Split Decision (2 page)
The Angels weren’t expecting such a quick exchange. Cabrera had moved into position to foul Brett, but by the time he swatted him across the arm, the ball had already been relayed to Cody. Cody dribbled down the right sideline, counting down the final seconds in his head. He saw DeLong stalking him over his left shoulder, but the game-ending buzzer blared before the big man caught him.
“A freshman conference tournament trophy is a sweet thing,” Coach Clayton shouted in the home locker room, holding up a gold statuette roughly the size of Cody’s shoe—nine and one-half. Cody started to nod his head, then stopped himself.
“Of course,” the lanky coach continued, “it woulda been sweeter if we had made the tournament
finals,
but third place ain’t half-bad. Especially when you consider that we started the season zero and four. I’m proud of you guys.”
“Dude, I wanted that
first-place
trophy,” Brett Evans muttered, apparently to no one in particular. “I wanted it bad.”
Coach Clayton forced a grin. “You’ll get some bigger hardware someday, Mr. Evans. You gotta remember, we lost Pork Chop Porter and Alston to varsity—and Terrance Dylan to the JVs. And we lost Marcus Berringer, ’cuz he’s a knucklehead who thinks he can break curfew and get away with it. You boys gotta understand; I sometimes get a midnight craving for convenience-store burritos too. And if I see you at 24/7 Mart, you are so busted! Just ask Marcus.
“Anyway, enough about that. Here’s what you need to be thinking about right now—In a year or two, you’ll
all
be playing together, and you’re gonna be a sure-enough force. Just think about what you coulda done at this tournament with Chop, Alston, and TD in the mix. You woulda gone through this thing like a hot knife through warm butter. It puts a smile on my big ol’ country face just thinkin’ about it. I can’t wait to see what the future holds for this basketball team.”
After Coach Clayton had shaken hands with each of his players, he exited the locker room to watch the championship game. Once the coach was safely out the door, Bart Evans turned to Cody. “That was cool what Clayton said at the end of his speech, about our future—when we’re reunited with our big dawgs again, but has he forgotten that Chop is probably going to move away this summer?”
“I don’t know,” Cody muttered. “But
I
would sure like to forget it.”
Cody showered and dressed quickly. He was eager to see the tournament championship game, pitting the Lincoln frosh against Holy Family. Lincoln was the favorite, led by Locke, the Lancers’ hard-nosed forward, and Miles, a much-improved point guard.
Holy Family had only one real weapon, but that weapon was Keenan Jones, lean, muscular, and sharp-boned. Cody had heard that the six feet one inch power forward had dunked in a game earlier in the season, but it sounded like hype. He couldn’t picture a ninth grader dunking—unless it was a
seven-foot
ninth grader. Still, Jones did have crazy hops, and if he got a chance for a breakaway jam, Cody wanted to be there to see it.
The championship game proved to be, in Gannon’s words, “a real yawn-fest.” Lincoln swarmed Jones as if he were a rock star. Everybody but the Lancers’ cheerleaders took turns fouling him, and he spent much of the game on the foul line, where he went eleven for nineteen.
Cody turned to Gannon just before halftime. “I agree that this game is as boring as all get-out,” he said, “but you gotta give Lincoln’s coach credit; he’s gonna make somebody besides KJ beat ’em. And I don’t think they have anybody up to that task.”
“Yeah,” Gannon said, fidgeting on the hard wooden bleachers. “It’s good strategy but lousy basketball. If I wanted to watch a free throw contest … uh, I guess I’d actually
go
to a free throw contest. If there is such a thing.”
The conversation paused when the halftime buzzer sounded. The Lincoln squad jogged to the locker room with a ten-point lead. Holy Family, conversely, trudged off the court, looking like a beaten team. Cody noticed that Jones was favoring his right leg. He pointed to the Saints’ small forward, whom he had battled for the past three years. “KJ is gonna be one big bruise after this game,” he observed.
Brett Evans, sitting on Cody’s left, nodded. He started to stand, then lowered himself back to the bleachers. “Hey, Code,” he said, “you heard anything about being called up to the JVs? They do have a couple guys hurt, and I bet Terrance moves up to varsity before regionals. He’s blocking shots and rebounding like nobody’s business. And the guy just doesn’t make mistakes out there. I wish I had his court sense.”
Cody leaned back and exhaled slowly. “Nobody’s said anything to me about JV ball. I was kinda hoping, but—”
Brett bobbed his head. “Same here. Bart’s not gonna get the call either. This just wasn’t his season. Oh, well, the JVs have only two games left in their season anyway, so I guess it’s not that big of a deal to miss out.”
“They oughta call
me
up,” Gannon said, pursing his lips philosophically. “The JVs need somebody who can shoot from the outside.”
“Yeah,” Brett said, with a wry smile, “but they need someone who can shoot from the outside—and
make
it.”
Cody looked to Gannon, expecting a cutting comeback, but the shooting guard with the freckle-speckled face and militantly vegan mom seemed to be melting into the bleachers. He turned first to Brett, then to Cody. “I guess we’re done then,” he said quietly. “Another basketball season in the books; I can’t believe how quickly it’s over.”
The Evans twins and Gannon gave up on the title game midway through the third quarter. They invited Cody to join them for a milk shake at Dairy Delight, but he begged off. “I gotta see if KJ finally cracks under the pressure of being double- and triple-teamed all night,” he explained.
“Well, excuse us, Mr. Student of the Game,” Gannon said, but he said it with a laugh and a wink.
“Slurp down a shake for me,” Cody said. “Just don’t pour any of that wheat germ or lemongrass powder into it.”
Gannon rolled his eyes. “Hey, man, that stuff isn’t too bad. I’m starting to get used to it. I think maybe my mom might be onto something with all this nutrition stuff. Besides, wheat germ keeps you regular.”
Cody shrugged. “So does pizza.”
Cody watched his three friends exit the gym, then he returned his attention to the game. He could tell Jones was bothered by the constant defensive harassment, but he wasn’t panicking the way he would have back in seventh and eighth grade—and even early in the freshman season. Cody had been able to get inside his head back then. Jones had sighed or huffed every game when Cody first picked him up on defense.
KJ’s playing with more poise
, Cody observed.
He’s not throwing elbows. He’s not whinin’ to the refs, trying to get foul calls. Man, I’ve had his number the past few years, but it looks like that number is gonna change
.
By sheer will, Jones pulled his team to within five late in the fourth quarter, but when he fouled out with 2:29 to play, it was game over. Locke scored Lincoln’s last seven points, and the Lancers won by twelve.
Cody watched the teams receive their championship and runner-up trophies, then he wandered down to the floor to congratulate Locke and Jones on well-played games. Jones accepted the congratulations graciously, but Cody got the sense that Locke was sizing him up the whole time. The last time Grant and Lincoln had played, Cody held Locke to six points, about half of his season average, and Cody got the sense that the Lancers’ forward, with the narrow torso of a basketball player but the muscle-packed arms of a wrestler, resented him.
That’s okay
, Cody reassured himself, after Locke had spun on his heels after declining the hand offered to him in congratulations.
Maybe I can’t get in KJ’s head anymore, but I’m still rentin’ space up in that pointy noggin of Locke’s
.
Cody shot free throws in the near-empty gym while waiting for Holy Family to clear out of the men’s locker room. Then he slipped inside and began stuffing a few T-shirts and gym socks into his athletic bag.
Gotta get these home and washed before they’re declared toxic waste,
he told himself, crinkling his nose at the pungent stench.
I can’t believe that I could make clothes smell this way! This stuff could get the Environmental Protection Agency on my case—not to mention Gannon’s mom!
At least
, Cody thought with a laugh,
my stuff’s not as rank as Goddard’s. I mean, the guy’s T-shirt is so bad that he can actually stand it upright in his locker!
A few days previously, Pork Chop had noticed Goddard’s shirt, standing at attention on one of the locker room benches, and opined, “Dawg, that ain’t even a shirt; it’s a science project!”
Cody had just mashed his basketball shoes into his bag, scolding himself for not putting them in first, when he heard a voice behind him. It was Coach Curtis, an assistant football coach and head freshman baseball coach.
“Hey, Martin,” the coach said, “you ready to trade in your basketball sneakers for baseball cleats now? I can really use a consistent contact hitter like you.”
Cody felt the weight of the intimidating coach’s glare pressing down on him. “Uh, s-sure,” he stammered. “After all, summertime is made for baseball.”
Coach Curtis’s tan face melted into a frown. “Uh, Martin,” he began, “it’s not even spring yet.”
Cody felt himself blushing. “Yeah … I know, Coach, what I meant was, uh …” He felt the stare again.
“Mr. Martin,” Coach Curtis said slowly, “you’re not stupid, are you? Or did you take too many shots to the head during football?”
Cody forced a chuckle. “Nah, Coach. Just tired. You know how it is.”
“Okay, then,” the coach said, with a bewildered shake of his squarish head. “Practice starts next Wednesday. See you on the diamond.”
“Uh, sir,” Cody said, as the coach turned to leave, “do you mean practice or tryouts?”
Coach Curtis snorted. “Tryouts? Tryouts?! Ha! I’ll be lucky to have a dozen freshmen out. Doggone track coaches are poaching all the best athletes. I’m just lookin’ for a few warm bodies at this point. So, as I said, see you on the diamond on Wednesday.”
