Copyright
Single copy price 35¢. Quantity prices available on request.
Copyright © 1960 by Matthew F. Christopher. This Scholastic Book Services edition is published by arrangement with Little, Brown and Company.
Hachette Book Group
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New York, NY 10017
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First eBook Edition: December 2009
ISBN: 978-0-316-09545-7
Contents
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Here are more books by the same author:
BASEBALL PALS
BASKETBALL SPARKPLUG
TOUCHDOWN FOR TOMMY
Available through Scholastic Book Services
1
EMMETT DRIBBLED THE BALL in a fast break toward the basket. He lifted his right knee, sprang off his left foot, and pushed the ball up gently against the backboard. The ball banked through the hoop, struggled through the shriveled net, and dropped to the bare, hard ground.
Again Emmett got the ball. He dribbled toward the baseline, stopped, and pivoted back and forth on his left foot, pretending that he was faking a guard.
There was no guard — there were no players at all. Emmett was playing alone. He just pretended there were others, because it was a lot more fun that way.
Emmett rocked back and forth on his pivot foot. Then he turned and leaped, lifting the ball high in an overhand shot for the basket. The ball arched gracefully. It struck the rim and bounced off. Emmett dashed for the rebound, caught it, and leaped for a layup. Swish! Basket.
He paused awhile, dribbling the ball high and easily so that he wouldn’t have to bend over. He had been playing ever since he arrived home from school. He wasn’t tired, though — just hungry, and a little lonesome. It really wasn’t fun just to play by yourself all the time.
He left the ball on the frozen ground and went into the house. He was thirsty. He drank a glass of water, then looked at the clock above the kitchen sink. It was ticking away noisily, the only sound inside the big, quiet house.
Ten minutes of four. He sighed. Mom and Dad wouldn’t be home for another half hour.
Emmett opened the refrigerator and looked at the food inside. He saw nothing he wanted. He closed the door. Then he placed a chair in front of the refrigerator, stood on the chair and opened the doors of the cabinet. He took out a box of crackers, pulled out a handful and returned the box. The crackers would hold him until Mom cooked supper.
He started to munch on the crackers when a sound outside drew his attention. He ran outdoors, slamming the door behind him, and then stopped as if he had struck a brick wall. A young blond-haired boy was playing with Emmett’s basketball, dribbling it all over the court and shooting at the basket. Emmett’s heart began to pound.
Emmett knew the boy. Then again, he wasn’t sure whether he did or not. Mickey Dunbar, and Robin Dunbar were twins who lived a couple of blocks away. They looked so much alike hardly anyone could tell which was which.
Emmett guessed that this was Robin — Robin Hood, as everybody called him. Robin Hood and Mickey were identical in looks — from their short, stocky builds to their blond brush cuts but they were as different as night and day in other ways. Robin Hood was mischievous and happy-go-lucky. Mickey was quiet and serious.
Emmett didn’t think that Mickey would pick up a basketball in a strange yard and start playing by himself. But Robin Hood would.
The boy sank a hook shot. As he turned under the backboard, he saw Emmett and a grin came across his round, pink-cheeked face.
“Hi!” he said. “This your ball?”
“Yes, it is,” said Emmett.
Those hunger pangs were quickly gone. It wasn’t the crackers that did it. He had eaten only one. The others were still in his hand. What did it was his shyness. He always became very shy every time someone whom he didn’t know very well came near him, or talked to him.
“I’m Robin Hood Dunbar,” the boy said. “You’ve seen me at school, haven’t you? I’ve seen you.”
“I thought it was you.” Emmett grinned a little. “I wasn’t sure at first.”
Robin Hood laughed. “Boy, I didn’t know you had a spot like this. This is neat.”
Emmett finished chewing the cracker and swallowed it. He looked at the other crackers in his hand, then pressed them into his coat pocket.
Robin kept playing by himself. He tried pivot shots, hook shots, and set shots. He seldom made them, but he was certainly enjoying himself.
“Boy, he’s got nerve,” Emmett thought. And he hardly knows me! I wish he’d go away. He has no right to play here. That’s my ball. This is our yard.
“Come on!” Robin Hood yelled to him. “Take some shots!”
Emmett shrugged. “That’s okay,” he said. “I’ve been playing.”
It wasn’t okay, but he didn’t want to say so. And he didn’t want to play with anybody around, especially Robin Hood Dunbar. Robin Hood played on a team and he was good. Emmett had seen him play in the intramurals in the school gym.
“Robin Hood! What have you got there?”
The shout came from across the street. Emmett turned and saw four boys coming in a run. He recognized them all, but he didn’t know any of them personally. None of them were in his classroom.
They rushed into the yard as if they did it every day. Robin Hood passed the ball to a tall redheaded boy whose name was Rusty Kane. Rusty dribbled for the basket and laid it up. Another boy, Glenn Long, rushed in, caught the rebound, then dribbled around to the side and tried a set shot.
None of them paid the slightest attention to Emmett. They kept playing among themselves as if the place and the ball were theirs.
After playing ten minutes or so, Robin Hood yelled, “Hey, Torrance! Come on and get in the fun!”
The other boys stopped briefly, and looked at Emmett.
“Never mind,” said Emmett.
“Come on! Take a shot!”
Robin Hood passed the ball to him. Emmett yanked his hands quickly out of his pockets and caught the ball. He walked on the court, bounced the big rubber basketball a few times, then took a set shot. The ball hit the rim and bounced off. Emmett turned shyly away, putting his hands back into his pockets.
“Almost!” cried Robin Hood.
At the door Emmett turned and continued to watch. The boys were playing pretty hard — passing, dribbling, shooting baskets. He wished Mom and Dad would hurry home.
Presently there was a loud swoosh! and the ball crumbled lopsidedly to the ground.
“Hey!” yelled Rusty Kane. “It sprung a leak!”
Emmett froze. He stood staring at the ball as if he were glued to the ground.
2
ROBIN HOOD picked up the ball. It looked like a giant, overripe orange that had been stepped on.
“This is awful,” said Robin Hood. “I suppose you want us to pay for busting it?”
Emmett swallowed. He took the ball. The boys clustered around him, looking at the ball with slack jaws.
Emmett turned the ball around and around in his hands, squeezing it in places in search for the hole. At last he found it — a jagged cut hardly the width of his little finger.
“Maybe we can patch it,” suggested Rusty.
�
��Sure!” said Robin Hood. “That’s an idea!”
He took the ball from Emmett. Emmett made an attempt to get it back, but he was too late.
“How are we going to blow it up after it’s patched?” another boy asked.
“We’ll use Joe Sutton’s air hose,” said Robin. “Come on!”
He started off at a run, the others following.
“That won’t work!” Emmett cried out.
The boys stopped as if Emmett had yanked a string attached to them. “Why not?” said Robin.
“You need a valve,” explained Emmett. “Wait a minute. I have one.”
He ran into the house. He found the needle-like stem after a breathless search, then returned outdoors. He gave it to Robin Hood.
“Come along with us,” said Robin.
“I don’t want to,” said Emmett. “My Mom and Dad are coming home pretty soon.”
“Okay. We’ll bring the ball back after it’s fixed.”
The boys ran off. Emmett thrust his hands gloomily into his pockets, spun on his heels and walked back to the house. What a fine thing. You never saw him run into some stranger’s yard, pick up a basketball and play with it as if he owned it. And then, to add salt to the wound, as Mom would say, punch a hole in it, too. Of course, the boys hadn’t done that on purpose. But they could have seen that the ball wasn’t a very good one.
A noise from the house next door pecked annoyingly at Emmett’s mind, but he was too angry to pay much attention to it. He was ready to open the door when he heard a crash. This time he looked. He forgot his anger. The noise came from the basement of Mrs. Maxwell’s house.
Emmett ran across the frozen ground, leaped over the dwarf-sized hedgerow, then onto the Maxwell driveway. He almost fell against the side door.
He pounded against it with his fist.
“Mr. G.!” he shouted. “Mr. G.! Open up!”
He heard another crash. What was Mr. G. doing in there?
Emmett turned the knob and shoved his shoulder against the door. He almost went sprawling. With his hand still on the knob he stared at the sight in the room — at the oil paintings strewn over the floor, torn and twisted. Then he stared at the man in the middle of the room, a small man with a narrow face and a long, sharp chin. His hair was fire-red, and thick as a lion’s mane. His brows were black as tar, and his eyes a heaven-blue. Right now those eyes pierced the room with a look Emmett had never seen before.
“Mr. G.!” Emmett cried, afraid to advance any farther into the room. “What are you doing?”
Mr. G.’s chest heaved. “I’m smashing things, Emmett. Or shall I say, I’ve smashed them? I’m going to destroy every painting I’ve ever done, Emmett. Every last bit of them. They’re no good. Not one of them is worth the cheap canvas they are painted on. And I’ve given it my life. My life, Emmett.” He laughed. “Well, not exactly, because I am still here. Still alive. Not too old, not too young. But still alive. Close the door, Emmett. My paltry allowance is hardly enough to pay for the fuel to keep this place warm. I can’t warm the outdoors, too.”
Emmett closed the door. “I’m sorry, Mr. G.” He looked at the paintings. There were four of them, all ruined. They had been hanging on the walls. Emmett knew he was too small and too young to know very much about paintings. But he thought that those which Mr. G. had painted were beautiful. One was of a horse and wagon going down an old road in the country. A boy and a girl sat on the high seat, looking at each other and smiling. Another was of a farm in the wintertime, with a car stuck in the deep snow and a horse trying to pull it out. The third one was of a little girl holding a kitten. The fourth was of a bell in a tower, and people below going to church. Emmett had never realized that anybody could paint pictures which could look so real. Now they were lying all over the floor, ripped apart by the man who had painted them.
Emmett stared at Mr. G. What had made him tear up such beautiful things? For a while Emmett didn’t know what to say or do. He had never seen Mr. G. in such a bad temper.
“I’m no good, Emmett,” Mr. G. said. “I’m going to quit painting.” His voice was soft and kind again, just the way Emmett had always known it. The angry look in his eyes was gone.
“Oh, you can’t, Mr. G.! You can’t quit painting!”
Mr. G. smiled and put an arm around Emmett. “I must, my friend. I must stop it right away and do something else. Give me a hand cleaning up this mess, will you, Emmett?”
“Sure, Mr. G.”
Emmett began picking up.
“Did you have to tear up these beautiful paintings, Mr. G.?” said Emmett. “They weren’t hurting anybody.”
“I guess I was too disgusted to realize what I was doing, Emmett,” said Mr. G. “It was a foolish thing to do. Very foolish. I see that now, and I’m a little sorry. Those paintings were rather beautiful, weren’t they, Emmett?”
“They sure were, Mr. G.”
Emmett sat on a chair near the table and looked at Mr. G. He had known the little red-haired man for almost a year, ever since Mr. G. had moved into Mrs. Maxwell’s basement apartment and had invited Emmett in to eat some of his homemade cookies. He had come from New York City and was attending an art school here in Westvale. Before that he had gone to a university and had studied art.
“It’s my life,” Mr. G. once had told Emmett. “I don’t think there is anything I’d be happier doing than painting pictures. Look at Leonardo da Vinci. He was an, inventor, but people will always remember him as the painter of The Last Supper. A good painting throbs with life, Emmett. It’s a gift God has given me, and I feel obliged to make the most of it.”
Emmett enjoyed visiting Mr. G. and listening to him talk about his work. Quite often Mr. G. would let Emmett watch him paint. But it was during his moments of rest that Mr. G. would sit and talk to Emmett as if he were talking to an old friend.
“I’ve been here almost a year, Emmett,” Mr. G. had said only a few days ago. “I’ve sold two illustrations to magazines, and I’ve tried to peddle some pieces which I thought were really good art to stores and art collectors. They turned me down as if I were a beggar.”
“How about painting people?” Emmett had asked.
“Portraits?” Mr. G.’s short laugh was a far from happy one. “People will give you five or ten dollars. They can’t afford more. But there are those who can afford, and will pay well.”
“Who are they, Mr. G.?”
“They are the ones who appreciate art, Emmett. They buy it to look at and have others look at for sheer enjoyment. Pick up a magazine, Emmett, and leaf through its pages. What attracts you instantly? The paintings, Emmett. Those beautiful illustrations that go along with the stories. They are the things that attract you first, that make you want to read the stories. Yes, Emmett, the field for an artist is wide, but it’s a hard one. So hard that sometimes you want to give it up and start all over with something easier.”
Emmett remembered those words now, and he said, “You won’t really quit painting, will you, Mr. G.?”
Mr. G. looked unhappily at his hands. “I don’t know, Emmett,” he said dreamily. “I really don’t know.”
Presently Emmett heard new sounds outside. He looked out of the window. The boys were back. They had fixed his basketball, and were shooting it at the basket, playing more carefully now than they had before.
“I think I’ll go, Mr. G.,” Emmett said, forcing a smile.
Mr. G. returned the smile. “Thanks, Emmett. I’m grateful to you. I’m sorry you found me in one of my rare moods.”
Emmett went out of the door and ran around the hedgerow to the court.
“Hi!” cried Robin, and passed the ball to Emmett. “It’s patched up and works like new! Hey, how would you like to play on our team — the Penguins?” he continued. “We can use another sub.”
Emmett stared. “Who? Me?”
The boys laughed. “Yes, you!” said Robin Hood. “We play in the Ice Cap League every Saturday morning at the Northside Community Hall.”
A
lump formed in Emmett’s throat. At last he said, “I don’t think so.”
But he thought, “I’d like to! I’m just afraid!”
3
EMMETT DIDN’T KNOW what he was afraid of. He knew he was, that’s all. It was just the way he had felt when Robin Hood had come into the yard without being invited. Emmett had gotten that strange, prickly feeling all over him. All he could think it might be was fear. He always felt that way, every time strangers came near him.
“You don’t think so?”. echoed Robin Hood. “Why not? Don’t you like basketball?”
“Oh, sure, I like it,” said Emmett.
“Then why don’t you join us?”
Emmett shrugged. Now was his chance. Why did he hesitate? Why didn’t he say yes without worrying about what might happen next?
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll play.”
“Good!” said Robin Hood. “Can you practice tomorrow after school? It’ll be from four to five at the Northside.”
The Northside Community Hall was a four-story brick building three blocks away. “I think so,” said Emmett.
A car pulled up to the curb. Mom and Dad were home! And so were Charlene and Georgianne, his little sisters. They piled out of the back seat of the car, their curls bobbing on their shoulders. Both of them wore blue winter coats and hats and white mittens.
“Guess your folks are home,” said Robin Hood. “So long! We’ll see you tomorrow afternoon!” They started off at a run. “Oh, yes! Thanks for letting us play with your ball!”
Emmett waved to them, then went forward to meet his Mom and Dad. Charlene and Georgianne ran to him, and they both grabbed his legs. He couldn’t move.
“Let go of me!” he shouted.
The girls laughed and let him go. Mom and Dad laughed, too. They put their arms around him and the three of them followed the girls up to the front door.
“Those boys looked familiar,” Mrs. Torrance said as she opened the door. “But I’ve never seen them here before. Who are they?”
Emmett explained who they were, but all the time his stomach felt as if butterflies were inside of it.
Break for the Basket Page 1
