Full Court Press (10 page)
Grant faced a disorganized Cook team and a tired Lincoln squad that week, beating both by twelveâon the road. In the Lincoln game, Cody held Locke, a five-foot-nine power forward who was averaging fourteen points a game, scoreless. At halftime Locke was zero for eight, and Coach Clayton issued a challenge to Cody, “Martin, if you blank Locke in the second half, I'm buyin' hot-fudge sundaes for everyone after the game.”
Later, when Cody tipped just enough of Locke's last-second turnaround jumper to make it fall short, the entire Grant bench ejected from their seats, whooping and clapping.
“That's my white boy!” Dylan screamed.
“No, that's
my
white boy,” Pork Chop countered.
Coach Clayton smiled. “That's my dawg!” he said.
Locke ended the game zero for fourteen. After the final buzzer, he rebounded his errant shot and punted the ball into the rafters.
Week four of the hoop season brought Maranatha and Mill Creek to the Grant gym. The Raiders won both games but lost something more important. In the fourth quarter of the Mill Creek game, with Grant leading by two, Alston tried to block a Mike Riley fallaway jumper from behind. He was whistled for a foul and immediately drew nose to nose with the referee. About the only three clean words Cody heard from Alston during the thirty-second tirade that followed were “you,” “blind,” and “moron.”
The ref responded by assessing Alston his second technical foul and ejecting him from the game. Alston marched from the court, snatched a towel from Dutch, and sat heavily at the end of the bench.
Coach Clayton followed Alston down the bench, kneeling in front of him and whispering something in his ear. From his vantage point at midcourt, Cody could see Alston's eyes widen and his head shake in disbelief. Coach Clayton drew to his feet and stood over his star guard, hands on hips. Alston rose slowly and slinked away to the locker room.
After Riley hit his three free throws, Coach Clayton called time out. “Men,” he said, his voice measured, “we're going to have to win this one without Terry Alston. Losing your cool is like spilling a box of Cheerios. It's messy, and it takes a lon-n-n-n-n-g time to get your stuff together afterwards.”
Cody nodded. Blake had talked about the same thing on Sundayâonly without the cereal analogy. His words had come straight out of Proverbs 16:32â“Better a patient man than a warrior, a man who controls his temper than one who takes a city.”
Cody had never thought of himself as being stronger than Alston, but maybe, in at least one important way, he was.
Before the Raiders broke their huddle, Coach Clayton looked almost pleadingly at his team.
“This is the last game before Christmas break,” he said, “so we'll have a long time to think about it if we lose. C'mon fellasâwe can win this thing if we play tough D. That's defense, Gannon. That thing we do while you're waiting to get the ball back.”
Gannon grinned, winked at Coach Clayton, and jogged to midcourt.
“Heaven help us,” Coach Clayton sighed.
As he took up position on the left wing, Cody looked up at the game clock, which read 1:31. Gannon charged up the middle of the court, and Cody and Pork Chop shot each other a foreboding glance as they moved in to rebound the inevitable Gannon miss
.
I wonder if this will be a clanker off the front rim or an air ball,
Cody thought as he battled Riley for position in front of the hoop.
Gannon was just inside the top of the key when he launched his jumper. Riley tried to hip-check Cody aside as the ball flatlined toward the bucket. Cody held his ground, went into a slight crouch, and prepared to jump for the rebound.
Cody relaxed his leg muscles as Gannon's shot whipped through the net. He saw Gannon do the Tiger Woods fist-pump as he jogged back on defense. However, as he crossed the center stripe, Gannon jump-stopped and pivoted back toward the Raider basket. Riley had just released a lazy inbounds pass to Brach, his backcourt mate, and Gannon got to the ball well before it reached its intended target.
Gannon collected his prize and elevated for a jumper from the right wing. Cody fought his way down the center of the lane for the rebound. Out of the corner of his left eye, he saw Gannon release his shot at a severe downward angle.
In the split second that followed, Cody realized he was witnessing a triple miracle. First, Gannon had actually made a shot. Then, he played defense. And now, with the game on the line, he was declining a cherished opportunity to shoot, in favor of a potential assist.
Cody caught the bullet jump pass in stride and hit a left-handed layup. As he hustled back on defense, he saw Coach Clayton jumping up and down, his heels nearly hitting his backside.
“He looks like a cheerleader,” Cody whispered.
“An ugly cheerleader,” Pork Chop agreed.
Energized by Greg Gannon's rare display of complete basketball, Grant pulled away to win by seven. The Raiders entered the Christmas break 9â0.
C
ody's dad turned down no fewer than five invitations to Christmas dinner, including one from his sister in Oregon. Dad also had a brother in Texas, but he rarely spoke of himâor
to
himâas far as Cody knew.
On December 22 Cody heard a knock at his bedroom door. He put down his Bible and called, “Yeah?”
Without opening the door, his dad asked, “Cody what would you like to do for Christmas? It's coming up so fast, and I really don't know what to do.”
Cody rose from his bed and opened the door.
“I don't care what we do, Dad. I just don't want you to go to any trouble. Around two, Blake will pick us up to volunteer at the soup kitchen, just like always. Then Pork Chop is coming by a little later. Other than thatâ”
“I just can't do the soup kitchen thing this year, Cody. There's no way.”
Cody looked closely at his dad. His face bore deep lines, as if they'd been etched with a sculptor's tool. Had they been there for a while, or was this something that sadness did to a man?
“Really, Dad?” he said. “I meanâMercy House has been kinda like a family tradition.”
“Well, we're not quite the same family this year, are we?”
Cody felt anger rising inside him. He fought to push it down.
“Okay, Dad. I'll do Mercy House on my own. As for the rest of the day, I guess I'm not sure. What do
you
want to do?”
“I don't really feel like celebrating, to tell you the truth, Son, but we could go spend part of the day with one of the church families. We have plenty of invitations. It's just that . . . without your mom, I'm just not looking forward to Christmas this year.”
Images flashed through Cody's head like movie clips. Mom reading Christmas letters from friends and relatives. Mom sticking holiday photos on the refrigerator with those fruit magnets of hers. Mom lining the fireplace mantel with greeting cards. Mom smiling as she welcomed guests into their home and humming “Silent Night” as she put away leftovers.
He heard Dad clear his throat and snapped from his memory trance.
“Well,” his father said in a weary voice, “should we go somewhere or what?”
“Nah, Dad. Let's just have a quiet Christmas, you and I. We don't have to eat turkey or any of that stuff.
We can just eat . . . whatever. And if you want, you can shoot hoops with me and Chop when he comes over.”
His dad smiled sadly. “Your mom adored Deke Porter. It will be nice to see him. And maybe he can help us eat all those gift baskets. There are at least ten on the kitchen table, and it's still not Christmas yet. We could start our own fruit stand.”
Cody forced a laugh. “Hey, Dad?”
“Yeah?”
“On Christmas Eve, I want to go to the service at the church. Would you be interested in coming with me?”
Cody couldn't read the expression that crept over his dad's face.
“I'm going to have to pass on that, too, Cody.”
“But, Dadâ”
“Don't you dare question me on this. I'm not going to go into God's house out of habit or pretense. He took away the best thing in my life. He could have healed her, Cody, but he didn't. I begged him. But he did nothing. So God and I are done.”
“You may think you're done with God, Dad. But he isn't done with you. He still loves you.”
“He has a funny way of showing it.”
“He gave you and Mom sixteen years together.”
Cody saw his father's bottom lip begin to quiver. “That's not nearly enough. Was thirteen years enough for you, Cody? You happy how things have turned out?”
“No, of course not. But I'm thankful that I had a mom like her. I'm thankful for you. And I've been angry at God too. But in the end, I know he loves me. And I know he's wiser than I am. So I trust him.”
“Well, you're just the model Christian, aren't you? You're a regular saint.”
“Dad, please don't talk like that. I'm not a model anything. I miss her. I hurt just like you do. I wish she were still here.”
Cody watched a tear track its way down his father's cheek.
“So do I, Son.”
“Dad, please come to church with me on Christmas Eve.”
“I've said no. It wouldn't be honest. At least I won't be a hypocrite like so many this time of year.”
“But, Dadâyou can go to church even if you're mad at God. Even if you're questioning him.”
Cody's dad shook his head wearily. “Please, Codyâjust let this go,” he whispered.
“Okay, Dad. But I'll be praying for you. Please don't give up on God. He hasn't given up on us.”
The phone rang, and Cody watched his dad run to answer it.
Cody frowned. He hadn't seen his father run to do anything in months. And he hadn't been inside a church since the funeral. He said he couldn't stand the looks of pity or the way people emphasized the word “are” when they asked, “How
are
you?”
But now Cody knew that Blake was rightâthere was more to it than that. Blake had suggested that Dad's heart was “clenched like a fist” because of the pain he was feeling. Cody stood in the hallway and listened to his father forcing a laugh as he talked on the phone.
Please, God,
he prayed.
Open Dad's heart so your love can really touch it. And please don't be too angry at him for what he said. Amen.
