by Jeff Rud
Principal Walker’s experienced gray eyes carefully surveyed Matt’s face. It was several seconds before he responded. And just as he was about to say something, a knock came at his office door. “Come in,” he said.
Through the door walked Coach Stephens, who nodded at Matt. “I asked the coach to join us for this meeting, Matt,” Principal Walker said. “It concerns him too.”
Matt didn’t know what was coming next, but he was pretty sure he wasn’t going to like it. Coach Stephens didn’t look happy as he folded his long, lean frame into the chair beside Matt.
“I was informed about this incident by Mr. Jackson, Grant’s dad,” the principal continued. “He was furious that Grant’s nose had been broken, and his version of what happened that night is much different than the one you’ve told me.
“Regardless, fighting is simply not tolerated amongst South Side students. Matt, you haven’t been in any real trouble before this and I understand from talking to you and others that you felt you were defending your friend, so I’m going to give you a break. You won’t be suspended from school, but I do have to punish you. As I said, fighting isn’t tolerated.
“Coach Stephens and I have discussed it and agreed on one week of detention. Now, I’m not going to keep you from basketball practice. I don’t think that would be fair to you or to the team. So you’ll have to serve the detention in the morning. I expect you to be here at 7:15, in my office, for the next five school days. I’ll have some work for you to do each morning.”
Matt nodded. He was ashamed but relieved at the same time. It was the first time he had ever received more than a few minutes detention after class, and he wasn’t looking forward to getting up early for the next five school days. But at least it wouldn’t interfere with basketball.
“You should also know,” Principal Walker continued, “that Grant Jackson has been suspended from school for three days. Because he has already been disciplined several times this year, his punishment is far harsher than yours is. But if I see something like this from you again, you’ll get similar treatment.”
Matt left the principal’s office with Coach Stephens and was about to head for advisory when the coach tapped him on the shoulder and motioned toward a bench outside the main office. “Have a seat,” he said solemnly.
“You put me in a very tough spot here, Matt,” Coach Stephens said. “Normally, two times breaking the rules would mean you were automatically off the team. I had to fight hard for you with Mr. Walker to keep you playing basketball for South Side.”
The coach went on to explain to Matt that there would be no third chances. “I know you were defending your friends. But sometimes you just have to make the best decision for yourself. The best decision in that case would have been to get help, not throw a punch,” he said. “Your behavior and your decisions have to be exemplary from now on. If something like this happens again, it will be the end of basketball for you this year. Do you understand, Matt?”
Matt nodded glumly and headed toward class. Miss Dawson was already halfway through her topic for the morning. The theme of the day was personal responsibility. As Matt quietly slid into his seat, she was talking about being responsible for your actions and making good decisions, even when you find yourself in a tough situation. Never had advice seemed more appropriate.
Amar leaned across his desk and whispered, “Matt! What’s up? What did Walker want?”
“I’ll tell you later,” Matt whispered back, turning his eyes toward Miss Dawson.
Telling Amar and the rest of his friends would be easy. Telling his mom about this, Matt knew, would be a much different story.
Practice that afternoon was more intense than it had been all season. The Stingers were scheduled to meet the Manning Minutemen in a semifinal that Friday. They had easily beaten the Minutemen twice during the regular season. South Side was a clear favorite to win and advance to the city championship game, but Coach Stephens obviously wasn’t taking anything for granted.
“Don’t take Manning lightly,” the coach said as he opened the practice with a five-minute chalk talk. “Yes, we won pretty handily when we played them, but they had a great game against Eastdowne last week and they deserve to be in the semifinal. Everything that happened in the regular season is history now. It doesn’t matter. What matters is showing up ready to play on Friday.”
Coach Stephens had the second unit play a one-three-one zone defense for much of the practise session, the same defense that Manning had used with great success during its late-season run to the playoffs. The Minutemen were a young team, with three grade sevens starting, but they were also tall and long-bodied and when they extended their hands on defense, they tipped a lot of passes and made their share of steals. They also controlled the boards.
Matt and his fellow starters — Amar Sunir, Andrew McTavish, Dave Tanner and Pete Winters — worked the ball quickly around the zone during practice. Coach Stephens showed them how to move the ball to one side and then quickly reverse it to the other to find the open shooter. South Side hadn’t played against much zone defense all year, but as the Stingers passed the ball, their command of the concept grew. Everybody was looking forward to the semifinal.
“Great practice,” Coach Stephens said, as he wrapped up the session. “Three more like that and we should be in good shape for Friday.”
Matt glanced up at the gym clock. It was almost 4:45 and practice was over. Normally, he would have been happy to head for home. But today he was dreading it. He would have to talk to his mom about the detention and tell her about the fight.
He grabbed his stuff quickly, skipping his usual shower and heading for the gym door. On the way out, he ran into Andrea, who was collecting the practise balls from the court. “Hey,” she said gently. “I heard about the other night. How’s the hand?”
“It’s okay,” Matt replied. “I’ve gotta go, though. See you around.”
By the time he arrived home, Mom’s car was already in the driveway. There was no avoiding the situation now and Matt knew it. It was time to face the music.
He opened the front door and headed for the kitchen. But he didn’t get past the living room before he heard his mom’s voice. “Matthew, can I speak to you?” she said firmly. Any time he heard the full “Matthew” he knew she was serious.
Mom was sitting on the sofa in the living room, looking out the window when Matt entered the room. She patted the cushion and motioned for him to sit down beside her.
“Mom, I have to tell you something,” he began.
“I know,” she said with a sigh. “I got a call from Principal Walker this morning.”
There it was. She already knew. Matt felt a sudden sense of relief. He told his mom what had happened on Friday night, how he felt he had no other choice at the time, how badly he felt about breaking another kid’s nose, even if the nose belonged to Grant Jackson.
“Matt, I’m not angry with you for what you did,” she said. “It sounds like a very difficult spot to be put in. And I have to admit I’m proud you would stick up for your friend, even if you didn’t choose the best way to do it. The best way is always to use words and not your fists.
“What I am disappointed in, though, is that you didn’t tell me about it. I want you to tell me these things, Matt. I might have been able to help you sooner.”
Looking at it in hindsight, Matt knew his mom was right. He still didn’t know what else he could have done with McTavish about to be clobbered, but he knew that it would have felt better, at least, to tell her about what had happened right away. He told her about Jackson’s suspension from school and about his own detention.
“That will mean some early mornings for both of us this week,” she smiled.
Mom had made pork roast with mashed potatoes and green beans for dinner. Matt poured himself a large glass of milk. As he sat talking with his mom about the upcoming game against Manning and about the houses she was trying to sell this week, it occurred to Matt that food had never tasted bette
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chapter fourteen
Six-thirty came way too early, as far as Matt was concerned. The obnoxious beeping of his clock radio stirred him out of a deep sleep, reminding him that it was Tuesday morning and, more to the point, the first of his five early morning detentions.
Principal Walker had made it clear that Matt was to be there precisely at 7:15. Matt wondered why the principal was at school so early himself when classes didn’t start until 8:55. He barely had time to scan the Post’s sports section as he wolfed down a couple of pieces of toast. By the time he grabbed his books and his practice gear, it was already 6:58. He had less than twenty minutes to make it six blocks.
Matt was still breathing hard when he reached Principal Walker’s office. But the principal was there, cradling a cup of coffee as he looked over a stack of paperwork on his desk. “Good morning, Matt,” he said pleasantly. “Nice to see you’re here on time. That’s a good start to what I hope will be a productive week for both of us.”
“Now, I have been speaking with Miss Dawson about you, Matt,” the principal continued. “She feels it would be the best use of our detention time this week if we concentrate solely on math. That seems to be the only academic area where you’re having any serious problem.”
Great. Not only did he have to be at school at 7:15 for the next five days, but now Matt was going to have to do math for a full hour-and-a-half before regular school even started. The thought of it wasn’t appealing in the least.
Mr. Walker cleared his throat before continuing. “As it turns out, Matt, you’re in luck. Before I became principal, I was a bit of a math specialist. So, you see, we’re a pretty good fit.”
Matt managed a weak smile as Principal Walker pulled out a set of math worksheets. “Get started on these and we’ll talk in a few minutes,” he said. “There’s a pencil sharpener in the office lobby if you need it.”
Matt looked over the sheets. It was basic multiplication and division. While it wasn’t his favorite, at least he understood how to do it. But there were loads of questions and they would take forever to work through.
By the time the first detention session was over, Matt was already tired and the real school day hadn’t even begun. He had four more mornings of this to look forward to. That punch he had thrown at Grant Jackson had been costly, indeed.
As far as Matt was concerned, Friday couldn’t come fast enough. He was looking forward to the semifinal against Manning more than any game he had ever played. A win and the Stingers would be in the city finals. Although South Side had made consistent trips to the championship game over the years, Matt and his buddies had never played in a game like this before. This was exciting.
On Wednesday morning, Principal Walker handed Matt another stack of worksheets. This time, they contained math problems that were like brainteasers. Again, these included concepts with which Matt was familiar, but there were more than twenty questions and they were complicated. Just minutes before the regular school day was about to begin, the principal sat down on the front of his desk, facing Matt.
“Good work. Tomorrow, we’re going to do something more exciting. I guarantee it,” he said with a smile. “I’ll see you then.”
Exciting? Matt doubted it. If there was one thing math most definitely wasn’t, it was exciting.
The next morning, Principal Walker wasn’t sitting at his desk when Matt arrived at 7:14. But a couple of minutes later, he strode into his office, carrying a copy of the morning Post and some blank sheets of paper. This time he had no worksheets.
“Matt, I know that you’re not crazy about math,” the principal said. “But I’m pretty sure you like sports, right? And I happen to be a big basketball fan myself.”
Matt nodded. He wasn’t sure what Principal Walker was getting at.
“Here’s what I want you to do today then,” the principal continued. “I want you to take these NBA standings from the paper. They show each team’s wins and losses. I have cut out the columns that show winning percentage and games behind the lead. That’s your job. I want you to figure those numbers out.”
Matt’s heart soared. This wasn’t math, this was basketball. This was more like it. There was just one problem. He didn’t know how to do what the principal was asking him to do.
“I’ll show you one and then you can do the other twenty-nine teams,” the principal said. He then took the Los Angeles Lakers’ record of thirty wins and twenty-five losses as an example. The Lakers had played a total of fifty-five games and had won thirty of them. Principal Walker showed Matt how to determine that this amounted to a 54.54 winning percentage. “The NBA lists that at .545,” Principal Walker explained.
Matt had never realized exactly what the .545 had meant in the NBA standings. But now he did, and not only that, he understood how to figure it out. Next, Principal Walker showed Matt the mathematical formula for determining how many games trailing teams stood behind the leaders in each division.
“The rest is up to you, Matt,” he said. “Give me a complete set of standings before school starts.”
Matt set out to work. By the time the detention ended, he had a set of standings, complete with a “games-behind” column. He checked it against those listed in the paper and, except for a couple of small mistakes, it matched. It felt good to do something right when it came to math.
On Friday, Principal Walker used National Hockey League goals-against and shooting percentage figures to show Matt how those were computed. By the time his final detention of the week had ended, Matt was almost sad to see it end. Almost.
“Matt, I’m going to give you an early birthday present,” Principal Walker said with a smile as the detention ended. “You’ve worked so hard this week, that you don’t have to come back Monday morning for your fifth detention. Just make sure we don’t have to have another of these little sessions, okay?”
Matt shook his head in agreement. His birthday wasn’t until August, but he wasn’t arguing with the principal.
Walking down the hall toward advisory, Matt suddenly had the feeling of a man freed from a jail sentence. Not only was detention over, but so was the wait for the semifinal match-up against Manning.
He and the rest of the Stingers felt ready. Practice had gone well all week. The team was confident it could break the Manning zone defense. There were no major injuries to speak of, only the bruised knuckles on Matt’s right hand. But that had bothered him less and less every day this week.
It seemed like the entire school came out to the noon-hour pep rally. Coach Stephens thanked the students for their support and said his team would try its best to earn a spot in the city championship game.
“We’re ready,” Captain Dave Tanner promised the cheering crowd. “We’ve been ready for this game since last Friday.”
The atmosphere in the locker room was relaxed as the Stingers dressed in their white home uniforms with the maroon piping. Matt slipped on his number ten jersey, wearing a maroon T-shirt underneath as he had all season. He laced up his black and white high-top Air Jordans carefully, making sure, as was his superstition, to tie the left before the right. He grabbed a ball from the wooden bin and dribbled it on the locker room floor as he waited for Coach Stephens to address the team.
“People,” the coach began, “you’ve worked hard all year. You’ve worked hard all week. You are ready, and now it’s just a matter of continuing to work hard over the next forty minutes. Let’s go earn ourselves a spot in the city championships!”
There were more than four hundred people in the packed South Side gym. As the Stingers emerged from the locker room, the crowd erupted in a huge cheer. Matt felt a surge of adrenaline as he took his first lay-up of warm-ups and surveyed the packed bleachers.
Up behind the South Side bench, Matt saw his mom and Mark, just as they had promised. They waved and he waved back. His eyes wandered around the gym, picking out some of his friends and their families and even Miss Dawson in the stands. But he stopped abruptly when his gaze picked out
the dark-haired boy with the bandage across his nose sitting under the far basket. It was Grant Jackson.
Matt hadn’t seen Jackson since the incident at Phil’s store a week earlier because the older boy had been suspended from school. Obviously, he was back. No time to think about that now though. There were more immediate things to deal with than a jerk like Jackson.
The buzzer sounded twice to remind players that there were only two minutes left until the game started. The Stingers headed to their bench. The players circled their coach and put their hands together in a pile of fingers and wrists. “One-two-three,” Dave Tanner yelled, followed by the entire team in unison: “Stingers!”
From the opening tip, Matt knew this game would be different than the two South Side had played against Manning during the regular season. The Minutemen looked like a whole new team as they lined up on the court. They were bigger than the Stingers and they had a newfound confidence in their eyes. South Side was in for a fight.
Tanner lost the tip and the ball went to Manning. Matt tightly defended Travis Green, the grade seven Minutemen point guard, and he seemed to have Green in trouble near the top of the key. But Green simply pivoted, looked inside to six-foot-five post Kenny Forshaw and lobbed the ball up toward the basket. Forshaw leapt above Tanner, caught the ball and flipped in a lazy hook shot for a two to zero lead.
Matt raced the ball downcourt before Manning could properly set up its zone. Green was a step off him and Matt went up for a jumper. Forshaw left Tanner inside and attempted to block Matt’s shot. But instead of releasing the ball at the peak of his jump, Matt deftly flicked it inside to Tanner for the open lay-up. It was two to two.
The game see-sawed back and forth, with neither team going more than a half-dozen points up on the other. Manning’s height was making it difficult for South Side to work the ball inside consistently, so the Stingers had to rely on the outside shot and the running game. Meanwhile, South Side’s foot speed and quickness allowed the Stingers to “front” the taller Minutemen on defense, denying easy passes inside.
