Full Court Press (12 page)

Alston accepted the book with tentative hands. “Thanks, Martin. But what about
you
?”

Cody smiled sheepishly. “I can probably get Robyn to study with me. Maybe Pork Chop, too, if I serve snacks.”

Alston started to laugh, but then caught himself.

“Well, thanks, Martin.”

“No problem. But—T?”

“Yeah?”

“I'm not trying to tell you how to live your life or anything, but I wish you'd think about the whole apology thing. You're the best player in the league, maybe even the whole state. We need you.”

“Look, Coach Clayton's a big—”

Cody held up his right hand, like a school crossing guard. “Please, I don't wanna hear it. Just think about what I said, okay?”

Alston ran a hand through his straw-colored hair.

“Okay. Hey, Martin, does all this have anything to do with your being a Christian or whatever?”

Cody willed himself to meet Alston's eyes. “It pretty much has
everything
to do with that.”

Alston nodded and walked away.

A couple of days later, Cody arrived for his morning free throws and saw Alston and Coach Clayton at the far end of the court, alternating jump shots. Alston hit a baseline twenty-footer and jogged toward the locker room.

“Hey, you back on the team?” Cody asked as Alston moved by him.

“Yes and no,” Alston said without turning around.

That night before warm-ups, the team sat in a half circle at midcourt. Alston, in street clothes, stood before them, rocking slowly from heels to toes.

“So I talked to Coach this morning,” he began, “and I apologized to him for acting like a jerk against Creek. And I apologize to all of you too.”

Alston looked to Coach Clayton, who gave him a parental nod.

“I will also apologize to that ref. It was a bad call, but we all make mistakes. I'm sorry if I embarrassed us as a team. And I wish I was still playing with you guys.”

Cody and Pork Chop exchanged surprised expressions. Alston looked desperately uncomfortable, but he was saying all the right things.

“Anyway,” Alston continued, “after I talked to Coach this morning, he said he'd take me back—as interim assistant coach. If it's okay with you guys.”

Coach Clayton put his hand on Alston's shoulder. “So, fellas, what do you say?”

Cody cleared his throat and smiled at Alston.

“Welcome back, Assistant Coach.”

Pork Chop belched thoughtfully. “Yeah, welcome back, TA.”

The others nodded their approval, and a smile of relief creased Alston's face.

During Grant's final two practices, Alston dove into his new role. He implored Gannon to square up on his jumpers, he worked with Goddard on his crossover dribble, and tutored Bart Evans on the art of the no-look pass.

Grant drew Holy Family in the first round of the district tourney. Cody heard Keenan Jones groan audibly the first time he picked up the Saint forward on defense. By the end of the first quarter, Cody had forced three bad passes, blocked a shot, and drawn two charging calls.

At the quarter break, Alston clapped Cody on the back.

“Martin, you are so inside of KJ's head. You've totally taken him out of his game!”

Jones hit his first basket two minutes before halftime, but by that point Grant was already up by twelve. On offense, the Raiders struggled to hit open jumpers, but Pork Chop and Brett Evans collected bushels of offensive rebounds and gave the team an array of second-chance hoops.

Holy Family made a last-minute run, but Pork Chop sealed the win with a three-point play. Final score—Grant 37, Holy Family 32.

The win brought up a semifinal matchup with Lincoln, who had upset East in the first round.

Before the game, Alston put his arm around Cody's shoulder.

“Cody, Locke is all these guys have. You shut him down, and this one is ours!”

Cody nodded. Alston needn't have said anything about Locke. But the speech did make an impression on him. It was the first time Alston had called him anything but “Martin” or something much worse.

Cody was relentless on Locke, fronting him every time he tried to post up in the low block. Miles, Lincoln's point guard, tried to force a few bullet passes, but Cody intercepted them or batted them away. And when Miles went to high lobs, they sailed over Locke's head and into Pork Chop's waiting hands—except for the two that hit the side of the backboard.

“That's the kind of defense that puts a smile on my big country face!” Coach Clayton said, praising Cody at halftime.

Cody collected his fourth foul with five minutes to go in the game as he battled with Locke for rebounding position. A minute later, he tried to block a Locke jumper and slapped him on the forearm instead.

Wearily, Cody jogged to the bench. Coach Clayton patted him on the head.

“Good game, dawg. You're gonna foul out once in a while when you play Monster D like that.”

Cody slumped on the bench and watched Bart Evans, who replaced him in the lineup, front Locke on the low post.

“I had Bart watch you,” Coach Clayton said. “I told him to do it exactly like you did.”

Bart Evans wasn't as agile as Cody, but he was two inches taller, and Locke got only two touches for the remainder of the game. Grant won by thirteen, 41–28.

It was Grant and Central in the finals. Central won its first two games by twenty-eight and nineteen, respectively, with Macy scoring twenty-two and twenty-one.

As the teams positioned for the opening tip, Macy drew beside Cody.

“You're mine, Martin! You're gonna get rocked!”

Pork Chop planted himself on the other side of Macy, leaned in close to him, and belched in his ear.

“Rock that, Macy,” he said.

Central controlled the opening tap, and Clay went immediately to Macy, who posted up Cody in the low block. Macy faked right and then pivoted left, elevated smoothly, and banked in a right-handed jump hook.

After Dylan tied the game with a baseline jumper, Central isolated Macy on Cody again. This time, Macy didn't go glass.

“Get used to it, boy,” Macy said as the ball slid through the net.

After Macy hit his third straight shot over Cody, Coach Clayton called time-out. Alston met Cody before he got to the sidelines.

“Cody,” he said, his voice already hoarse, “you gotta overplay Macy to his right hand. That way, you'll throw off his rhythm, force him to go lefty—and we both know he's got almost no game to his left. Come on, dude! You can shut him down!”

Coach Clayton joined the conversation. He handed Cody a water bottle.

“You understand what Terry's saying?”

Cody nodded slowly. “Yeah, yeah. I shoulda figured that out. I kinda lost my focus for a while. I'm sorry, Coach—I mean, coaches.”

On Central's next possession, Macy found Cody nearly hanging on his right arm as he wheeled to shoot. Cody saw surprise in Macy's eyes as he launched his shot. The look went from surprise to dismay as the ball arced over the rim and into Dylan's hands.

Pork Chop fired an outlet pass to Goddard, then trailed Macy up the court, whispering loudly, “Air ball! Air ball!”

On Central's next two possessions, Clay shot free throw line jumpers, going one for two. Just before the end of the first quarter, Clay decided to give Macy another chance to get his jump-hook back on track. Again, Cody shaded Macy to his right—and leaped so hard he heard himself grunt as he strained to get at least a fingertip on Macy's shot.

Cody didn't touch any leather, but Macy left the shot short.

“Clank!” Pork Chop shouted as he grabbed the carom off the side of the rim.

Pork Chop winked at Cody as he set up on the high post.

“Get me the ball,” he called.

Goddard swung the ball to Cody on the right wing. Cody immediately bounce-passed to Pork Chop, who backed deliberately toward the hoop, using his ample backside to push Miller, the Central postman, out of his way. Once he had Miller under the basket, Pork Chop stopped, elevated (a good three inches off the floor), and banked in a right-handed shot. The first quarter ended in a 14–14 deadlock.

The teams traded leads eleven times in the second quarter, with neither able to gain more than a three-point advantage. With one minute to go in the half, Macy came off of a high pick and tried to shake Cody with a series of head fakes, jukes, and jab steps. But Cody kept his center of gravity low and his body square with Macy's.

Cody heard Macy swear and then he dribbled to his right and launched an off-balance jumper. Cody leaped with him, straining to block the shot. Cody felt his middle finger brush the ball, but the shot still rattled in.

“Nice shot,” Cody said.

Macy looked at him, suspicion creeping into his eyes. “What?”

“It was a good shot, that's all. I did all I could, and you still made it.”

With that, Cody turned and trotted downcourt.

Brett Evans missed a runner in the lane. His brother snagged the rebound and cleared the ball to Dylan along the left baseline. Dylan drove to the hoop, but Clay cut him off. As Dylan searched in vain for some help, the halftime buzzer sounded.

Grant went to the locker room trailing by two, but Cody knew that the Raiders were still very much in the game.

In the visitors' locker room, the team sat attentively as Coach Clayton prepared to speak. Alston, who was sitting next to Cody, raised his hand.

“Coach, may I say something?”

Coach Clayton smiled cryptically.

“No, Terry—you may not.”

Alston looked as if he had been stun gunned.

“Are you kidding me or something?”

“I never kid when it comes to basketball. You don't have time to talk, because you need to go see Dutch over at the entrance. He has your uniform.”

Alston's jaw dropped. “But didn't you kick me off the team?”

“Not officially. See, Alston, I hoped you'd come around. You've shown me something as a coach. Now it's time to show me something as a player. I don't know what brought you around, but I'm sure glad it did.”

Cody saw Alston look his way and nod once.