Full Court Press (6 page)

Cody didn't know his coach's religious affiliation, but on this afternoon he would prove to be a major prophet.

Chapter 5
Laying It
on the
Line

N
ear the end of a fiercely competitive championship battle, Cody watched the leather sphere teeter on the edge of the front rim.

“Come to me, ball,” he whispered.

As if on command, the ball dripped off the iron. Cody blasted off from the hardwood like a 120-pound rocket. To his left, he saw Macy rising with him. That could be trouble. Macy was five foot nine, three inches taller. And he had decent hops.

Cody willed his body to go higher. He stretched his arms and extended his fingers. The ball settled onto his fingertips.

As soon as Cody touched down, he made eye contact with the referee under the basket. He knew there had to be less than five seconds on the clock. The Raiders needed a time-out. He was about to make a “T” with his hands when Macy landed—right on top of him. Cody's head erupted in sparks of pain.

Cody blinked and watched the world slowly come into focus. He realized he was lying in the middle of the free throw lane, looking up into Coach Clayton's red, watery eyes.

“You okay, Cody? I think you were knocked colder than my ex-mother-in-law's heart.”

Cody touched the top of his head gingerly. He winced as he felt an egg-size lump. He tried to arrange his words before he spoke.

“I think I'm okay, Coach. My head hurts, but I'm all right, I guess. Hey—did I draw the foul?”

The corners of Coach Clayton's mouth curved upward. “Yes, you drew the foul.”

“All right! So, I make two free throws, and it's game over?”

“That's how it works, Cody. Two from the charity stripe, and we're Grant Hoops Classic champs. Are you okay to shoot?”

“Yeah, I guess so. But, Coach?”

“Yes?”

“It's true what they say about seeing stars.”

Coach Clayton smiled again. “Right now I just need you to see yourself hitting two from the line.”

Coach Clayton extended his hand and pulled Cody to his feet. The partisan crowd clapped enthusiastically. Macy came over and leaned his head close to Cody's. To the packed Grant Middle School gym, it looked like a show of sportsmanship.

“I think your rock head cracked my elbow, Martin.” Macy sneered.

Cody tried to muster a confident laugh. “I think it's the other way around.”

“Sure hope the pain doesn't affect your concentration—or your aim. It would be a shame to choke in front of your home crowd and cost your team the championship. Think about that when you toe the line.”

Cody thought of several responses, none of which would please Blake or his dad, who were sitting behind the Raider bench. So he settled for a blank stare.

Macy gave Cody a fraternal pat on the back and took his place along the perimeter of the free throw lane.

Cody stood at the line. The scoreboard read Grant—47, Guest—48. Only three seconds remained on the clock.

“Okay, gentlemen,” the squatty referee said. “We're not in the bonus, so it's one and one. Play the miss.”

“That's right,” Cody heard Macy hiss. “The miss-s-s-s!”

Cody felt his knees turning to oatmeal. The ball felt heavy and foreign in his hands.

This stinks!
he thought.
Is this ball regulation size? It feels too big. I don't even know if I can get it to the rim. Aw, that's all I need—to lose the championship on an air ball!

He wondered what Coach would say—what his teammates would say. He thought of how everyone would look at him in the hallways on Monday—how they would whisper behind his back and wag their heads disappointedly.

Why does it have to be me? God, what have I done to deserve this? Why can't Alston be up here? He lives for this kinda stuff. Maybe I could faint right now. If I can pull off a convincing face-plant, maybe Alston can shoot for me. I think there's a rule that provides for a sub—

The referee's whistle snapped Cody from his thoughts. He pried the ball from Cody's tense fingers. “Time-out, white,” he called.

Cody shook his head. Calling a time-out to ice the shooter was good strategy, but not your own shooter. He and all the other puzzled Raiders circled around Coach Clayton on the sideline.

“What's up, Coach?” Alston asked. “Why did you call a time-out at a time like this? Martin looks like he's about ready to cry.”

“Terry,” Coach Clayton began, “shut up—please. Let's remember who the coach is.”

Alston dipped his head and muttered something Cody couldn't decipher.

“I have good reason for this TO. To celebrate the championship, we're all going to Louie's Pizza after the game.”

He pulled his cell phone from the breast pocket of his well-worn, navy-blue blazer. He punched in a number and held the phone to his right ear. “Mike,” he yelled, as the Grant Middle School band began its assault on ‘Sweet Georgia Brown,' “Coach C. here. Listen—those victory pizzas we talked about earlier today? Start making 'em. We'll be there in about twenty-five minutes. Yeah, that's right. Pitchers of pop, too. And hang on a minute, Mike—”

Coach Clayton looked at Gannon. “Gannon, you're still a vegetarian, right?”

Gannon nodded his head sadly. “Yes, my mom's still forcing me.”

Coach Clayton yelled into the phone again. “Yeah, I'm still here, Mike. Listen—make one of those pizzas all veggie, okay? Gannon and I are vegetarians, at least for this weekend.”

The coach said goodbye and slipped his phone back into his pocket. He scanned the eyes of his team. “Any questions?”

No one said a word. Even Alston could only manage a weak whistle.

“Okay then. You'll all need to hustle and get showered after Cody drains these two shots. I want to get to Louie's while the pizzas are still hot. And your parents are invited, by the way.”

The Raiders broke their huddle and headed back to the game. Coach Clayton tugged on Cody's jersey.

“Cody, it's six-thirty, you got it? It's six-thirty.”

Cody started to frown, but then a small smile of recognition creased his face.

He walked to the line, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath.
It
is
six-thirty
, he assured himself.
It's early in the morning, and I'm here, as I am every weekday. Won't leave the gym until I hit a hundred free throws. One hundred. These are just two more. It's just me, a ball, and a hoop. No crowd. No distractions
.

He opened his eyes. He dribbled the ball three times, then brought it to eye level, his fingertips finding a seam. He made sure his right elbow was straight and close to his body. Now the ball didn't seem large and foreign. It felt perfect as it rested on his fingertips, as if it belonged there. He eyed the rim, bent his knees, and flicked his wrist.

He knew when the ball left his hand that it would find nothing but net. The crowd exploded into cheers and roars of approval, but the noise seemed faraway. Cody wanted the rock back—now.

Macy was saying something to him but it was lost amid the noise.

The ref handed him the ball. “One shot, gentlemen. Play the miss.”

“There isn't going to be any miss,” Cody whispered. He went through the routine again. Dribble, dribble, dribble. Ball to eye level. Elbow straight. Bend the knees. Release, rotation—The ball splashed through the net. Gannon and the Evans brothers raced to congratulate Cody, but he was already sprinting downcourt. He knew that neither team had a time-out left, so the Grizzlies' only hope was a long pass and a miracle catch-and-shoot.

On the inbounds play, Clay, the Grizzlies point guard, lobbed a desperation pass that went right to Pork Chop at midcourt.

Interception!
Cody thought, as the nasal blare of the buzzer signaled the end of the game.

Cody had been in a few midcourt victory celebrations, but never as the center of attention. He felt a hoard of hands patting his shoulders and back. He wondered if one of them was Robyn's. His eyes met Coach Clayton's. The coach raised his arms and pointed to his watch. Cody saw him mouth the word

“pizza.” He began to swim his way through the sea of bodies to the locker room.

It was only three blocks to Louie's, so Cody had told his dad he would walk to the party. He stood at center court of the dark gymnasium, his basketball under his right arm. He released the ball and dribbled four times, listening to the dull echo of leather on hardwood. He looked to the rafters.

Father God, thank you for today,
he prayed silently.
You know how Dad and I feel about praying over winning or losing a basketball game. You have my word that I'll never do that. I'll just keep praying to represent you. So I didn't ask you to help me make those free throws. I think you have more important things to worry about. But somehow I felt you were with me there on the line. And I thank you for that. I think the only thing that kept me from fainting was knowing that you love me no matter what. And by the way, thanks for this game. I really love it. I want to play it 'til I die. And then—well—I hope there's basketball in heaven. Amen.

Cody pushed a wet comma of cinnamon-colored hair up on his forehead and dribbled slowly toward the free throw line, the same place he had stood thirty minutes earlier. He hit twelve free throws before one curled out. Then he made two more.

You know, God, the coolest thing about today wasn't that I helped us win a championship. It was how happy it made everybody. Thank you for that. Especially for making Dad happy. He needs that.

Cody heard street shoes clicking on the court. It was Blake. “Your dad's saving us seats at Louie's. I thought you might be here.”

Cody fired a chest pass, which Blake caught adroitly. “Yeah. I'm sorry, B. I just don't want to leave the court. It's like there's magic here.”

Blake thumped his right fist against his chest. “I think the magic is in here, you know? Cody, you really represented your school well this afternoon.”

“Thanks. And thanks for coming to the game. It means a lot to me. Hey, B?”

“Yeah?”

“My mom—do you think she could see me today?”

Blake smiled sadly. “You always ask the toughest theological questions, Cody.”

“Well—”

“I don't know, man. Here's what I think—and this is just my opinion. They didn't teach me this at Biola. I believe that heaven is a place of perfect happiness. I believe your mom can see all she needs to see to be perfectly happy. So if your game is part of that equation, I think she saw you. And if not, maybe she can read about it in ‘The Heavenly Gazette' or something. Or maybe an angel can give her a report, like on ESPN.”

“Yeah. Maybe. You know, she used to watch ESPN with me. She was the only mom I know who did that.”

Cody saw that Blake's eyes were moist. “I'm sorry,” the young pastor said quietly. “I'm sorry about the loss you and your dad are feeling. Mind if I give you a hug?”