Full Court Press (2 page)

Coach Clayton smiled as Cody toed the line again. “Lose your lunch, Martin?”

“Oh, I bet he didn't lose it, Coach,” Pork Chop said. “I bet he knows right where it is.”

Cody thought he was too spent to smile, but he felt an almost involuntary tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“I'll tell you what,” Coach Clayton said, “if you all will make this one count—really bust it—we're done, okay? But if I see even one guy dogging it, you'll keep running. I don't care if we go all night.”

Cody inhaled hungrily. “One more,” he said quietly to no one in particular. He heard the whistle and willed his feet to move. He concentrated on braking with his left foot. He knew he had opened the blister on his right and guessed it was the size of a quarter at least.

As Cody headed for the far end line, he felt someone pull alongside him. It was Coach Clayton. “Martin!” The voice blasted in Cody's ear. “There are fifteen seconds left in the game! We're down by one! If you get downcourt quickly enough, you can get the inbound pass and score a layup! Come on—the ball's in the air! Sprint for it, or it'll go out of bounds!”

Cody pumped his arms and churned his legs. His quadricep muscles burned with fatigue, but he matched the loose-limbed coach stride for stride. They touched the end line together. Cody winced as he made a half turn and pushed off with his right foot.
Just one more court length to go.

“Good, Martin—you got the layup,” Coach said. “But there are still five seconds left. Now the other team has the ball. The opposing point guard is streaking downcourt. He's ahead of you. You gotta catch him and steal the ball, or it's an easy bucket and we lose. You gotta save the game!”

Cody saw Brett three strides ahead of him as they crossed the north free throw line. He pretended he saw Macy instead. Loudmouthed, mad-game Macy. He drove his knees forward. But as he neared half court, he began to slow. His air was gone. His legs were heavy. It felt like running through molasses. And the blister burned like fire.

“No, Martin!” Coach Clayton was in his ear again.
What did this guy have for lunch
? Cody wondered.
That breath could gag a maggot!

“Martin, I don't care if you lose your breakfast along with your lunch! Don't you quit! Don't you quit on me!”

Cody pumped his arms fiercely. He caught Brett ten feet from the end line. They finished in a dead heat. Emphasis on
dead
. Cody pressed his body against the wrestling mat. It felt cool against his face. He tried to stay upright, but his legs failed him. He crumpled to his knees, then flopped onto his back. He felt his heart jackhammering in his chest. The ceiling lights overpowered his eyes. He closed them
. Just leave me here
, he thought.
Don't make me move 'til morning
.

Cody wondered how much time had passed when he felt someone kicking the sole of his right shoe, kicking him right in the blister. He opened his eyes and stared up at Pork Chop, standing at his feet.

Chop extended a thick right arm. “Come on, Cody. You need to walk it off before you stiffen up like a dead carp.”

Cody felt himself being pulled to his feet. He marveled at Pork Chop's strength.

“Thanks, Chop.”

“Ain't no thang. Let's get out of here before Coach makes us run the bleachers or something.”

Cody followed Pork Chop toward the locker room. At the doorway, he felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to face Coach Clayton. “You did it, Martin! You didn't let him score. You saved the game, Martin! You see, that's why we run like this. So we can be ready. And we
will
be ready.”

Cody nodded.

“And you, Porter, way to hustle! You move well for a big man. You remind me of Charles Barkley. You know Barkley, don't you?”

“Sure, Coach,” Pork Chop answered. “We get ESPN Classic. I know all the old-timers.”

Coach Clayton's eyes widened. “Old-timers?”

Pork Chop cocked his head. “Yeah. It's not like he plays anymore. He's from back in the nineties. You know—old school.”

Cody felt the warm water cascade over him, washing away the sweat of a first hard workout. Some of his fatigue seemed to wash away, too.

Four more days of tryouts
. First cuts would be announced tomorrow. He thought about his chances. Coach Clayton would probably keep twelve guys. Cody had been tenth or eleventh man last year, but Hooper, who was the last seventh grader cut, was back this year, and he had some game. He had gone to two summer camps and had turned himself into a fundamentally sound player, even if he was only an average athlete.

And Terrance Dylan, the new guy from Michigan, was tall and tough. He had crazy hops, too. He would probably crack the starting five.

Matt Slaven, last year's twelfth man, had grown a couple of inches. He was at least five foot eight—two inches taller than Cody. He still couldn't shoot to save his life. He was strictly a shot-blocker and rebounder. But he was a threat.

“Good practice, Martin,” Pork Chop called as he entered the large square communal shower area.

“Thanks. You too. I think you'll start again this year.”

“Could be. But you—you must have impressed Coach tonight. He wouldn't pay so much attention to you if he didn't think you were worth it. And you've got pretty good speed. You're even faster than I am now. I think you'll move up in the rotation. Maybe even to sixth or seventh man.”

Cody stepped gingerly from the shower, wrapping a threadbare white towel around his waist. “I don't know. I think I'm on the bubble. Everybody's bigger, better, and faster. I guess we'll see. I gotta bounce, Chop. See you tomorrow.”

“Yeah.”

As he left the locker room two minutes later, Cody heard Pork Chop, still in the shower, doing a rap version of “Thank God I'm a Country Boy,” at full volume.

At first the cold night air had felt refreshing after the sticky heat of practice. But now the air felt—well, cold. Cody wondered if his dad had forgotten to pick him up—again. He headed back into the school. There was a pay phone in the lobby. He tried the door. Locked.

“Hey—hold that door!” said a voice calling from behind him. The voice came from Gabe White—or maybe it was Wyche—a stocky, square-headed guy Cody had seen around town. Cody didn't think he was in high school anymore but wasn't sure whether he had graduated or just dropped out.

“I can't hold the door for you. It's locked.”

White-Wyche approached Cody and glared down at him. “Are you mouthing off to me?”

“No, not at all. It's just that the door is locked.”

“I can see that, pinhead! But it wouldn't be locked if you hadn't let it close behind you, would it?”

“No, you don't understand. I didn't let it close. It just—uh—”

Cody felt himself being pushed backward. His head hit the door with a deep thump.

White-Wyche spoke slowly through gritted teeth. Cody could smell beer on his breath. “I need to get in there. But I'm freezin' out here—all because of you.”

A few silent seconds passed, then, “You got any money?”

Cody slid his hand into his hip pocket and produced the $20 bill Dad had given him
. Why am I handing this over?
he asked himself.
Probably to keep from being beaten to a bloody pulp
.

“This will do,” White-Wyche said, snagging the money from Cody's hand. “This is your penalty.” He grabbed Cody by the collar of his coat and spun him away from the door. “But maybe I'll toss you in the snow and stomp a mudhole in you anyway, just for laughs.”

Cody heard the door open. He hoped it would be Coach Clayton. It was only Pork Chop.
Only Pork Chop
, he wondered to himself.
I didn't think I'd ever put those three words in the same thought.

“So here's a question,” Pork Chop said evenly, sizing up Cody's attacker. “Are you able to turn loose of my friend, or do you need some help?”

White-Wyche sneered. He had four inches and probably twenty pounds on Pork Chop—and at least five years.

“Let's go, Fat Boy. I don't mind butchering two punks for the price of one.”

He shoved Cody backward. Cody tumbled into the snow. He looked around nervously.
Well, at least it's not the snow I puked on
.

Cody watched as Pork Chop and his larger aggressor squared off. He tried to think of an appropriate biblically based response. What would Elijah do? Probably call down fire from heaven. But that option wasn't open to twenty-first-century teens. What would Samson do? Find a donkey's jawbone and go upside White-Wyche's block head with it? Fine, but Cody Martin was no Samson. Besides, there was never a good jawbone around when you needed it. What would Jesus do? Good question. In this case, too good of a question. But even Jesus prayed.

Please
, Cody prayed as Pork Chop staggered back from a hard roundhouse punch to his head,
help us!

Chapter 2
Tattoo
Angel

I
n Sunday school, Cody and his friends often debated about what angels look like. Did they wear the traditional white robes, have elegantly styled hair, and large wings? Or were they ghost-like, shape-shifting entities without distinct features?

No one had ever guessed that an angel might weigh 220 pounds, have a shaved head, wear a black hoodie and ripped blue jeans—and sport a tattoo of a rattlesnake on his right forearm. But that was precisely the type of angel that had pulled White-Wyche off Pork Chop Porter and dug a vicious uppercut into his stomach.

White-Wyche dropped to his knees, as if he had suddenly found religion at Grant Middle School and decided to pray on the spot.

“You okay, Chop?” Doug Porter asked his brother.

“I'm fine, DP. I think I could have taken him. He was gettin' tired.”

“How many times did he hit you? Because I'm going to hit him at least that many times. Only harder.”

“You better think twice,” White-Wyche gasped. “You don't know who I am. I got friends.”

“Yeah?” Doug said, yanking his opponent to his feet. “I
do
know who you are. You're Gabe Weitz. You're just another dropout. And you don't have that many friends.
I'm
the guy with friends. Twenty-one of them. They're called the starting varsity football team. Offense and defense. And a lot of them are pretty big, just like me. So you get your friends, and we'll meet you anytime, anyplace.” Doug turned to his brother. “How did this all start anyway, Chop?”

“He jumped my friend. You know Cody, don't you? He played wide receiver for us.”

“Yeah, of course, I know Cody Martin. I'm sorry about your mom, dawg.” Doug paused for a moment. “Hey, you catch any passes this season?”

Cody stood and brushed snow from his pants. “Yes, sir. Six. Two for touchdowns.”

“Outstanding, Martin! Hey, did this guy hurt you? Want me to hit him a coupla times for you, too?”

“No. That's okay. But I
would
like my money back.”