by Todd Hafer
Cody was unable to finish his thought, as Miller, rumbling across the lane, slammed into him. Falling backward, Cody tried to compensate for the contact and lofted a looping right-handed scoop shot toward the hoop.
From a seated position on the floor, he watched the ball circle the rim once—then curl out.
“Good hard foul!” Macy said, slapping Miller across the rump. “So much for their three-point play.”
Goddard grabbed Cody by the wrist and pulled him to his feet. “Almost, man. Almost,” he said.
Cody studied the clock. Four seconds remained. “It’s not over, G.” he said. “Keep your head in the game.”
“Two shots, gentlemen,” Cody heard the referee say as he positioned himself at the line. “Relax on the first one.”
Relax? Cody marveled. Easy for you to say.
He planted his feet at shoulder width. He eyed the rim and made sure his right elbow was straight. With a flick of the wrist, the ball left his hand. Okay, there’s one point, he said to himself as the ball snapped through the net. Now, do I tie it, or do we go for the win—tell Central it’s time to start the bus?
He stole a quick glance at Coach Clayton, who brought his forefinger up and touched his nose. The signal to leave his second shot short. Cody followed the exact routine of his first shot. However, he stopped his follow-through at its midpoint, rather than letting his hand “follow” the ball toward the basket.
The ball caromed off the front of the rim. Cody saw Macy dart in front of him to block his path to the basket, but Macy was a moment too late. Cody swiveled his hips and curled in front of Macy. He leaped and extended his arms. The ball drifted slightly to the left, so, with his left hand, he nudged it softly back toward the rim.
The follow-up shot dropped through cleanly.
Come on, buzzer! Cody thought.
Instead, he heard a whistle. Macy had turned to the nearest official and signaled a time-out—with two seconds left.
As Cody ran toward Coach Clayton, he felt hands clapping him across the back. “Sweet follow, Code!” he heard someone say. He whipped around and stared down his smiling teammates. “Gotta wipe those grins off, fellas,” he scolded. “This isn’t over.”
“Fall back! Fall back on defense!” Brett Evans exhorted the team as they approached the bench. “Don’t foul, whatever you do, and we can finally win one!”
Coach Clayton looked at Cody. “Well, captain, do you agree with Brett?”
Cody thought for a moment. “Nah, Coach. Not this time. We gotta pressure the inbounds pass. Lang, you stick on Macy like gum. Goddard, you lay off Tucker a little bit. I’ll get right up in Miller’s grill when he tries to inbound. When he sees Macy’s locked up, he’ll go to Tucker. Then, G, you get to the ball before Tucker does.”
Goddard looked like he was trying to swallow a jumbo egg, shell and all. “But I don’t know if I’m fast enough,” he said.
Cody shook his head violently. “No. You get fast enough.”
Coach Clayton looked at Cody and smiled. “Well,” he said, “you heard your captain.”
Cody stood in front of Miller, hopping up and down and extending his arms over his head. However, he shaded just to the big center’s right, on the same side of the court where Macy was going through a series of stop-and-go moves trying to shake free of Lang. On the left side of the court, Goddard stood about ten feet from Tucker, looking away from him. Cody saw panic in Miller’s eyes as he looked in Macy’s direction. Cody scooted even farther to Miller’s right. “Five seconds!” he called, reminding Miller that he needed to inbound the ball—immediately.
Desperate, Miller rotated his torso and snapped a hard chest pass to Tucker. Goddard took two bounding steps, then dove.
He snagged the ball with his right hand, bouncing it once on the hardwood, and, somehow, maintained his dribble even as he belly flopped on the floor.
With the buzzer ringing in his ears, Cody sprinted to Goddard.
“Hey, G,” he said tugging his teammate to his feet, “nice catch!”
“I still don’t know about my speed,” Goddard said, struggling to regain his breath.
“Sometimes, want to is better than speed,” Cody observed.
Pork Chop was on the court even before Coach Clayton and Cody’s teammates jumped up from the bench. “That was good,” he said, beaming, “that was stupid-good! Man, I wish we were playing together!”
As soon as those words were out, Cody saw the joy leave his friend’s eyes. They stood silent for a moment, and Cody sensed they both knew Pork Chop’s wish transcended just the current hoops season.
“Whatever happens,” Cody said, his voice ragged, “we’ll always be teammates. If not in sports, in life.”
Epilogue
Cody finished his Sunday-morning devotions by reading Isaiah 41:10: “Do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God.”
He closed his Bible, using Robyn’s poem as a bookmark.
He heard his dad and Beth laughing and talking downstairs. Sometimes he would wake to this sound and think his mom was alive. When reality hit, it was bittersweet. The sweet was that his dad was finally happy again. The bitter—well, I don’t even want to think about that, he reminded himself.
Cody squirmed in the pew as Pastor Taylor began his closing illustration. Uh-oh, he thought. This is gonna be rough.
He had heard the story before, during Pastor Taylor’s Easter service a year or two ago. It had made him cry then—and he hadn’t had nearly as much to cry over as he did now. He feared a repeat meltdown, and there was no easy exit to the restroom.
He was trapped. In the middle of a pew. Sandwiched between his dad and Beth on one side and burly Mr. Porter on the other.
“The fire was out of control,” Pastor Taylor was saying. “It was too hot for the father to run back into the house. And the sound of the sirens was far away. The fire trucks wouldn’t get there in time.
“So the father stood under the second-story window, pleading with his five-year-old son: “Please, Michael, you have to jump. Just jump. I’ll catch you.”
Cody swallowed hard. He knew what was coming next.
“Michael, framed by the open window, looked down toward his father’s voice. But he couldn’t see him for all the smoke. ‘But, Daddy,’ he cried. ‘Where are you? I can’t see you! I can’t see you!’
“Michael’s father, battling back tears, looked up at his son. ‘I know Michael,’ he said, his voice strong and clear. ‘But I can see you. And I will catch you. I promise.’”
Cody looked to his left. Beth was sniffling, swirling her hand about inside her purse. Fishing for a tissue, no doubt.
Cody closed his eyes tightly. As long as my eyes are closed, he told himself, no tears can leak out. So keep’em closed, Martin. Keep’em closed tight.
He heard Pastor Taylor clear his throat. His voice took on the trembling, slightly wounded quality it always did at moments like this. “Some of you are just like the little boy Michael,” he said. “Life has driven you to the edge. The flames are at your back. Smoke surrounds you. You can barely breathe. You long to jump into the safety of God’s loving arms, but you can’t see him. You’re blinded. By pain. By confusion. By uncertainty. By loss. But God sees you.”
The pastor paused for a moment. “He sees you, Blake Randall. He sees you, Councilwoman Reynolds. He sees you, dear Mr. Sanders. He sees you, Cody Martin.”
Cody felt tears slipping from his eyes. He felt one arm around his shoulders, then another. He heard the pew in back of him groan slightly as someone leaned forward and patted the back of his head.
The tears were coming faster now, but Cody ceased caring about them—or trying to stop them. Each one that trickled down his face seemed to take some of the pain with it. The pain of Chop moving away. Of his dad remarrying. Of the gash in his heart left by his mom’s death.
Cody opened his eyes when he heard the music. Pastor Taylor had relinquished the podium to the small contemporary worship
band. Cody felt himself smile slightly as he recognized the song. This is a good one, he thought, as he stood. dc Talk. Old school.
He felt a small hand light on his left shoulder and give it a soft squeeze. He looked behind him to see Jill Keller smiling at him. He nodded at her and turned his attention to the band again. “I took a dive,” they sang. “I took a love plunge into your arms—”
Okay, God, he prayed. I got the message. All this stuff I’m dealing with, the pressure, the uncertainty, the pain—I’m giving it all to you. I just can’t stand up to all of it on my own anymore. You’re my only hope.
Cody felt his body growing weak, as if his leg bones were turning to rubber. He listed to his left, leaning against his dad. His father was lean, probably not weighing more than Cody, but his body felt like a tree, firmly rooted. On his right, he felt Mr. Porter wrap one of his bridge-cable arms around his shoulder. Leah Taylor, the pastor’s wife, turned around in the pew ahead and took both of Cody’s hands in hers. “We got ya, Cody,” she whispered.
Cody, realizing now that he was standing with a strength not his own, thought back to all the times his mom had told him, “My one and only son, we have an awesome privilege: We get to be God’s hands and feet. We can do work for those who aren’t able to. We can bring the touch of kindness and compassion. And when someone falls, God can use us to catch them.”
Cody had understood those words. Now he was feeling them. Living them. He looked up to the church rafters. “Hey, God,” he whispered. “Nice catch.”
Acknowledgments
Big, shiny MVP awards to the following people:
Bruce, Robin, Kristen, and everyone at Zonderkidz for believing in this series.
The Mill Valley High School football and basketball teams for reminding this has-been ex-jock how the games are played in the twenty-first century.
My YMCA League teams—the Super Saiyans, the Legend, the Vikings, and the Dragons—for the privilege of coaching you and for the many lessons you have taught me about sportsmanship and courage.
Barbara Scott for your strong, early support of Cody and his story. There wouldn’t be a book, and certainly not a whole series, if not for you.
Toby Mac for penning the foreword to this series. You captured The Spirit of the Game perfectly.
Jami Hafer for the poem, “For a Friend.”
Dave Dravecky for the athletic expertise and the spiritual wisdom you have shared with me through conversation and the fine books you have written.
Tim Hanson for being my teammate, and more importantly, my friend through so many seasons of sports and of life. Even though we weren’t able to coauthor this series as I had hoped, your mark is on every book. And every life that this series touches, every accomplishment it inspires, I share with you.
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