In the Paint (14 page)

The headline appeared over a brief article in the section reserved for local sports news. “South Side–North Vale to clash in city final,” it read.

“The top two middle school basketball teams in the city will square off this afternoon for the playoff championship,” the article began.

“The South Side Stingers, led by grade nine center Dave Tanner, the city's top rebounder this year, earned homecourt advantage for the final by finishing first in the regular season. Bolstering the Stingers' chances considerably is the fact standout grade seven point guard Matthew Hill has recovered from a hand injury that had threatened to keep him off the court …”

Matt could hardly believe his eyes. His name was in the
Post
! And they had actually called him a “standout.” That was the only mention of him in the article, but Matt was stunned and thrilled all at the same time. His heart was beating rapidly and his mind was racing. He just had to show his mom.

She was blow-drying her hair, getting ready for work, when Matt burst into her bedroom. “Look at this!” he shouted. “I made the paper. This is unreal.”

Matt's mom carefully surveyed the story, a smile coming to her face as she read her son's name. “We'll have to save this and show Mark, won't we?” she beamed. “I'm very proud of you.”

Matt was practically walking on air as he left for school. By the time he reached the big tree, Jake and Phil were already there, holding copies of the
Post
. “Can we get an autograph?” Phil joked. “Any comment, Matthew?” Jake laughed, poking fun at the fact the newspaper had used Matt's more formal full first name.

Matt was blushing as the three friends made their way to South Side. They were all excited about the game that afternoon and, as they approached the school, they realized they weren't alone. “City Finals Today,” read the signboard at the corner of the parking lot near the entrance. “Go Stingers!”

Matt had never seen such a big deal being made about a game, at least not one in which he had ever played a part. Principal Walker even talked it up on the morning announcements, encouraging all the students to come out and support the team at the rally that afternoon.

At lunchtime, the cheerleaders and drill team staged the biggest pep rally of the school year, and many of the players' parents also attended. Matt was a little disappointed that his mom couldn't make it, but she was with out-of-town clients who had only one day in which to find and buy a house. He would much sooner have her at the game. “Whatever happens today, it's been a great season for Stingers basketball,” Coach Stephens told the assembled students. “And I want to thank the student body for your support all season long.”

Matt could barely concentrate through his afternoon classes. Somehow, math and English didn't seem too exciting with tip-off looming in less than two hours. But he managed to avoid constantly looking at the clock until late in the day. He glanced up near the end of social studies. It was 3:25. Almost time.

When the bell finally rang, Matt nearly flew to his locker. He threw his books inside, grabbed his gym bag and headed for the gymnasium. If there was any game for which proper preparation was important it was this one.

After Matt had carefully put on his uniform and his shoes — making sure, as usual, to tie the left before the right — he headed for the trainer's room. Andrea was waiting there for him, ready to wrap his right hand. She carefully wove bandaging around his outside knuckles, placing a cushioned pad on the underside of the wrap to give the injured spot maximum protection without getting in the way of his fingers. The wrap felt good as Matt picked up a basketball to give it a test dribble. If he hadn't seen the bandage on his hand, he probably wouldn't have even known it was there.

The hand felt great in warm-ups. Matt was able to catch and dribble and shoot with almost no discomfort. As he glanced down the floor at the North Vale Nuggets, who were warming up at the other end, he had a good feeling about this game. The crowd of about four hundred South Side students and parents, taking the lead from the cheerleading unit, obviously felt confident too. It was the most intense gymnasium atmosphere Matt had ever experienced.

As he looked down toward the North Vale bench, Matt noticed John Trimble, the Nuggets' point guard, talking with Grant Jackson, who was seated behind the North Vale bench. The two had been teammates on summer all-star teams and were obviously still friends.

Dave Tanner easily won the opening tip, flicking the ball back to Matt, who brought it up the floor. On this first possession, Tanner cut hard to the top of the key with his arms outstretched as if he was looking for a quick pass. Matt faked it and then lobbed the ball high inside to Tanner, who had reversed his stride and darted directly for the hoop. The result was an easy lay-up to start the game. South Side was already on a roll.

Matt couldn't ever remember feeling this comfortable on the basketball court. He was on fire too, hitting three of his first four shots as South Side moved out to an eight-point lead early in the second quarter. As Phil subbed in to give Matt a quick breather, he grinned at his buddy. “Good job, man. You're killing those guys.”

Matt watched from the bench as Phil directed the offense. The Stingers' confidence was surging, spurred on by the electricity of the home crowd. By the time Matt returned to the game, with just five minutes left in the half, South Side had extended its lead to ten points.

On his first play back, Matt dribbled down the court, used a screen by Tanner to break free from his man and drained a rainbow three-pointer. It seemed everything he was shooting was going in. South Side managed a defensive stop and, the next time down the floor, Matt put a head-fake on Trimble and then blew by him for an easy scoop lay-up. The Stingers led by fifteen, Matt already had thirteen points, and the first half wasn't even over. He stole a glance into the stands above the South Side bench. His mom and Mark were watching intently. It felt great to be playing so well in front of both of them.

Matt was certainly in a zone, feeling like he could beat anybody, make any shot. Meanwhile, North Vale seemed to be disintegrating under the pressure of the championship game. Another Nuggets' turnover led to yet another Stingers' possession. Tanner set a sturdy screen for Matt and he went left around it, pulling up again for a jumper. But before he could get off the shot, John Trimble's right arm swung down hard on Matt's shooting hand, chopping him across the bandage covering the injured knuckles. The basketball popped loose, the whistle blew and the referee signaled for Matt to go to the free-throw line.

But within seconds, Matt knew that was going to be impossible. The foul by Trimble hadn't been dirty, but it had been hard enough to do some serious damage. Matt clenched the bandaged portion of his right hand, the searing pain causing him to move it up and down in a rocking motion.

The hand hurt far worse than it had even a week before when Grant Jackson had kicked him. He could feel the knuckles swelling under the bandage. Matt looked at Coach Stephens on the bench. He didn't have to say anything. “Time-out,” the coach yelled at the referee. “We've got a player hurt.”

Coach Stephens ran out onto the floor. “It's the same hand, isn't it?” he asked. Matt nodded. “Come on over to the bench.”

Matt found a spot on the bench and stuck out his arm so Andrea could place an ice pack on it. The referee ran over to where Coach Stephens was sitting. “That's your shooter, Coach,” he said pointing to Matt. “Do you want to sub for him since he's injured?”

“Well, he can't shoot,” the coach replied. “Yeah, we'll sub.”

“Phil!” the coach yelled down the bench. “You're in for Matt and you're shooting free throws.”

Phil bounced off the bench and quickly stripped off his warm-ups. He jogged to the line. It was difficult, coming in off the bench cold to shoot free throws and Phil looked nervous. His first shot was off right and it bounced harmlessly away from the rim.

“One shot,” the referee said.

This time, Phil swished the free throw. South Side led by sixteen with just three minutes left in the first half. Matt had a strong feeling he wasn't going back into this game. The pain in his hand told him that he wouldn't be able to use it for awhile. But the team looked to be in good shape to win the city title, even without him on the floor.

North Vale called a time-out following Phil's free throw. When they emerged from their huddle, it was clear they had changed their defense, picking up their Stingers' checks full-court. Matt knew what was coming. The Nuggets had thrown on a full-court press, hoping to take advantage of Phil, a new and less experienced ball handler, being in the game.

The visitors' strategy worked. Phil was a cautious ball handler and not as quick as Matt. Trimble was all over him and, on three of the next four possessions, Phil turned over the ball. By halftime, North Vale had narrowed the Stingers' lead to just ten points. Nobody in the South Side gym seemed too comfortable anymore.

In the locker room, Matt felt horrible. Doctor Taylor, who volunteered his services during South Side home games, came in and checked out his right hand, gently squeezing the injured knuckles and probing the wrist and fingers as well. “There's a chance you've got a small break in a bone here, Matt,” he said. “We'll have to get an X-ray this weekend, but you certainly won't be playing anymore today. Make sure you keep the ice bag on it.”

Matt had known in his heart that he wouldn't be going back on the court. But having the doctor spell it out for him was nevertheless difficult to hear. His teammates were disappointed too. It wasn't like they didn't have confidence in Phil, but Matt had been the starting point guard ever since Jackson had been kicked off the team.

Phil sat in his stall, looking tense. Bringing up the ball against a grade nine like Trimble, in the pressure of a city championship game, was a tall order for a grade seven who had spent most of his season on the bench. But Matt knew that nobody would give it a better effort than his buddy would.

“Guys, we have a ten-point lead and just one half to play,” Coach Stephens said. “But this half won't be easy. This Nuggets team is tough. Just go out there and do your best. That is always good enough, no matter the result.”

The team met in the middle of the locker room and each extended his right hand into the huddle. Matt stuck in his good left hand instead. “One, two, three — Stingers!” they yelled. No matter what happened over the next twenty minutes, this was one of the last such cheers of the season. That sudden realization made Matt sad.

The Nuggets continued where they had left off in the first half. They clamped on the full-court press and nearly gave Phil fits as he tried to work the ball upcourt. Coach Stephens eventually brought Dave Tanner into the backcourt to give Phil some help and that solved the problem. But in the meantime, the Stingers' lead had slipped away. And with just twenty-nine seconds left in the game, South Side found itself trailing, for the first time, by two points.

Coach Stephens called a time-out to set up the Stingers' next play. It was an important one. A miss on this possession and the game could be over.

“Okay, guys,” the coach said intently. “I'm setting up this play for Phil. He's one of the best three-point shooters in the city, and now is the time for us to use that weapon.”

The coach drew up a play: Phil would bring the ball downcourt, pass to Tanner at the top of the key and then cut through the paint and around a low screen set up by Pete Winters. “He'll be open after he clears that screen, okay Dave?” the coach said. “Get him the ball where he can shoot it.”

Coach Stephens turned his attention to Phil. “Just make sure you get the shot up with at least five seconds left on the clock, okay? That will give us time for a rebound, not that we're going to need it, Phil,” he smiled. “You're money from three. You can do this.”

The players broke the huddle with their customary “Stingers!” chant reverberating through the now strangely quiet gym. Matt watched nervously as his teammates took the floor without him. He was a little surprised that coach had called the play for Phil, who had struggled since entering the game after Matt's injury. He had expected the ball to go to steady senior Dave Tanner, who was playing his last game for South Side, or to Amar, who had already scored eighteen points and had completely dominated his defender. But the move was smart, Matt realized. Nobody on the North Vale bench would expect Phil to take the final shot. It was a gutsy call and just the sort of quirky strategy that Coach Stephens had become known for over the years.

Phil brought the ball downcourt, closely checked by Trimble. The North Vale guard made a lunge for the ball near the top of the free-throw circle and Phil, hitching his dribble slightly, almost turned it over. But he managed to recover his balance in time to plant firmly and toss a hard pass to Tanner in the high post. Phil then cut quickly through the key toward the spot where Winters was to set the screen. The play worked like a charm. Trimble hadn't expected the sudden cut by Phil and he was left in the dust.

Phil broke free to the corner and was wide open when Tanner delivered the ball with just six seconds remaining on the clock. On the bench, Matt's heart was beating so fast he could hardly breathe as he watched the play unfold. Phil caught the pass with his feet set squarely behind the three-point line, just as Matt had seen his buddy do so many times on the Anderson Park courts.

Phil released the ball and it traveled on a flawless arc toward the basket, cleanly swishing through the mesh and onto the floor. Before Trimble could gather the ball and inbound it, the final buzzer sounded. South Side had won the city championship and Phil had made the final shot.

Matt felt himself being pushed by a wave of sweaty teammates onto the floor as they homed in on Phil, who was looking both stunned and elated at the same time, as if he hardly believed what had just happened. In seconds, he was buried in a pile of maroon and white uniforms as the Stingers mobbed their unlikely late-game hero.