In the Paint (4 page)

Matt crossed his fingers secretly as he left his desk and kept them crossed as he grabbed his backpack and his basketball gear. He was actually trembling slightly and feeling a little dizzy as he made his way down one flight of stairs and through the after-school clamor of the hallway. He was so focused he hardly heard Phil and Jake as they shouted for him. And he banged into Amar in the hallway as they both sprinted the last few feet toward the gym door. “I hope we all make it,” Matt said as Amar nodded silently.

There was already a crowd gathered by the gym where the list was posted so they had to wait until it subsided. Matt felt his stomach churning as the group finally parted and he moved toward the wall where a single white piece of paper, and his future as a basketball player, hung.

The paper was headed: “South Side Stingers, Varsity Boys' Basketball Team.” Under that title were a dozen names, typed out in capital letters. Matt's heart thumped so hard he was sure the other boys straining to see the list could hear it. He looked down the names quickly, almost desperately, “JACKSON, TANNER, McTAVISH, SUNIR” — great, Amar made it! — and then finally, second, from the last: “HILL, MATTHEW.”

Matt was elated. All the hard work of the summer had paid off. He was on the varsity! As a grade seven! He had to tell his mom. He had to tell Mark. He had to tell the guys. This was awesome.

Matt took another look at the sheet, just to make sure his name was actually there. Then he spun around to find his friends. But the look on the faces of Jake and Phil sobered him. They hadn't made it. They were crushed. Matt didn't know what to say.

“I'm sorry, guys,” he mumbled sheepishly, feeling guilty for being so happy just a second earlier.

“Good for you,” said Phil, managing a smile. “And good for Amar too.”

“Yeah, that's cool for you guys,” added Jake, his voice fading a little at the end.

Suddenly, all the noise at the gym door stopped as Coach Stephens blew his whistle. Everyone listened intently.

“Okay, people,” said the coach, his voice a notch gentler than it had been through tryouts. “By now, you've all seen the list. And I have to tell you that cut-down day is the worst day of the year for me because I have to tell a lot of you that you didn't make varsity. That's not fun for me or, obviously, for you.

“What I want to tell those of you young players who didn't make it is this: There will be still plenty of opportunity to play basketball this year on the junior varsity team. So don't stop working hard. Remember, that a guy named Michael Jordan didn't make his school team the first year, either. As I recall, he ended up being a pretty good ball player. So keep working and I'll be keeping an eye on you.

“As for the guys on the list, congratulations. We should have a fine team this year. There is no practice today. We'll just hand out uniforms and practice strip and get down to some serious work tomorrow.”

Uniforms. Real uniforms, not just jerseys like in elementary school, but uniforms with stylized lettering and piping along the v-neck and shoulders, just like those worn by the NCAA teams Matt and his buddies watched on Saturday afternoons. Matt had been waiting a long time for this. He was eager to secure his favorite number ten in the rich maroon-and-white colors of the Stingers. And the practice jerseys and shorts coach had mentioned were an added bonus. Suddenly, he felt like a professional athlete. This was a very big deal.

Matt and Amar made their way toward Andrea Thomas, the team manager. She was easily distinguished by the bright red cast that ran from her right thigh down to her ankle. Andrea had been a star soccer player for the South Side girls' team that fall. But in just the second game of the season, she had turned her knee under the weight of a falling teammate. The injury had required surgery and she had taken on the job of the boys' basketball team manager while she recuperated.

The blond, blue-eyed Andrea was dutifully handing out practice gear, home and away uniforms and warm-ups, as well as checking each player's name off a list as he received his allotment. Matt's heart was soaring as the line inched forward. But while waiting for his turn, he looked back and noticed Phil and Jake walking slowly out the gymnasium door. For all the joy he felt over being on the team, it was sad to see two of his best buddies left on the outside.

“Ten's my number too,” Andrea said as she handed Matt his gear. “Good choice.”

Matt didn't know what to say. He managed a shy grin. “Thanks,” he mumbled, staring down at the gym floor as he felt his cheeks growing hot.

Matt made his way home proudly juggling his backpack, gear and uniforms still on their hangers. He could hardly wait to get home and tell his mom. He knew she'd be excited. Matt quietly opened the door and was immediately hit by a wonderful smell coming from the kitchen. He could hear his mom humming to herself. He burst into the room. “Mom!” he said. “Guess what?”

“You made the team! That's terrific!” she said, tears forming in the corners of her eyes. “I'm so proud of you, Matthew. What a great day. Let's see your uniform.”

Matt spent the next half-hour telling his mom how many games the Stingers would play, which tournaments they would be in and posing for pictures in his new uniform. Then he told his mom that Jake and Phil hadn't made the team.

“That's too bad, Matt,” she said. “I hope they aren't too bummed out about it. Those boys worked hard too.”

Matt had been so excited that he'd forgotten to ask his mom about the cake she was baking. It was chocolate chip, his Gran's recipe, and it was his favorite. “What's it for?” he said, looking through the glass door of the oven at the rising, golden form in the pan.

“It's for you, of course,” she smiled. “It's an I'm-proud-of-you cake.”

Matt groaned at his mom's hokeyness. But inside he was also happy she was making a big deal out of this. “But how did you know that I was going to make the team?”

“Matt,” she said, her eyes beaming. “I'm proud of you, whether your name is on a list or not.”

Later that night, Matt sent an e-mail to his brother Mark, informing him that he had made varsity. Mark had also played at South Side for Coach Stephens, but he had been a late-bloomer and hadn't made the team until grade eight. It was kind of cool to do something his big brother hadn't.

Matt was busy looking up a map of Africa on the Internet for a geography paper when an Instant Message flashed across his computer screen. It was from Mark. “Another Hill stars for the Stingers,” it read. “Way to go, bro!”

He could hardly sleep that night. All he could think about was basketball. It was going to be a great year.

chapter six

“Listen up people,” Coach Stephens barked.

The South Side Stingers were huddled around their coach before the opening tip-off against Mandela Middle School. “Winters is out for this one. Hill, I'm going to start you at shooting guard in his place. Are you up for that?”

Matt was stunned. Four games into his first season with the Stingers, he hadn't been expecting this. Until now, he had been a bench player, filling in for Grant Jackson at point guard when the older boy needed a breather. When Pete Winters, the Stingers' starting shooting guard, had hurt his ankle in practice the day before, Matt had just assumed that an older kid would take his spot. A grade seven starting a game for the Stingers was something that rarely happened. But it was happening now.

“Sure, Coach,” Matt shot back nervously. “For sure.”

“Good then, let's go get a win.” Coach Stephens put his right hand into the middle of his team huddle. One by one, the players placed their hands on top of the pile. “One-two-three, Stingers!” they chanted.

Matt's legs felt wobbly as he headed onto the court for the tip-off. He had spent most of the first three games of the season on the bench as South Side had roared out to three straight victories. Matt didn't want to do anything to screw up that streak.

As soon as the ball was tossed into the air by the referee, his nerves disappeared. Dave Tanner won the tip, flicking the ball back to Matt. Matt handed it off to Jackson and then headed downcourt to take his position in the offense. He was happy that he had taken the time to study the playbook. He had a pretty good idea of where every player was supposed to be in each offensive scheme, not just the point guard's responsibilities.

On the first possession, Jackson dribbled to the right side across a high screen set by Tanner. Matt cut hard down the baseline, then emerged on the right wing. He was wide open. Jackson found him with a crisp pass and Matt didn't even think before he reacted. He left his feet, releasing the shot at the peak of his jump and following through with his shooting hand as though he was waving goodbye to the basketball. The ball left his hand, hitting the back iron of the rim and spinning gently through the twine. It was two to zero South Side, and Matt had scored the game's first basket.

That game was the most fun Matt could ever remember having on a basketball court. He made some mistakes, throwing the ball out of bounds once when he misjudged a cut by Jackson, and overthrowing Tanner on a pass inside, but for the most part he played solidly. He finished with eleven points as South Side pounded Mandela seventy-five to thirty. Matt hadn't even realized that he had hit double figures in scoring for the first time until Andrea ran over, dangling the score sheet. “Nice game, number ten,” she smiled.

A few minutes later, Coach Stephens sat down beside Matt in the locker room. “I'm proud of how you stepped up today,” he said quietly. “Nice going.”

Matt had never felt better. The game and the kind words from the coach and Andrea left him feeling great. He felt like putting his gear back on and starting practice right this moment. His team was celebrating a win and a perfect four-victory, no-loss start to the season and, suddenly, Matt was feeling like he was a much bigger part of that.

Until this game, Matt was strictly an understudy to Grant Jackson. Jackson was a jerk, but he was also easily the team's best player and he happened to play point guard, so Matt had barely seen the floor during early-season games. Matt had only about five minutes playing time and didn't score in South Side's season opening forty-nine to thirty-six win over the Central Wildcats. And he had played just two minutes in a tougher fifty-four to forty-six decision over the North Vale Nuggets. During the team's third game, a sixty-five to thirty blowout over the Manning Minutemen, Matt had played ten minutes in the second half and scored two baskets, including a nice jumper from the baseline.

Sitting on the bench hadn't really bothered Matt. After all, he was only in grade seven and he still had a lot to learn. Coach Stephens had emphasized that fact to him during practice drills, pushing him to work harder and challenging him to develop his skills. But it hadn't been easy to watch Jackson start each game and play most of the minutes.

About three inches taller and much more muscular than Matt, Jackson was a terrific, tough player with a couple of years of middle school basketball experience. But he was also cocky and cutting and never seemed to have a good thing to say about anybody, especially when it came to the grade sevens on the South Side team and, especially it seemed, when it came to Matt. The hostility probably stemmed from the incident in the park in the summer.

During practice, Jackson and his buddy Andrew McTavish would smirk at the rookies as they ran through drills, whispering to each other and laughing derisively. Matt and Amar could never tell exactly what the older boys were saying, but it wasn't hard to figure out who they were poking fun at. It had been tough to shake it off and just play basketball and the coach hadn't really seemed to notice that it was going on.

Matt had noticed that a distinct division had developed on the team. Jackson, McTavish and a grade nine center named Steve White, sat in one corner of the locker room and even on one part of the bench, right near the far end. They seemed a lot older than all the others and they bragged loudly about wild parties, drinking and girls. It was difficult for Matt to tell how much, if any, of what they were saying was actually true.

Part of Matt was intrigued by this bunch. They were all tremendous players and athletes and they seemed so confident and, in many ways, so grown-up. They didn't seem very nice, though. Matt wondered if that was part of growing up — becoming a little harder, a little meaner. The thought bothered him.

But not all of the grade nines on the team were like Jackson and his friends. Dave Tanner, the Stingers' starting center, was a solid student, a good listener and a friendly kid. Instead of making fun of Matt and the other grade sevens, Tanner and Pete Winters treated the younger guys like they were an important part of the team and often took the time to give them little tips during practice. Dave Tanner might occasionally get frustrated at Matt or Amar when they made a mistake during a game, but he didn't hold grudges and he seemed to remember that he had been a rookie once too.

Until tonight, Matt had certainly felt like a rookie. This game against Mandela had been something else altogether. He had actually started and played well, and he had scored eleven points. Matt had never felt better.

Amar, who had also played well with eight points and six rebounds, seemed happier for his buddy than for himself. “Way to go, Mattster,” he grinned. “You were huge out there.”

Matt was just getting ready to head to the showers when he noticed Grant Jackson making his way across the locker room. He looked different. The cocky smile and the swagger weren't quite as apparent. He seemed friendlier all of a sudden. “Nice goin', rook,” he said to Matt, then glanced at Amar. “Guess the two of you aren't useless dweebs one hundred percent of the time.”

Jackson laughed and so did the players in his corner of the room. Matt didn't know quite how to handle this, but he decided to take it as a backhanded compliment. “Everybody gets lucky sometimes, Jackson,” he said.