He took a deep breath and looked over to the bench at Jonas, who was on his feet trying to encourage everyone. The regular bench guys—McAndrews, Wakefield, Early, Taylor, Ceplair, and Bogus—were on their feet too. They’d come so far, Alex thought. Did it really end here?
He took the inbounds and came upcourt, trying to appear calm even though he was anything but. Jackson was up on him as soon as he crossed midcourt, daring him to drive. There would be no open three here. He paused, backed up his dribble to reset himself, and checked his teammates. Sure enough, one of the Chester forwards was hedging toward Max to double if Alex even thought about going to him.
Wilson came up to the right of the key and set a hard screen to give Alex some space. He cut around it and, as he got into the lane, saw Anton Bennett, one of the Clippers’ forwards, coming at him. He took a hard dribble right at Bennett, then flipped the ball to Gormley, who was wide open on the baseline, about eight feet from the basket. Gormley caught the ball, took one dribble, and went in for a layup—daring someone to risk a foul trying to stop him. No one did. The ball banked home with forty-eight seconds to play. Chester’s lead was 79–78.
The Lions only had one time-out left, and Coach Archer didn’t want to use it. Coach Sprau didn’t want to call time to let Chester Heights set up its press, so he didn’t call time either. The ball came in quickly to Jackson, and he charged across midcourt, then backed up and held up a fist. Alex was pretty sure that was the signal for their delay game. There was no shot clock. They would need a steal, or they would have to foul.
“Patience!” he heard Coach Archer yell. “Trap under 30—under 30!”
That meant they were about to double-team every pass, going for a steal. If the clock got to ten seconds, they would foul whoever had the ball. Jackson dribbled forward, and Wilson jumped out to trap. Jackson quickly flicked the ball to Tuller. Now it was Max and Patton trying to trap. Tuller quickly found Bennett wide open inside. But with twenty seconds left, Bennett passed up the layup and flipped the ball back outside to Jackson. The clock ticked under fifteen.
Alex had an idea. It was clear to him that Bennett wasn’t going to shoot even if everyone left the gym, meaning there was no reason to even guard him. So as soon as he and Wilson started to trap Jackson again, Alex turned and—hoping he was guessing right—lunged in Tuller’s direction. Sure enough, he saw the ball reaching Tuller just as he, Max, and Patton got there. Tuller was triple-teamed. He started to pick the ball up to pass it, but Max slapped at it and got the ball cleanly. It was on the floor with at least six bodies diving at it.
Alex knew the possession arrow favored Chester. A tie-up would just give them the ball back. That wasn’t good enough. He saw the ball in front of him in the scrum and pushed at it, trying to make sure it stayed alive. Alex saw Max dive on it and he instantly screamed, “TIME-OUT!”
At the same moment that he heard the official call, “Time-out, white!” he heard Max let out a scream too. He looked and saw Max writhing on the floor, holding his right ankle with one hand, still clutching the ball with the other, but clearly in pain. He went to see what was wrong. J. J. Crowder, the trainer, was right behind him, growling, “Myers, get out of the way!”
“What happened?” J. J. asked Max.
“Someone stepped on my ankle,” Max said.
“It was me,” Gormley said, standing right behind them. “I felt it. God, Max, I’m sorry.”
Max waved him off, his face a little bit white. “Accident, don’t worry.”
Jackson and Tuller were both standing there.
“He okay?” Jackson asked.
Before Alex could answer, he heard Coach Sprau’s voice: “Jackson, Tuller, over here—now!”
They both turned and jogged to their bench.
Coach Archer was on the floor too, kneeling over Max. He looked down at him.
“I think he just rolled it,” J. J. said, still applying pressure to different spots on Max’s ankle. “He’ll be fine in a couple days, but now…” He shook his head.
“Let me try it,” Max said. “You gotta let me try.”
Taylor and Ceplair came out to help Max up. As soon as he tried to put weight on the ankle, he screamed in pain. Coach Archer put a hand gently on his shoulder. “Max, you’ve done everything you can.”
Max looked like he might cry, but there was no arguing.
The referee came over. “Coach, I’m starting the time-out clock as soon as your injured player’s off the court. You’ve got the usual sixty seconds.”
Coach Archer nodded. He turned to the bench and pointed at Zane Wakefield, who looked more scared than a deer caught in headlights.
“Zane, go for Max,” he said.
For a split second Alex thought Wakefield might try to talk Coach Archer out of it. But he nodded and reported to the scorer’s table. He came back to the huddle, still looking terrified. Coach Archer’s voice, even shouting over the noise, was completely calm.
“Okay, fellas, this is what we practice all the time, right? We’ve got nine seconds—almost exactly the same time as the King of Prussia game. We don’t have Max to make the shot, though, do we? It’s okay, though, because we’ve got a point guard who is going to do what he just did a minute ago—get in the lane and create. Alex, Jackson will be on you again because you’re the only outside shooter we’ve got in the game right now. Understand?”
Alex nodded.
“No one’s a screener on this play,” he continued. “Let Alex get in the lane, and all of you look for open space. Steve, get near the basket for a rebound. Patton, you too. Jameer, Zane, if the ball comes to you, make a quick decision. If someone’s coming at you, find one of your teammates. If not…”—he stopped for a second and then smiled—“make the shot.”
He looked around the huddle. “Any questions?”
It didn’t matter if there were any, because the horn had sounded and the referee was herding them back onto the court.
As Alex walked away, Coach Archer said, “Alex, don’t be afraid to take it yourself if it’s there.”
Alex nodded and waited for Holder to inbound to him. He caught the ball at the top of his own key and quickly came upcourt. Jackson was giving him a little space to make it tough for him to drive. Alex saw him glance over his shoulder, looking for a screener.
As he neared the top of the key, Alex hesitated, as if waiting for a screener. He saw the clock tick to five seconds and knew he had to make a move. He drove the ball straight at Jackson, who backpedaled to stay in front of him. He saw Tuller, who was guarding Wakefield, coming to double him. Holder and Gormley, both inside the key, and Wilson in the corner were all guarded.
Alex had two choices. He could go all the way to the basket, knowing he almost certainly wouldn’t get a good shot but might get fouled…or he could flick the ball to his left, where Wakefield was wide open at the three-point line left of the key. Something in the back of his mind was telling him he had to make the play himself. But there was another voice back there saying they’d never call a foul in this situation.
Just as Tuller reached him, he took one last dribble into traffic, then flicked the ball to Wakefield. For a split second it looked as if Wakefield wasn’t even going to catch the ball, but it hit him right in his hands.
“SHOOT!” Alex screamed, because he knew there couldn’t be more than a second left.
Wakefield went up to shoot, and no one from Chester even moved in his direction. Wakefield always shot the ball high, and now the ball hung in the air as if it were going to bring rain.
But then, just when he thought it would never come down, Alex saw it splash through the basket—not even touching the rim. The buzzer went off, and Alex could see Wakefield standing there, staring in disbelief at what he’d done.
They all charged Wakefield, mobbing him, while the referees went to make it official that the shot had counted. There was no doubt that it was good. Coach Sprau, Alex could see, was already walking toward Coach Archer, hand out, offering
congratulations. The Chester players were in a state of shock.
They all waited for a moment until they saw the official’s arms go up in the touchdown signal, indicating the shot had counted. Chester Heights had won the game, 81–79, and had also won the conference title. Wakefield was engulfed again.
“Max!” he screamed as they tried to pick him up on their shoulders. “Not me—Max!”
They all headed for Max, who looked absolutely terrified.
“No,” he said, laughing and crying at once. “It was Zane who saved the day—twice!”
Alex felt Wakefield push his way past him to get to Max.
“No, Max, you saved the season,” he said, throwing his arms around him, while J. J. tried to make sure his injured player didn’t lose his balance.
Alex could see that Max had tears in his eyes. So did Zane.
Then the rest of the team picked them both up on their shoulders for a victory ride around the gym.
Just as they put Max and Zane down, Alex saw Christine pushing through the crowd to reach him. So he picked her up, whirling her around in a circle, kissing her without even thinking about it. Then he thought about it and kissed her again—and she kissed him back!
Alex put her down and spotted his mom over her shoulder. She was standing arm in arm with Coach Archer, and they were both beaming with joy and pride.
His mom pointed at Christine and gave him a thumbs-up, which made him blush and grin and roll his eyes, all at the same time.
He took Christine’s hand, and they plunged back into the crowd, searching for Max and Jonas and anyone else they should hug.
This, Alex thought, is about as good as life gets.
The Sixth Man Page 23