Break for the Basket

by Matt Christopher

Penguins — 23, Eskimos — 20.

  Emmett ran back hard to find his man and cover him. His mind screamed at him, Forget the people. Forget mistakes. Forget fouls. Robin Hood won’t get sore. Nor will Mickey, nor Glenn, nor Rusty, nor the guys on the bench.

  He played on, thinking a lot about Mr. G. and what Mr. G. had said. He owed it all to Mr. G.

  They beat the Eskimos, 28 to 24. Emmett had scored 7 points.

  The next Saturday they trounced the Seals, 36 to 27. Robin racked up 11 points, Emmett 8.

  “You’ve come a long way, Emmett,” Mr. G. smiled. “I knew you could ’do it, once you dropped that bugaboo.”

  “You could do it, too. Just like me, Mr. G.,” said Emmett.

  Mr. G.’s mouth sagged a little. “Do what, Emmett?”

  “Paint the best pictures in the world. What are you painting now, Mr. G.?”

  Sadness paled Mr. G.’s blue eyes. “Nothing, Emmett. This time I’ve really given it up. I’ve given it up entirely.”

  Something happened to Emmett’s playing the next Saturday. The Penguins played the Icebergs. Emmett started, but his passing was poor, and he was called twice on traveling. His breaks were not fast enough. His layups were hitting the rim and bouncing off.

  Ed Long took him out and asked him if something was troubling him. Mr. G. asked him, too, but Emmett said that probably it was just an off day for him.

  He was out a full quarter. In the second half he started again, but it was a repetition of the first quarter. In spite of Emmett, though, the Penguins kept the score pretty even with the Icebergs. It was not until the final seconds that the Bergs went ahead, 31 to 30, drawing a screaming yell from the fans.

  Emmett saw that it was less than a minute to go. He bounced the ball out from behind the baseline to Rusty. Rusty passed it forward to Robin. Robin dribbled across the center line to the keyhole, pivoted, and passed to Emmett. Emmett knew that there were only seconds to go, now. He drove in. A hand whacked him across the wrist as he shot. The whistle shrilled.

  A personal foul. Two shots.

  The shot hadn’t gone in, or the game would have been practically in the Penguins’ hands.

  The men lined up along the free-throw lane. The referee handed Emmett the ball.

  Emmett took a deep breath. He dropped the ball once, caught it, aimed for the basket, and shot, pushing the ball with one hand. The ball struck the rim and bounced off.

  “Come on, Em,” whispered Robin. “Make this one. Tie it up!”

  Emmett knew this was it. If he missed, the game would be over, and the Icebergs would be the winners.

  He readied himself, aimed, and threw. The ball hit the backboard, then the rim, and bounced off! Two seconds later the game was over. The Icebergs won.

  By the time the boys had showered and dressed, Ed Long and Mr. G. were gone. Emmett walked home with the team, sick with the feeling that he could have won the game during those last few seconds. He had certainly played a perfectly lousy game, he told himself.

  They started past the Fenway Museum of Art. A large sign on the lawn next to the sidewalk that led up the steps of the building attracted Emmett’s attention.

  FIFTH REGIONAL ART EXHIBITION

  NOW OPEN

  PRIZES AWARDED FOR

  DISTINGUISHED WORKS IN

  PAINTING, SCULPTURE, AND

  CRAFTS

  ENTER NOW

  CONTEST CLOSES MARCH 10

  “I wonder,” thought Emmett, “I wonder if Mr. G. would be interested in that?”

  14

  A NON-LEAGUE GAME with the Fireballs on Tuesday evening was played with only five men. Johnny Clark was home with a bad cold. Wayne Reese couldn’t make it because he had two book reports to write for English.

  When the game was three minutes old, Emmett wished he had homework to do, too. He missed two layups, and let a Fireball player steal the ball from him.

  Robin Hood and Mickey were the only ones playing good ball. Robin sank in two and Mickey one, plus both tries of a personal foul, when the first quarter ended.

  Penguins 8, Fireballs 3.

  “Nice going, boys,” said Ed Long. “Keep it up.”

  He didn’t get off the bench. He just sat there, his elbows on his knees, his arms crossed. He spoke as if he felt he had to. Emmett liked Mr. Long, but Mr. Long definitely was no coach.

  “Where’s Mr. G.?” asked Robin. “Isn’t he going to come any more?”

  Emmett shrugged. “I don’t know. I talked to him Sunday. He said he might come. He wasn’t sure.”

  He had told Mr. G. about the big sign in front of the Fenway Museum of Art building. But Mr. G. hadn’t seemed impressed.

  “He’s a funny character,” said Mickey, smiling. “But I like him.”

  “And he knows basketball,” said Robin Hood.

  The second quarter was no better for Emmett. He was called on traveling, and twice fouled his man. The few fans who were there yelled at him. “Who’s that doozy? Send In back to the hills!”

  The Fireballs crept slowly forward. Their set shots began to hit. Their passes began to work. They moved ahead of the Penguins like a slow-moving bulldozer. Emmett wished something would happen to him so that he’d have an excuse to get out of the game. That terrible old feeling haunted him again. He was thinking about the fans yelling at him. Their voices were like gunshots blasting in his ears. He worried that Mickey, Robin Hood, and the others would get sore at him and ask him to quit the team. He didn’t care how far behind the Penguins were. He only wished this terrible game was over.

  Finally it was over. Emmett was exhausted. That night he had a horrible dream about basketball. He couldn’t hit no matter how often he tried, and everybody was poking a finger at him and laughing as hard as he could. It was the worst dream Emmett had had in a long time.

  Emmett was glad that the whole team was present that Saturday morning when they played the Kodiaks. He watched the first quarter from the bench. He started the second, substituting for Johnny Clark. He played the whole quarter and didn’t take a shot. He only passed, and never kept the ball very long.

  At one time he was open and Robin yelled for him to shoot. Emmett took a set shot and missed. He didn’t run in for the rebound the way he should have. He just stood there like a wax figure.

  “Come on, Em! Wake up!” cried Robin Hood. “What’s happened to you?”

  Emmett didn’t say anything. He played only two minutes of the last quarter. The Kodiaks won, 30 to 25.

  “I knew I’d feel this way again!” Emmett cried to himself— “I knew it!”

  15

  THE NEXT SATURDAY a warm, welcome face was among those behind the Penguins’ bench. Bright red hair was brushed back like the brisk comb of a bantam rooster.

  “Mr. G.!” exclaimed Emmett, as he ran out onto the court with the team. “It’s Mr. G.!”

  A grin sparkled Mr. G.’s face. Emmett and the boys ran over to him. “Boy! Am I glad to see you!”

  “So are we!” said Robin Hood. “Where have you been?”

  Mr. G. laughed. “I read about your recent losses in the paper,” he said. “I felt you might need some immediate assistance.”

  “I guess we do!” replied Robin Hood. “This is our last league game. We have to win to get in the playoffs!”

  “Jumping jack rabbits!” exclaimed Mr. G. “I guess we do!”

  The game was against the Polar Bears, who were holding tight on to second place in the Ice Cap League. Emmett didn’t go in until the game was three minutes old. He replaced Glenn. He took a pass from Mickey, dribbled downcourt, pivoted, shot a quick overhand pass to Rusty. Rusty made a fast break for the basket, leaped, and laid one in. Two points!

  The Polar Bears took out the ball and moved it upcourt. They passed back and forth, looking for an opening to drive. Then a man took a set shot, but missed. Rusty and Robin went up for the rebound with two of the Bears’ men. Rusty came down with it, an opponent’s hand clamped on the ball. The whistle shrilled.


  Jump ball.

  A Bears’ man took the tap. He dribbled away. Emmett ran up beside him and stole the ball from him! Emmett passed to Mickey and raced down the court. Mickey threw a long one back to him. Emmett leaped, pushing the ball against the boards. Two points!

  “Yay!” screamed Robin Hood. “We’re rolling now!”

  And roll they did. Emmett stayed in for the rest of the game. They came out on top, 36 to 27.

  “I guess you’ll have to come to all of our games, Mr. G.,” said Ed Long.

  “You gave us luck,” added Rusty. “You helped put us in the play-offs.”

  Mr. G. smiled. He stood beside Emmett and put an arm over Emmett’s shoulders. “Not luck,” he said. “Maybe inspiration, but not luck. I’m here to help this boy, too. You saw this morning what he can do. I want to make sure he can do it other times, too, when I’m not here. You fellows can. You’ve been used to it. Not Emmett. Emmett’s been born with a sad case of shyness. Maybe you don’t know what it is. But I do. It isn’t fun being shy. However, he’s getting over it. Aren’t you, Emmett?”

  “I — I guess so,” said Emmett.

  Mr. G. and Emmett walked home together. “Got some news for you, Emmett, my friend,” said Mr. G. “I’m going home.”

  “Home?” Emmett stared. “Do you mean back home to New York? Why, Mr. G.?”

  “My folks gave me money to come here and learn to be a painter. Well, I’ve failed. I can’t take any more of their money, Emmett. I’m going back home, and find a job doing something.”

  Emmett’s eyes ached. “I wish you wouldn’t go, Mr. G. You really don’t have to, do you?”

  “No, I don’t. I’ve met some nice friends. Especially young ones, like you. But I should.”

  Emmett began thinking hard. After a long while he said, “Mr. G., will you do something for me, first? Will you paint a picture of me?”

  “Of you?” Mr. G.’s eyes widened in amazement, and then his lips parted in a friendly grin. “Well, bless my soul, Emmett! Bless my very soul!”

  “Will you?” Emmett asked again.

  “Well —” Mr. G. paused. He thought deeply. Then he said, “All right. You’re my best. friend. For you I’ll paint a picture. I’ll paint the very best picture I can.”

  He started that afternoon, painting Emmett’s picture while Emmett sat on a chair in front of him. He continued painting the next day and the next. Each day, after school, Emmett sat in front of Mr. G. for half an hour. By the end of the week the painting was completed.

  “Now you may look at it,” smiled Mr. G., for he hadn’t let Emmett look at the painting while he’d been working.

  Emmett’s heart sang with pride. He looked at the picture. What a surprise! Mr. G. had painted him shooting a basket! He was in his Penguins’ uniform, leaping up, the ball just leaving his hands. In the background were blurred faces of other players and fans.

  “I was just sitting here,” murmured Emmett breathlessly. “How could you paint me doing this?”

  Mr. G. smiled. “Do you like it? Are you satisfied?”

  “I love it, Mr. G.! Thank you!”

  Emmett held the precious painting against him as he carried it home. He showed it to his Mom and Dad. They gazed at it fascinated, as if it were a work of wonder. It truly was an excellent painting.

  “Can we get it framed?” Emmett asked.

  “We’ll get the best,” Dad said softly.

  Emmett took the painting to his room, sat on the edge of his bed and stared long and thoughtfully at the wall. He wasn’t thinking where he’d hang the lovely painting. He was thinking about something else.

  16

  THE TEAMS in the Ice Cap League, Class D Division, finished the season as follows:

  KODIAKS

  ICEBERGS

  POLAR BEARS

  PENGUINS

  ESKIMOS

  SEALS

  The Kodiaks and the Polar Bears tangled Saturday A.M. at ten o’clock. The Kodiaks won. They would play the winner of the second game, Icebergs versus Penguins, which started at eleven o’clock. The winner of that game would be the champions of the Class D Division.

  Emmett was in the starting lineup. While the captains of both teams discussed the court rules with the two referees, Emmett took a final look at the bench. Still no Mr. G. But he saw his Mom and Dad, and Charlene and Georgianne. He caught his Dad’s smile, and flashed a quick one back.

  The horn blew. The game was on. Rusty outjumped the Icebergs’ willowy center, tapping the ball to Robin. Robin moved it upcourt and passed to Mickey, who shot a quick pass to Emmett. Emmett pivoted, leaped as if to throw an overhand shot, but fired to Rusty. Rusty drove in and laid the ball neatly against the backboard. Swish! A bucket!

  Icebergs’ ball out. They moved it to their backcourt. Emmett rushed in, intercepted a short pass, dribbled out of danger. He took it across the center line, then bounce-passed to Mickey. Mickey passed to Rusty near the baseline. Rusty took a set, flipping the ball with a graceful wrist motion. The ball hit the rim and bounded off. Rusty and Robin went in for the rebound. The Bergs got it. They moved it back into their territory. Seconds later the Bergs’ No. 2 took a set and sank it.

  “Come on, men!” cried Emmett. “Let’s go!”

  They began to drive, led by Emmett’s spark. Rusty dumped in a long set, Emmett a layup. Mickey’s fancy, close-to-the-floor dribbling had the Icebergs baffled. The quarter ended with the Penguins leading, 8 to 4.

  “I’m going to remember what Mr. G. has told me,” Emmett promised himself. “I can’t be afraid. I’ll just play hard, and play the best I can.”

  The Icebergs crept up slightly in the second quarter. In the third the Penguins rolled again. Ed Long put Johnny Clark in Mickey’s place. Johnny fouled a man almost immediately. The Icebergs’ player tossed in both free throws. A minute later Johnny made up for his foul, sinking a long shot that drew loud applause from the fans.

  The fourth quarter was even scoring for both teams. The Penguins put the game into their pocket, 32 to 26.

  “Now for the Kodiaks!” cried Robin Hood, as they ran to the shower room. “We can take them.”

  “They’re tough,” said Rusty. “Toughest in the league. The last time we played them we beat them by only one point. And they have improved.”

  “The tougher they are, the harder they fall,” quoted Robin Hood. “Besides, we have improved, too.”

  A heavy snowfall kept Emmett home all that next week, except for attending school. All that time he wondered about Mr. G. He hadn’t seen Mr. G. since the little redhead had painted Emmett’s picture.

  The game with the Kodiaks rolled around quickly. Both teams looked strong and eager for the win as they came out on the court in their flashy uniforms, the Kodiaks in their red shirts and white trunks, the Penguins in their black satin suits.

  The jump ball. The horn. The game was on. The Kodiaks took possession of the ball immediately. Seconds later they dumped in a basket. Penguins’ ball. They moved it downcourt. A layup missed for Rusty. The Kodiaks took the ball off the boards and rolled back upcourt — a pass, a short dribble, a pivot, then a shot. Swish! Another bucket.

  Robin called time. He talked to his men. “Stop that Number 13,” he said. “He’s dead-eye!”

  Time in. The Penguins moved cautiously now. Rusty passed to Robin, Robin to Emmett. A quick overhand to Rusty as the tall center ran for the basket. Rusty caught the ball and leaped. A layup!

  That broke the spell. Both teams continued playing good ball, sinking baskets that drew applause after applause from the crowd. The score on the electric scoreboard teetered back and forth like a seesaw, first in the Kodiaks’ favor, then in the Penguins’.

  The quarters blinked off, one by one. Finally, a minute was left in the last quarter, with the Penguins leading, 39 to 38.

  Kodiaks’ ball. They passed upcourt. Emmett followed the ball closely. Then, like a quick, silent cat, he moved in and stole the ball!

  He dribbled toward the ce
nter line. The Kodiaks came after him. He continued to dribble, matching Mickey, who was good at dribbling, too. He moved to the right, left, then right again — always keeping himself between the ball and an opponent.

  “Get that ball! Get it before the clock runs out!” he heard a Kodiak man shout.

  But they didn’t get it. The horn blew, announcing the end of the game. The Penguins were the champs.

  On his way home from the game with his family, Emmet stopped at Mr. G.’s apartment and knocked on the door. No answer.

  A window slid open above his head.

  “Is that you, Emmett?” said Mrs. Maxwell. “No use knocking. He hasn’t been here in a week. Wish he’d stop in for a minute. Got a letter for him.”

  “A letter?” echoed Emmett.

  “Yes. Just hold on a second.” Mrs. Maxwell left. She soon returned with a letter and handed it to Emmett. “Don’t think it’s important. Looks like one of those advertisements. Take it. Maybe you’ll see him before I do.”

  Emmett looked the letter over. It had a local postmark. In the upper lefthand corner was the name and address of the Fenway Museum of Art.

  17

  “I MUST FIND MR. G.,” said Emmett. “I must!”

  But where could he look? Who knew where Mr. G. had gone? Perhaps he had gone back to New York. Emmett didn’t want to believe that. Mr. G. wouldn’t possibly go away permanently without saying goodbye to his best friend, would he? An idea flashed through Emmett’s mind. The Sunset Spa. Mary Lee could tell him if Mr. G. had been in there recently.

  Mary Lee recognized Emmett the moment he stood at the ice cream bar. “Hi! All alone today?”

  Emmett smiled. “I am right -now,” he said. “You remember Mr. G., don’t you?”

  “Mr. G.?” Her cheeks dimpled. “Yes, I do. Matter of fact, if you’re looking for him, you might still catch him. He left here less than five minutes ago.”

  Emmett’s brows shot up. “He did? Where did he go? Did he say?”

  “He said he was on his way home. But first, he wanted to stop at the museum.”