. “I’m gonna miss this game,” he said.
“You gonna be okay, Martin? You seem really down.”
“It’s just sad the season’s over. And one of my friends moved away. I guess I’m kinda sad about that too.”
Coach Clayton nodded slowly. “Yeah. I heard about that. But there are times when life is like basketball. You do all you can, but you can’t really control the final outcome. I guess that’s in bigger hands than ours, you know?”
“Yeah, but it’s still hard.”
“Well,” the coach said, cupping a hand around the back of Cody’s neck and steering him toward the exit, “I wish there was something I could do to cheer you up.”
Cody looked up at his coach. “Maybe there is.”
“And what would that be?”
“Just tell me that it won’t be too long before track starts.”
Coach Clayton laughed. “It’ll be here before you know it. But do you really think you can be a track man? You’re not the fastest guy in the world, you know.”
“I know. But Blake said something on Sunday that gives me hope. He said that the race isn’t always to the swiftest. Sometimes the guy who wins is the one who just keeps on running.”
“I’ll buy that,” the coach said, smiling. “Hey, you need a ride home? Or change to call your old man?”
“Nah, I think I’ll run home.”
“I’m not sure that’s such a good idea, dawg. I just chased that moron Gabe Weitz outta the lobby a few minutes ago. I know all about him, you know. Mr. Porter told me. You two better watch your backs.”
“We will, Coach. Doug says that if we can steer clear of him until graduation, our troubles will be over.”
Coach Clayton smiled. “Yes, it would be bad to get kicked out of school before graduation. That might ruin one’s full-ride football scholarship.”
“But once Doug graduates, he says that he and Weitz are going to have ‘a conversation.’”
Coach Clayton frowned. “I don’t want to hear any more about any of that. The less I know, the better. I told Mr. Weitz that I would be keeping an eye on him, but he didn’t look worried. I think you should let me drive you home. It’s cold anyway. Running home would be—”
“Gallant. That’s what it is, Coach.”
Coach Clayton smiled. “Gallant—I like that word.”
“So do I.”
With that, Cody tucked his ball under his arm and sprinted for the exit. The only vehicles he saw on the way were parked, slumbering under thick blankets of snow.
Cody felt the grain of the leather on his fingertips. He turned his prize possession over and over in his hands.
“You’ve meant a lot to me, especially this season,” he said quietly.
It felt a bit strange, talking to an inanimate object, but then again, he didn’t truly regard the Bible as lifeless.
He opened his Bible and turned to the inscription. It read,
Cody,
Know always that you are loved. You have his Word on that.
Love,
Mom and Dad
Christmas 2003
Cody nodded and then turned the pages toward the Psalms. That’s what he felt like reading right now—a psalm in which David slam-dunked his fears and insecurities and praised God for the challenges, the excitement, and the pure joy of simply being alive.
Chapter 1
Men Versus
Mountain
This is way worse than running suicides, Martin,” Bart Evans groaned. “This is the kind of thing that could kill a guy for real! Dude, I thought he was tough as a hoops coach. But this is, like, another level of pain.”
Eighth grader Cody Martin nodded grimly. I’d rather run a hundred suicides than do this, he thought. Why did I let Coach Clayton talk me into this ? He rose up from his saddle as the road steepened. Each downstroke on the pedals of his 12-speed felt as if it would be his last. His quads burned, like they had been soaked in acid.
“If I peddle any slower,” he mumbled, “I’ll start going back downhill. I can’t believe Coach made this sound fun.”
Bart snorted weakly. “Coach Clayton is the devil. ‘Scenic ride,’ my foot, which is aching so bad I want to cut it off, by the way. ‘Majestic ride, carving right through a historic Colorado mountain pass. Breathtaking rock walls so close to the road’s edge you can reach out and touch them.’”
“Well,” Cody offered, “it would be scenic, if we weren’t blinded by pain.”
The duo grew silent as they rounded a switchback and were hit by a stiff wind.
I should have suspected something when Coach Clayton dodged Gage’s question, Cody thought. Gage McClintock, the track team’s best 400-meter runner, had asked the distance coach, “Mountain pass, eh? I don’t like the sound of that. How steep a mountain are we talkin’ here?”
Coach Clayton, a six-foot-four scarecrow of a man, had laughed derisively. “Mac, don’t be such a wimp. It’s only a fourteen-mile ride. We’re not talking about a leg of the Tour de stinkin’ France. Not even a toe of the Tour de France. For cryin’ out loud, I’m doin’ the ride on my old mountain bike. You guys all have road bikes, so quit your whinin’.”
“Besides,” he added with a wink, “when we finish up in Woodland Park, I’m gonna buy you the best donuts anywhere. And then we get to ride down. I’m tellin’ ya—you’ll feel like you’re flyin’!”
Flyin’? Cody thought. A snail could crawl faster than this. I’m gonna topple over any second now, I just know it. It’s just a matter of physics. It’s not possible for a bike to go this slow.
Cody knew that if he crashed, he was going to leave significant portions of his hide on Ute Pass. His cycling shoes were locked firmly in the toe clips, and he wouldn’t have the time or energy to release them, especially if he biffed when he was up off the saddle. He raised his head to study the terrain ahead. His heart deflated like a balloon. Just ahead was the meanest hill of the ride.
It has to be two hundred yards long, Cody thought. And it’s straight up, no switchbacks!
He heard himself whimper. Bart had pulled ten yards ahead of him moments earlier, but now Cody saw him maneuver his bike off the shoulder and execute an ungainly dismount. As he stood on the roadside, his legs buckled, and he had to lean on his bike for support.
Softcover 0-310-70670-X
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“Enjoyable and realistic. If you like
sports, you will want to share the
season with Cody Martin.”
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Goal Line Stand
Written by Todd Hafer
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Cody’s Varisty Rush
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