Full Court Press

by Todd Hafer

  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.

  Alston entered the third quarter the way a starving man enters an all-you-can-eat buffet. He scored twelve points in eight minutes, six on fast breaks in which he simply outran the other nine players on the court.

  Grant began the final quarter with a two-point lead. The margin grew to six after an Alston jumper from the foul line, then a reverse layup. Clay answered the latter with a fall-away jumper, but then Alston hit Dylan with a perfect behind-the-back pass on a two-on- one fast break.

  Macy didn’t even get to sniff the ball until two and a half minutes elapsed. He snared a high lob pas
s on the low post, but as he tried to back Cody under the backboard, he dribbled the ball off his foot.

  At the quarter mid-point, the Raiders walked onto the court after a time-out.

  “Man,” said Brett Evans, staring at the scoreboard, which read Central 42, Visitor 48, “we might actually win this thing.”

  Dylan nodded in agreement. Cody wouldn’t allow himself to nod, but he shared Dylan’s hope.

  Then Alston’s game went up in smoke. Cody knew his teammate was in trouble when he saw him bent over, hands on knees, as he waited to shoot two free throws. Alston left both shots short.

  Clay, noting Alston’s fatigue, called for the ball. With a quick first step, he beat Alston to the baseline and hit an easy lay-in.

  The next time down, Clay faked Alston into the air and earned a three-point play when he got slapped across the elbow on a jump shot.

  As Alston jogged the ball upcourt, he raised his left hand like a surrender flag, signaling Coach Clayton to take him out of the game.

  The coach called time-out and sent Gannon to the scorer’s table. Alston collapsed on the bench, coughing like an old man.

  “I’m sorry, Coach,” he said, gasping for air. “I am worked!”

  Coach Clayton nodded. “I take it you haven’t stopped supporting the tobacco industry?”

  Alston gave a guilty nod. “Well, I did think I was off the team. But I’ll tell you right now—I’d like to find that Marlboro Man and Joe Camel and kick their sorry butts—no pun intended.”

  Coach Clayton smiled. “It’s okay, TA. You’ve given us a chance to win—a chance we wouldn’t have without you.”

  Then the coach addressed his team, “Okay, gentlemen. We’re up three. We can win this. Sharp passes. Good shots. Tough defense. Martin, keep pressuring Macy full-court. If you keep taking him out of the offense, they are hurtin’. And Pork Chop, you keep gobbling up rebounds like the Cookie Monster gobbles up cookies, okay?”

  Pork Chop nodded, his eyes meeting Cody’s. The Raiders stacked their hands on Coach Clayton’s.

  “Let’s hear ‘defense’ on three,” he said.

  “Defense!” the team called in near-perfect unison. Before moving on court, Cody looked up in the stands, behind the team bench, and found Blake and his dad. Dad nodded. Blake made a fist with his right hand and pounded it against his chest.

  Robyn, who was sitting with Greta, behind Blake, simply pointed at Cody and smiled. He wasn’t sure what she meant, but he felt energized nonetheless.

  Dylan inbounded the ball to Cody. He turned and saw Macy giving him room. He squared up and launched a jump shot from eighteen feet, barely in his range. He thought he had left the shot short, but the ball nudged the side of the rim and then crept over for two.

  As he sprinted back on defense, Cody risked a look to the stands. He saw Blake pounding Dad’s back as both stood to roar their approval.

  Cody’s moment of inattention allowed Macy to get free for a jumper from the left baseline. Fortunately, Macy lost control of the ball as he went up and had to adjust his shot in midair. The hesitation was all Cody needed to recover. He charged, not directly at Macy, but to a spot two feet in front of him. As he propelled his body upward, he knew he was finally going to get a real block, not just a deflection.

  Macy followed his shot to the basket, but the ball wasn’t going to make it to the basket. Cody redirected it back over Macy’s head and right to Bart Evans.

  Grant got a good shot on their next offensive set, but Goddard missed a five-foot bank shot in the lane. Macy out-jumped Pork Chop for the rebound and caught Clay streaking downcourt for an uncontested layup.

  After a Brett Evans miss, Clay pulled Central even with Grant as he hit a layup, drew a foul on Goddard, and converted the three-point play.

  With thirty seconds left in the game, Gannon walked the ball up court. As he crossed the midcourt stripe, Clay and Macy trapped him. Gannon tried a desperation baseball pass across court to Goddard but threw it over his head.

  Cody thought Central would call time-out, but Clay quickly inbounded the ball to Macy, who gave it right back to his teammate. Cody clenched his teeth as he saw Central isolate Clay against Goddard. Clay had three inches on Goddard—and probably three seconds in the 100-yard dash. He thought about leaving Macy to help out his teammate, but he couldn’t risk leaving the league’s best clutch shooter open.

  Goddard did everything he could to stay with Clay, but when the latter drove hard to the hoop, stopped abruptly, and elevated for a fallaway jumpshot, there was nothing to do but watch as Central pulled ahead by two, with nine seconds left in the game.

  “No time-outs! No time-outs left,” Coach Clayton bellowed from the sidelines.

  Gannon nodded as he looked to inbound the ball. Clay pressured Goddard as he tried to free himself in the backcourt.

  Cody could see Gannon straining to find an open man. Dylan dashed into the backcourt, Macy on his heels. Gannon’s eyes locked on Dylan as he fired a chest pass in his direction.

  Gannon’s pass sailed toward midcourt. Dylan and Macy both lunged for it. Dylan got his fingertips on the ball, but he couldn’t control it. It glanced off his right hand and went out of bounds.

  “White ball!” the lead referee yelled.

  Quickly, Clay moved to the referee’s side and waited for the ball. Cody nodded grimly.

  No time-out again, eh? Good strategy, with only six seconds remaining, but this time I’m ready.

  He attached himself to Macy like a barnacle. He felt certain Clay would go to the player with the best hands. Then again, that would be predictable. Maybe Macy would just be a decoy. What was Clay thinking?

  Cody knew the answer when he felt Macy push him hard in the back. It should have been a foul, but that was okay. This was almost as good. Clay and Macy had tipped their hand. They probably practiced this stunt a thousand times. Push the defender to get separation, and then catch the high-lob pass.

  Cody pretended to stumble forward as Macy sprinted away from him. Clay unleashed a high, arcing pass.

  Cody regained the balance that he had never really lost and closed the gap between himself and Macy.

  As Cody spring-loaded himself to leap and intercept the ball, he tried to calculate how much time the Raiders would have to score—probably five seconds, if he could snag Clay’s pass.

  The “if” quickly became reality. Cody snared the ball with his right hand. He took two dribbles upcourt.

  Five, four . . . he counted to himself.

  He saw Pork Chop break free at center court. He rocketed a chest pass to him. Pork Chop turned and dribbled toward the top of the key. Cody broke for the basket. He wasn’t sure there would even be time for a rebound and a put-back, but this wasn’t something you left to chance.

  Three, two . . .

  Pork Chop stopped just inside the top of the key and went up for a jumper. Macy was right on him, and Clay charged in at the last second to get a hand in his face too.

  Pork Chop’s shot hit the back of the rim and bounced high into the air. Goddard tipped the rebound away from Macy and controlled the ball along the left perimeter of the lane. He had just elevated for a jump shot when the final buzzer blared.

  Cody saw the lead ref waving off the shot before Goddard released and swished it.

  Goddard must have seen the ref, too, because he collapsed to his knees, covering his face with both hands. Pork Chop knelt beside him, wrapping a sweaty arm around his teammate.

  Cody stood before Goddard and Pork Chop. It looked as if they were both crying. But Pork Chop was sweating so profusely that it was hard to tell.

  Cody extended both hands. “It’s okay, guys. We gave it all we had.”

  Goddard and Pork Chop each took a hand, and Cody yanked them to their feet. Where he found the strength to do it, he wasn’t sure. As the threesome walked to the bench, Cody surveyed the bleachers. Nearly everyone was standing, and they were all applauding.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” the public add
ress announcer said, “we ask that you stay in your seats for the presentation of the trophies and the announcement of the all-district tournament team—and this year’s tournament MVP.”

  When the Raiders went to center court to accept the runner-up trophy, Central’s athletic director handed it to Pork Chop.

  “You are a warrior, big man,” he said.

  “We all are, sir,” Pork Chop said, handing the trophy to Goddard.

  After watching Central accept the championship trophy, Cody leaned toward Pork Chop.

  “I hope you made all-tourney, Chop. You deserve it.”

  “Thanks,” Pork Chop said, finishing off a cup of Gatorade and belching.

  The first two all-tournament selections were no surprise. Mike Riley was a hard-nosed player who made few mistakes. And Bobby Cabrera had been spectacular, even though he couldn’t carry his team to the finals. He scored twenty-five in the opening game.

  “R-r-r-r-r-r-rick Macy!” the PA announcer called, drawing whoops of approval from the hometown crowd. Macy walked slowly to center court, where he accepted his medal and shook hands with Cabrera and Riley.

  Come on, Cody said to himself. Call Chop’s name. Come on!

  “Cody Martin, of the Grant Raiders!” said the announcer, with about half the gusto and volume that he gave Macy.

  Cody sat stunned on the Raider bench. He looked to Coach Clayton, who said, “Every dawg has his day!” Cody felt hands pounding on his back as he rose slowly to his feet. He heard ferocious barking and knew it was coming from Pork Chop and the Evans twins.

  Riley offered his hand as Cody stood beside him, and Macy leaned in his direction and shouted over the applause, “Good tournament, Martin. I have a feeling we’re going to be seeing a lot of each other in high school.”

  Cody nodded. He looked down the line at Cabrera, who was staring straight ahead.

  “Whatever,” Cody said quietly.

  When one of Central’s cheerleaders placed the medal around his neck, Cody closed his eyes for a moment. Then he tilted his head up and pointed both index fingers to the sky.