Full Court Press (11 page)

At 7:12 on Christmas morning, Cody opened his eyes and listened to the silence in the house. He propped himself on one elbow and started to get out of bed, but grief was like a weight on his chest. He sank back onto the bed and closed his eyes.

Father God,
he said quietly,
I know I should be happy today, but I'm just not. I'm sorry for that. The truth is, I've been dreading this—the first Christmas without her. I don't know how Dad and I are going to get through it. I'm so grateful that your Son came to earth. I really am. But this Christmas, I hope you'll forgive me if I can just be grateful but not happy.

He opened his eyes again and stared at the ceiling. He drew in a deep breath and then wrinkled his nose. Did he smell a pie baking? It couldn't be. Dad barely knew how to operate the microwave. He'd heard of someone's eyes playing tricks on him, but could that happen with the nose too?

He sniffed. No, this was no smell mirage. A pie was baking. Either that or one of the fruit baskets had caught fire. He slipped out of bed and headed to the kitchen. The oven was on, and a pie sat on the middle rack. A Mrs. Smith's frozen-pie box was perched atop the overflowing garbage bin. Cody looked at the oven timer and saw twenty minutes remaining. Then he studied the instructions on the pie box and realized that Dad must have arisen at 6 a.m. to start the pie and bring some traditional Christmas aromatherapy to the Martin home.

Cody walked to the dining room and saw place settings for two. He shook his head.

God,
he whispered,
there have been times I've felt like giving up hope on ever having a real dad again.

Then he goes and pulls off something like this. Thanks.

This has you written all over it.

As Cody finished praying, his dad opened the front door, kicking his boots against each other to knock off the snow.

“Hey, Cody!” he said, too loudly, through a strained smile. He held out a small brown paper bag. “You wouldn't believe how hard it is to find someplace that's open on Christmas—and sells ice cream. Can't have apple pie without ice cream, right?”

Cody smiled. “Right, Dad.”

After dinner, which consisted of reheated deli chicken, canned corn, and premade gelatin cubes, Cody and his father devoured the entire pie—except for one large piece they set aside for Pork Chop.

Then they exchanged presents. Cody gave his dad a cookbook called
Quick ‘n' Healthy Recipes for the Man on the Go.
He knew Mom would approve. For years she had begged her husband to switch to a more healthful diet.

Cody had told the saleswoman that his dad wasn't exactly savvy in the kitchen, but she had assured him, “These recipes are super-duper easy. They're completely foolproof!”

“I guess we'll see,” was Cody's reply.

Cody saw his dad forcing back tears as he held the book on his lap. “Thanks, Cody. This is the kinda gift she would have gotten me.”

Then he handed Cody an Adidas shoebox, topped with an overly large red bow.

“I tried to wrap this at first,” he explained. “But that really didn't go very well.”

Cody nodded and lifted the lid. He inhaled the crisp smell of new leather and rubber—an aroma that rivaled even that of fresh-baked pie. He lifted the thin white tissue paper and revealed a pair of top-of-the-line mid-highs. Cody knew that Dad had probably dropped a C-note and a half on these shoes—and he didn't like to spend money.

“They're eight and a half,” his Dad said. “I checked the other shoes in your closet, and most of them were that size. But we can take these back if they don't fit you. I thought your old shoes were looking a little beaten up. You're a good player. You deserve good shoes. The sales guy in the referee suit said they were the best.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

“You're welcome. Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas.”

After watching the first half of the Lakers-Kings game on TV, Cody accompanied Blake to serve dinner at Mercy House. Dad had said he was too tired to come along. Cody had started to argue, but Blake nudged him with his elbow and whispered, “Let it go.”

Mostly new faces greeted Cody as he served them, but he recognized a few individuals and families from years past. Mr. Thorne, whose cave-like mouth contained nine teeth—tops—nodded at Cody as he plopped a stiff mound of mashed potatoes on his tray.

“My condolences about your mom, young man. I miss her smile this Christmas.”

Cody nodded back. “So do I.”

Just before the volunteers began to put away the leftovers, Greta's family appeared. They stood in the doorway, Greta rubbing her bare hands together for warmth. Blake headed for them as if drawn by magnetic force.

“Welcome, Hopkins family!” he called. “You're just in time!”

Cody served Greta, her two younger brothers, and Mr. Hopkins and then untied his oversize white apron and hurried to the phone in the back room.

Five minutes later, Dad drove up, bearing the undersized gloves Cody's maternal grandma had mailed him from North Dakota. Dad also brought one of the superfluous fruit baskets.

Cody took the items and slid next to Greta at one of the long tables.

“This is for you and your family,” he explained, putting the fruit basket next to her plate. “And these,” he said, offering the gloves, “are just for you. So you don't get frostbite or something this winter.”

“Thanks,” Greta said, her voice almost a whisper. “I'm sorry I didn't get you anything. I, uh—”

Cody held his forefinger to his lips, realizing instantly that his mom used to do that. “It's cool, Greta. I don't need any presents. I'm just glad you're here.”

Greta dipped her head. “Thanks. You know—for everything. If it weren't for you and Robyn—”

Cody smiled. “We got your back, Greta. You need anything, you just say so, okay?”

“Um, okay. Thanks. Again.”

When cleanup was complete, Blake drove Cody home. Dad and Pork Chop were sitting together on the couch, the former looking on admirably as the latter attacked his piece of pie.

“Merry Christmas, dawg,” Pork Chop said, crumbs tumbling from his mouth.

After exchanging gifts—a P.O.D. CD for Pork Chop and a “handsome rectangular green portrait of Alexander Hamilton” for Cody—the duo shoveled the Martin driveway and shot baskets until dark.

“I wanted to wait 'til after Christmas to tell you the bad news,” Coach Clayton told his team, at the first post-vacation practice. “Mister Alston has played his last basketball game for Grant Middle School.”

Cody scanned the faces of his teammates. Their expressions ranged from puzzlement to shock.

“You recall Mister Alston's outburst in the Mill Creek game,” Coach Clayton continued. “After that unfortunate episode, I spoke to him and required him to apologize to the official he yelled at, to you—his teammates—and to the principal. He refused. He won't play unless he says he's sorry, and it doesn't look like that's gonna happen.”

“Man,” Gannon whispered loudly to Cody, “we are toast.”

Coach Clayton arched his eyebrows. “Is that so, Mister Gannon? We're toast? Does that mean you're quitting on us?”

Gannon chomped furiously on a wad of gum but said nothing.

“You see, Mister Gannon,” Coach Clayton said, “I don't think we're toast. I think we're leading the conference. In fact, last time I checked, we're undefeated. But if you think we're done, you can follow Terry Alston's lead and watch the rest of the season from the bleachers. That goes for anyone who has thoughts on giving up on our season. Just make sure you quit now. Don't do it out on the floor.”

The coach walked over to where Gannon was sitting on the first row of bleachers and placed his hand on his head, as if he were going to bless him.

“Mister Gannon, I don't think you're a quitter. Hey—you're even starting to play some defense. So don't let all that tofu your mom feeds you go to your brain. I need you. I need all of you.”

Coach Clayton moved Gannon to starting shooting guard for an away game with Cook. Gannon responded by playing out of his head. He hit half his shots for the first time in his life, scoring twelve points. He also dished out a career-high four assists. Grant won by fourteen.

That brought up Central. From the opening tip, Cody hounded Macy like a bill collector. Macy was scoreless until late in the first quarter, when he unveiled a new weapon. It was obvious to Cody that Macy had spent Christmas vacation working on an unblockable jump-hook. Despite Cody's nearly leaping out of his socks, he couldn't stop this new shot. Macy would finish the game with fourteen, but he wasn't Grant's biggest problem.

Clay did the real damage. He was simply too quick for Gannon, lighting him up for twenty-three points. "tx">Grant lost big, 42–23.

Macy didn't trash-talk much during the game, but after the final buzzer, he squeezed Cody's hand firmly as the teams congratulated each other at midcourt. Cody shuddered. There was something cold and reptilian about his grip.

“Remember this whupping, come districts, Martin,” he sneered. “I've got your number now, and without Alston, you've got no chance.”

“We'll see,” Cody said, but he could tell his voice lacked confidence.

In the final two weeks of the regular season, Grant went 1–2, versus Maranatha, Lincoln, and Holy Family. Thus, the Raiders slipped to the third seed for districts.

“We're going to have to get by East to earn another crack at Central,” Pork Chop moaned on the bus ride home from Holy Family. “And East is lookin' tough.”

After the midweek pre-district practice, Cody stayed late to work on his free throws. After sinking seventy-three of one hundred shots, Cody shook his head in discouragement and headed for the showers. He almost collided with Alston in the locker room doorway.

“Watch where you're going, Martin,” Alston mumbled.

Cody noted that Alston's words lacked the usual fire. It was as if he were reciting scripted lines in a bad high school play.

“Sorry, T,” Cody said. “My bad.”

“Whatever.”

“Hey—what were you doing in the locker room?” Cody said hopefully. “Talking to Coach?”

“Yeah, right. Like I'm going to talk to him ever again. I just lost my stupid civics book. I thought it might be in my locker, but no such luck.”

“You—you can borrow mine, if you want.”

Alston's face showed genuine surprise. “What—you trying to make me feel bad or something?”

“No, I'm just trying to help—that's all.”

Alston narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

“Because it's the right thing to do. And because we've been teammates. I wish we still were.”

“Yeah, well—that ain't gonna happen.”

“I guess not. But you can still borrow my book.”

“What's your angle here, Martin? I don't get you.”

Cody laughed softly. “Sometimes I don't get myself. Hey, hang on, okay?”

Cody rushed to his locker and returned with his battered copy of
Your World and You.