by Todd Hafer
Other Books in the
Spirit of the Game Series
Goal-Line Stand (Book 1)
Full-Court Press (Book 2)
Second Wind (Book 3)
Stealing Home (Book 4)
Cody’s Varsity Rush (Book 5)
Split Decision (Book 7)
Ultimate Challenge (Book 8)
ZONDERVAN
Three-Point Play
Copyright ® 2005 by Todd Hafer
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of Zondervan.
ePub Edition November 2009 ISBN: 978-0-310-87059-3
Requests for information should be addressed to
Zonderkidz, Grand Rapids, Michigan 49530
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Hafer, Todd.
Three-point play / Todd Hafer. – 1st ed.
p. cm. – (Spirit of the game series; bk. 6)
Summary: During his freshman year of high school, Cody learns lessons about leadership and teamwork while playing football and basketball and while coping with his widower father's remarriage.
ISBN 0-310-70795-1 (softcover)
[1. Christian life—Fiction. 2. Football—Fiction. 3. Basketball— Fiction. 4. Leadership—Fiction. 5. Remarriage—Fiction. 6. Conduct of life—Fiction. 7. High schools—Fiction 8. Schools— Fiction.] I. Title. II. Series: Hafer, Todd. Spirit of the game series; bk. 6
PZ7.H11975Thr 2005
[Fic]--dc22
2005006501
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All Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version® (niv®). Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means— electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher.
Zonderkidz is a trademark of Zondervan.
Cover design by Alan Close
Interior design: Susan Ambs
Art direction: Laura Maitner—Mason
Photos by Synergy Photographic
Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Foreword
1. Unfinished Business
2. Haunted
3. … and Hunted
4. Postseason Blues
5. Pulled Apart
6. Night Visitors
7. Captain Cody?
8. Showdowns
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Publisher
Share Your Thoughts
To the life and memory of Tim Hanson,
a true athlete, a true friend.
Foreword
I love sports. I have always loved sports. I have competed in various sports at various levels, right through college. And today, even though my official competitive days are behind me, you can still find me on the golf course working on my game, or on a basketball court playing a game of pick-up.
Sports have also helped me learn some of life’s important lessons—lessons about humility, risk, dedication, teamwork, and friendship. Cody Martin, the central character in the Spirit of the Game series, learns these lessons too. Some of them the hard way. I think you’ll enjoy following Cody in his athletic endeavors.
Like most of us, he doesn’t win every game or every race. He’s not the best athlete in his school, not by a long shot. But he does taste victory because, as you’ll see, he comes to understand that life’s greatest victories aren’t reflected on a scoreboard. They are the times when you rely on a strength beyond your own—a spiritual strength—to carry you through. They are the times when you put the needs of someone else before your own. They are the times when sports becomes a way to celebrate the life God has given you.
So read on, and may you always possess the true Spirit of the Game.
Toby McKeehan
Chapter 1
Unfinished Business
Cody Martin smiled as he walked past the Grant High School gym. Ah, the sights and sounds of basketball practice, he thought. You gotta love’em.
He stopped momentarily at the south gym doorway and surveyed the flurry of activity: the rat-a-tat slapping of leather on hardwood as Terry Alston showed off his dribbling skills near the south baseline. The clang of Greg “the Cannon” Gannon’s high-arcing jump shots as he tried to find his range from twenty feet. The squeaking of Terrance Dylan’s shoes as he ran agility drills along the east sideline. Taking stock of it all was Coach Clayton, who had moved up from his Grant Middle School position to lead the Eagle freshmen. The loose-limbed coach prowled the near sideline sporting a brand-new blue and silver warm-up suit, offering such helpful pointers as, “For the love of Rick Barry, will you puh-leeze concentrate when you shoot free throws, Mr. Matt Slaven?”
It was 6:25 in the morning on the second Monday of November, five minutes before the first frosh basketball practice. Gannon launched an air ball and almost ran into Cody as he scrambled to retrieve it.
“Hey, Martin,” he panted. “You gonna join us this morning?”
Cody wagged his head. “Uh, Gannon, it’s still football season for me. Second round of the play-offs are this Friday, in case you haven’t heard.”
Gannon shrugged. “I know. I just thought you might put in double duty. You know, run with us in the mornings, do football in the afternoons.”
“Did a basketball hit you in the head, dude?” Cody asked with a chuckle. “I’m so sore I’m walking like Frankenstein. That’s why I’m here so early. Gonna take a whirlpool, gonna have Dutch help me with some stretching.”
“Well, I wish you guys well,” Gannon said. “But we’re gonna miss you. And Pork Chop, too. It rocks that you’re both playing varsity football as freshmen. But we’re thin without you. Especially on defense. We need some stoppers like you and the big fella. What’s Porter weighing now, anyway? About 225? We could use that beef under the boards.”
Cody turned to the locker room. “Hey, I hope we’re out here with you soon,” he said. “But not too soon.”
With an involuntary groan, Cody slowly lowered himself into the bubbling water of the stainless steel whirlpool tub in the training room. I wonder if there’s any part of me that doesn’t hurt. He considered the question for a moment. Maybe my hair. And I think my ears are okay.
As he felt his aching muscles begin to relax, he leaned his head back and replayed the highlights of the Grant Eagles’ win in the opening round of the Colorado high school football play-offs, just two days before.
Bishop Moreland was a Catholic school in the southern part of the state. Cody and his teammates had watched a video tape on them during their lunch hours leading up to the game. The Bulldogs were huge, but they looked a bit slow. Their offensive line didn’t explode off the snap the way Pork Chop and his O-line teammates did.
On the other hand, Moreland had a 230-pound fullback named Michaels who played like a human battering ram. If that guy breaks through the line and into the secondary, Cody thought with a shudder the first time he saw Michaels on tape, I don’t know how I’m supposed to bring him down. He weighs twice as much as I do!
&nbs
p; Fortunately for Cody, when game day arrived the Eagles stacked their defense against the run, putting five players on the line with three linebackers playing tight behind them. That meant only three defensive backs, making Cody the odd DB out. He entered the game on likely passing downs, but even in these situations, the Bulldogs favored sending Michaels into the teeth of the Grant defense.
Watching most of the first half from the sidelines, Cody couldn’t understand the strategy. The middle of the Grant line was occupied by Gordon “ATV” Daniels, a 210-pound tank who bench-pressed 340 pounds and owned legs like tree trunks.
Playing right behind ATV was Brendan Clark, among the state’s best middle linebackers. He was a fierce hitter, and Cody felt himself cringing every time Clark collided with Michaels. The big fullback had more than thirty pounds on Clark, but more often than not, the latter stopped him cold.
The first half ended with the Eagles up 7–0. ATV, who was an even better fullback than a D-lineman, rumbled up the middle for a thirty-eight-yard touchdown run late in the second quarter to give the home team the edge.
After cups of Gatorade had been guzzled and a few ankles re-taped, Coach Martin Morgan gathered the team around him in the locker room. “You’ve seen the tapes,” he said evenly. “You know what they’re gonna do—keep blasting Michaels up the middle, hoping to wear us down physically and mentally. Most teams can’t stop that big bruiser for a whole game. But you’re not most teams. You keep plugging up the middle, and they’re gonna get desperate. And that’s when we slam the door on’em.”
ATV stood and began slamming the door of a locker behind him. Such was his power that Cody feared the door would fly off its hinges.
“Slam the door!” ATV bellowed after each effort. “Slam! Slam! Slam! Game over!”
Cody saw Coach Morgan catch the eye of Coach Curtis, one of his assistants. The latter flashed a quick smile and wagged his head admiringly. Since joining the varsity earlier in the season, Cody had found himself understanding football better and better each week. He had come to appreciate that motivating players was a huge part of a coach’s job. That must be why the coaches love a guy like ATV, he thought. I’m pretty sure he was born motivated!
Neither team was able to generate much offense in the third quarter. Bryce Phillips, the Eagles’ best wideout, picked up fifteen yards on an end-around, but as he struggled to churn out a few extra yards, he fumbled near midfield, halting Grant’s only promising drive of the quarter.
The Bulldogs took over and, for the first time in the game, sent in two wideouts. “Okay,” Coach Curtis barked. “Standard defense in—now! Two safeties, two corners!”
Cody swallowed hard as he buckled his chin strap and slid in his teeth guard.
He lined up at cornerback against number 84, a lanky wide receiver on the weak side (opposite the tight end) of the Bulldog line. As the center hiked the ball, the receiver charged at Cody, growling and snarling like an angry beast.
Cody held his ground, sending 84 a telepathic message: All that noise might have worked against me early in the season, dude. But since then I’ve been growled at, screamed at, cussed at, and threatened by all kinds of guys bigger than me. So you’re gonna have to bring something more than noise.
Cody raised his arms and chucked 84 hard across the shoulder pads, then stepped inside him as he saw Michaels slide off-tackle and rumble upfield. Clark leaped on Michaels’ back, swiping at the football, which the Bulldog runner held tucked in his right arm.
Oh, boy, Cody thought, as he saw the play develop, here goes. This is gonna be like throwing myself under a truck or something.
He angled in on Michaels, who was moving pretty well for a guy toting a fierce middle linebacker on his back. Cody dipped his left shoulder, getting as low as he could.
He held his breath as he sensed that the thrashing bulk of humanity was about to stumble over the top of him. Please don’t let Michaels step on me, he prayed fervently, eyes closed tight.
Less than a second later, the impact came. He felt a sharp thwack as his left shoulder pad drove into something. Either a fence post or Michaels’ shinbone, Cody reasoned. The force of the blow threatened to drive his shoulder blade down into his rib cage, but then the pressure and pain disappeared as quickly as they had come. There was the sound of a mini buffalo stampede rumbling over him, then a desperate groan erupting deep from within the chest of either Michaels or Clark.
Lying flat on his stomach, Cody turned to see Michaels falling, Clark still on his back and still chopping desperately at the ball. The duo hit the turf with a thud.
Clark quickly scrambled to his feet and head-butted Cody so hard that he thought his helmet might fly from his head. “That’s the way to get low, Martin!” the linebacker roared. “That’s the way to have my back!”
Cody tried to reign in his smile for a moment, then gave up. “That was cool—an assist on the tackle,” he whispered to himself. “And I’m still alive! I can’t believe it!”
Bishop Moreland picked up twelve yards on the play, so Cody wasn’t surprised when they ran it once more. This time, 84, growling and snarling again, tried to block him high across the shoulder pads. Cody ducked under the block. ATV had snagged Michaels by an ankle, but the fullback, with a Neanderthal grunt, pulled free. Still, he was slowed enough for Clark to get to him, grabbing him around the waist this time.
Michaels charged forward, trying to fling Clark off of him. As Cody closed in, it looked like the fullback might be successful. Clark seemed to be losing his grip.
In desperation, Clark clawed at the ball as he began to slide off of Michaels. Cody saw Michaels counter the effort, switching the ball from his right arm to his left.
Cody reacted instinctively. He knew it was instinct, because logic would have told him to run to the sidelines right away to avoid being trampled again. (Then turn in his football uniform, grab a clarinet, and join the marching band.) He saw the ball, moving in what seemed like slow motion. He swiped at it with both hands, bringing his arms down with all the force he could summon.
Just before Michaels hit him flush in the chest, Cody saw the ball tumble to the ground.
Cody lay stunned, staring up at a near-cloudless sky. Okay, he thought, my breathing can resume any day now—
This was football’s scariest moment. On your back, afraid to move. Afraid of lifting an arm or leg and feeling that sharp dagger of pain that meant a serious injury. Or struggling to stand, putting weight on one leg, then feeling an ankle or knee crumple like it was made of foam rubber.
Cody blinked as he saw someone standing over him. For a second, he thought it might be an angel, but then he realized that angels didn’t wear eye-black— and, most likely, didn’t sport two days’ worth of razor stubble. Clark extended an arm. “You okay, Code?”
“That’s a good question,” Cody gasped. “Hey, how’s Michaels? I didn’t hurt him, did I?”
“Ha!” bellowed ATV, who had joined Clark. “You’re something else, little man.” He extended an arm too.
Tentatively, Cody lifted an arm toward each teammate. He marveled at the ease with which they pulled him to his feet.
“Everything intact, dude?” ATV asked.
Cody shifted his weight to his left foot, then his right. Then he rotated his head in a slow, clockwise circle. “Yeah,” he said, noting the genuine surprise in his voice. “I think I’m okay.”
He saw Dutch and Coach Curtis jogging toward him. He waved the trainer and coach off, then gave a double thumbs-up.
He turned to Clark. “You think they’ll run off-tackle this next play?” he asked sarcastically.
Clark smiled cryptically. “Not this next play, that’s for sure.”
Cody cocked his head. “What makes you so certain?”
Clark gestured to the scoreboard, which now read Grant—13, Visitor—0. “Berringer was all over the fumble you forced, my man. He was in the end zone before any of the Moreland guys figured out what happened. You mighta just made the play o
f the game! Now, get off the field so we can boot the extra point.”
As the game clock ticked down to 3:58, the Bulldogs’ sense of desperation grew. They couldn’t afford to send Michaels up the middle any more, as it would burn too much time off the clock, so they tried to scoot him around the ends so that he could run out of bounds and stop the clock. But Grant’s pursuit was too good. And Michaels was strictly a north-and-south runner. He couldn’t build up that frightening momentum while running laterally, and Clark bulldozed him on play after play.
On the Bulldogs’ second-to-last possession of the game, number 84 (whom Cody had nicknamed Wolfman) beat him on a slant pattern. But Berringer, who was playing deep safety twenty yards from the line of scrimmage, came up to knock Wolfman’s stilt-like legs out from under him.
The Bishop Moreland drive stalled at midfield with less than two minutes left in the game. Rather than go for a desperation fourth-down toss into the end zone, the Bulldogs punted, pinning the Eagles deep in their own territory, at the twelve.
Three straight running plays netted only eight yards for Grant—but forced the Bulldogs to relinquish all their time-outs.
A booming punt from ATV sailed over the head of the Bulldog return man and bounced and rolled all the way to the Bishop Moreland thirty. By the time the returner tracked down the ball, the Eagle pursuit was on him. Led by Clark, they held a team meeting on his body.
Wolfman beat Cody on a fade route on first down, moving his team to midfield. On second down, Moreland set Wolfman over the middle. Cody felt panic splash over him as he squared himself to put a hit on his much larger opponent. Great, he thought, they’re picking on me. That’s great—go after the littlest guy on the field, why don’t you?
Cody was giving Wolfman plenty of cushion. He saw the ball streaking toward the receiver. He hoped he could time his hit so that he wouldn’t be whistled for pass interference.