In the Paint

by Jeff Rud

  With less than a minute left in the game and the score tied fifty-four to fifty-four, Green again found Forshaw in the middle of the key with a perfect pass. Tanner had good defensive position, but the big Manning center caught the ball, turned and tossed the right-handed hook over Tanner. It bounced softly once on the rim and dropped through. The Minutemen held a two-point lead with just twenty-five seconds left. The crowd packed into the bleachers in the South Side gym, which had been loud and boisterous all game, suddenly went quiet.

  “Time-out!” Coach Stephens yelled from the bench. The Stingers hustled across the hardwood to their coach. They huddled around him, hands on knees and eyes fixed on the long, experienced face in the middle.

  “Okay, guys,” Coach Stephens said calmly. “This is what we practise for. We are in good shape here. This is our last time-out, so I have to set up the rest of the game right now.”

  Coach Stephens diagramed a pick-and-roll with Matt and Dave Tanner for the next possession. It had been working nicely all game, so Matt was confident it could work again.

  “After we score, we need a stop,” Coach Stephens continued. “I want you guys to go right into our full-court press. It should catch them by surprise. Nobody can afford to go to sleep here, okay? Once we score — and I just know we’re going to score — jump right into that press. Everybody know their position in it? Okay, let’s go.”

  The Stingers broke their huddle. Matt took the inbounds pass from Pete Winters and headed up the court. The clock was ticking down, and Matt waited for Dave Tanner to work himself into position.

  Tanner made a quick move to the top of the key, where he stopped to the right of the free-throw line. Matt faked Green left and then dribbled hard to Tanner’s right. The pick worked perfectly. Sensing that Matt would shoot, both Green and Forshaw lunged out at him, leaving Dave Tanner alone underneath. Matt found him with a bullet bounce pass. Tanner laid it in softly. The game was tied up with just ten seconds left. Manning called a quick time-out, sending the players back to their benches. All of the Stingers grabbed water bottles and towels to dry the sweat from their arms, hands and faces. Coach Stephens still looked calm. “Listen up,” he said. “Our plan is the same. Let’s press them right off this time out. Let’s get that ball back. But be careful. We don’t want any fouls.”

  The players nodded. They headed back onto the court as the home crowd cheered. This was just the kind of dramatic game that Matt had only ever watched on TV. It all seemed slightly unreal, as if even now he was watching it instead of actually playing in it.

  Green took the ball out of bounds from the referee. He looked down the court, but no one was open. Matt could sense Green was beginning to panic, so Matt purposely fell a step off the player he was guarding. Green saw the space and fired the inbounds bounce pass toward Matt’s man. But Matt had anticipated the reaction. He shot out his left hand, stabbing at the ball and getting just enough of it to deflect it away from his check. Anticipating Matt’s movement, Pete Winters bolted forward and intercepted the ball in the backcourt. Winters saw Matt open near the free-throw line and fired a hard chest pass toward him.

  Matt reached out and caught the ball with two hands, just as Forshaw crashed into him, catching his right hand with a hard elbow. The pain seared through Matt’s bruised knuckles, but he held onto the ball as he was jolted backward a couple of steps.

  The whistle blew. The crowd hushed. Everyone looked toward the referee, who was signaling a foul against Forshaw. South Side was in a double-bonus situation. “Two shots!” the referee yelled.

  Matt was stunned. He was going to the line with a chance to win the game, but his right hand hurt worse than anything he could ever remember. The Manning coach used his last time-out, trying to freeze Matt at the free-throw line.

  The Stingers headed back to their bench once again. Andrea took an ice pack from her trainer’s kit and put it on Matt’s right hand. That made it feel a little better, but Matt knew that shooting wasn’t going to be easy.

  There was nothing for Coach Stephens to say. They simply drank water and rested. Matt knew what he had to do. Nothing the coach said now was going to make any difference. He was still going to be all alone at the free-throw line.

  The buzzer sounded. Every one of the South Side players patted Matt on the head or shoulder. “No problem, man,” Phil said as he winked at Matt.

  Matt’s knees were weak, and he felt slightly dizzy as he made his way to the free-throw line. The court had never seemed longer than it did now with hundreds of eyes watching him walk its length from the South Side bench. He had always imagined himself in this kind of situation, but never had he known how it felt until this very moment.

  Both teams lined up along the key. The referee was just about to hand the ball to Matt when a familiar voice rung out across the gym. “Hill, you suck!” Nobody seemed to notice where the taunt originated, but Matt had no doubt. It was Grant Jackson, sitting just down the baseline from the basket where Matt was about to shoot the two most important free throws of his life.

  Slightly unnerved, Matt took the basketball from the official and bounced it twice, as was his usual routine at the line. Try as he might, he couldn’t erase Jackson’s taunt from his mind, even though he knew he should be concentrating solely on the rim. He bent his legs and began to go through the shooting motion that he had practiced thousands of times before.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Matt saw Principal Walker talking to Grant Jackson, leading him away from his seat. Jackson shook his elbow violently, as if he was literally trying to shake the principal off him, and headed for the door. Nobody else on the floor seemed to notice the drama, but it was impossible for Matt to concentrate while all this was going on.

  All these thoughts were whirling through his head as Matt released the free throw. And as soon as it left his fingers, he knew something was wrong. It simply wasn’t hard enough and it was badly off line. The ball clanged off the right front edge of the rim and the crowd groaned. Or at least that’s the way it seemed to Matt.

  “One shot!” the referee shouted, handing the ball back to Matt.

  One shot. The Stingers’ season had come down to one shot. Matt knew that he couldn’t let his team mates down. He drew a deep breath, bounced the ball twice again on the floor and bent his legs. The jam-packed gym had gone completely still.

  Matt began his free throw motion. He flicked the ball from his right hand, waving his right wrist goodbye as he released it. This time the ball traveled upward in a perfect arc, coming down through the middle of the twine. It was good. South Side had won the game.

  The crowd erupted. The South Side players jumped off the bench and mobbed Matt near the top of the free throw line. Eleven other players were hugging and jumping around him and Coach Stephens was looking at him with a huge grin on his face. Matt glanced up into the stands where his mom and brother beamed proudly. He was pretty sure nothing had ever felt quite this good.

  chapter fifteen

  Phil whistled as he carefully surveyed the score sheet in the din of the South Side locker room. “Nineteen points, nine assists, no turnovers,” he yelled across the room to Matt. “Not bad, bud.”

  “Nineteen and nine? I had no idea,” Matt replied, trying to sound nonchalant but feeling his cheeks glow nonetheless. It had been his finest game of the year and it couldn’t have come at a better time. South Side was going to play for the city championship, and Matt was a big reason the team was headed there. Still, being singled out in the locker room, even by Phil, was a little embarrassing.

  The Stingers had worked hard all week to prepare for Manning and now, several minutes after the final buzzer, they were kicking loose. The mini stereo system that Dave Tanner kept in his locker room stall was blasting out the tunes while the players laughed and joked and just enjoyed a moment for which they had been aiming all year.

  Tanner switched off the music as Coach Stephens walked into the center of the room. The coach was usually all business, but tonight
he looked relaxed and satisfied.

  “Guys, I want to congratulate you,” the coach said, looking slowly around the room. “Manning gave us a tough fight, but you didn’t back down. You guys were in a tight spot in the final minute and you showed your character.

  “It’s great that we won and it’s terrific that South Side will get a shot at its twelfth city middle school title. But what I’m really happy with is the way you guys handled yourselves. You made me proud out there and you made your school proud.”

  The room erupted in cheers. But the coach wasn’t quite done. “Just one more thing,” he said. “Take the weekend off. But come back ready to work on Monday. We’ve got North Vale in the city finals here next Friday and if we want to be having a bigger celebration then, it’s going to take the same type of dedication I saw from each of you this week.

  “Now enjoy yourselves and have a rest. I’ll see you at practice Monday.”

  Matt, Phil, Jake and Amar were the last ones out of the locker room. The win had felt so good that they just wanted to savor it, to make the wonderful mixture of joy, satisfaction and physical exhaustion last as long as possible. Looking at his three closest friends, Matt knew they would be the nucleus of the South Side team for the next couple of years and that was a pretty exciting thought.

  It was dark by the time they headed out the front door of the school. Matt had arranged to meet his mom and Mark back home, so they didn’t have to wait around at the school for him to shower and change. It would only take him twenty minutes to walk home for what would certainly be a family victory celebration. Matt could hardly wait.

  As they made their way up the street, Matt noticed another cluster of boys standing on the corner that marked the edge of the school grounds. One of them was leaning against the chain-link fence with the others gathered around him, talking loudly and smoking. The tallest one, a boy in baggy jeans and a red ball cap, looked up as Matt and his friends approached. He tapped the arm of the boy standing in the middle to get his attention.

  Matt saw the bandage on the boy’s face and knew instantly who it was. Grant Jackson and his buddies must have been waiting outside ever since he got kicked out of the gym. Matt didn’t know why they were still there, but he was pretty sure it wasn’t for any good reason.

  “Hey, Hill, where are you and your girlfriends going? To Coach’s house to suck up some more?” Matt knew the voice as Nate Griffin, one of Jackson’s best friends and one of the boys who had tagged Phil’s store a few weeks back.

  Matt knew he had to ignore the taunt. He quickened his pace, hoping that he and his friends could simply walk by without anything happening. He didn’t need this kind of trouble now.

  None of the five said a word as they moved past Jackson and his group. Matt felt a tiny rush of relief. Maybe they could get out of this, he hoped. But the notion had barely crossed his mind when he felt an icy blast to the back of his head. Jackson had tossed a snowball that had beaned him squarely. The ice crystals stung as they glanced off the bare skin of his neck, but Matt kept walking, his back now to Jackson and his friends.

  “Hill, we’re not finished,” yelled a threatening voice. Matt knew it was Jackson this time. He spun around. “Yes, we are, Grant,” he said. “I don’t want to fight you. I didn’t mean to break your nose in the first place. Let’s just forget the whole thing.”

  It was an apology of sorts, but it seemed only to make Grant Jackson angrier. He rushed toward Matt, pushing him hard off the sidewalk into the snow. The sudden move took Matt by surprise, sending him spilling backward and his gym bag flying. Jackson didn’t stop, lashing out with his foot, and Matt, now lying on his back, instinctively put up his right hand to deflect the blow. The hard toe of Jackson’s boot made contact with Matt’s bruised knuckles. The pain was almost unbearable, but Matt tried his best not to wince.

  “Get up and fight, Hill, you loser. You’re the reason I’m not on the team anymore,” Jackson was seething. “Come on. I kicked your butt on the court and I’ll do it here too.”

  Matt felt a surge of anger. It was all he could do to stop from hurling himself headlong into the older boy. But he knew what the cost of that would be. This time, he held back.

  Matt turned around, gathered up his gym bag and began to walk away. His friends joined him. “I always knew you were a wimp, Hill,” Jackson sneered.

  His ears burning, Matt walked faster. In a minute, he and his friends were safely a half-block away from Jackson and his crew. Jake was the first one to speak. “Why did you let him do that to you, Matt?” he asked. “One shot to the nose and Jackson would have been history.”

  “It’s not worth it,” Matt replied. “Grant Jackson isn’t worth it.”

  The friends walked on in silence. Matt knew he had done the right thing. If he had gotten up swinging and popped Jackson in the face, it would have probably felt good in the short term, but it would have also meant kissing the city final goodbye. He would have let all his teammates, his family, his coach and himself down. There had been no choice but to walk away. So why didn’t he feel better about it?

  By the time he arrived home, Matt’s right hand was killing him, the outside knuckles swollen up to nearly twice their normal size. The thrill of the big win was gone, replaced now by a feeling that he had let Jackson walk all over him and maybe even ruin his chance for a good game in the city finals. How was he going to shoot and handle the ball with such a sore hand?

  Mark met him at the door. “Matt!” he grinned. “Awesome game, man. You were great. Almost as good as a certain former South Side star who went by the name of Hill.”

  Matt managed a flickering smile in return, but his older brother sensed right away that something was wrong. “What happened to you?” he asked, noticing Matt wince when they shook hands. “It’s all bruised and swollen.”

  The next twenty minutes were spent going over the post-game confrontation with Jackson. Mark and his mom listened intently. When he was finished, his mom spoke. “Matt, I know this is difficult to understand, but what you did tonight was the bravest thing you could have done. It was far braver than fighting that boy.

  “You know,” she added sweetly. “I was really proud of you on the court tonight. But after hearing that story, I think I’m even prouder of the way you handled yourself afterward.”

  Mark winked in Matt’s direction. “I had a feeling from the start that loser was trouble,” he said. “Don’t let him get to you, Mats. You were right. He isn’t worth it.”

  They sat down for dinner and a complete play-by-play rehash of the victory. His mom had made lasagna with garlic bread and an apple pie for dessert. Between the company of his family and a terrific meal, the problem of Grant Jackson slowly faded from Matt’s mind.

  What didn’t go away as easily, however, was the swelling in his aching right hand. When Matt woke up on Saturday morning, it was the first thing he felt. He could barely move his last three fingers and it hurt just to touch anything. It seemed worse this morning than it had the night before.

  Matt was eating a piece of toast with his left hand when the doorbell rang. Jake Piancato was standing at the front door, his trademark goofy smile creasing his broad face framed by those golden curls. He had a basketball tucked under his left arm and a donut in his right hand. Typical Jake, Matt thought, always ready to enjoy life, one hundred percent.

  “Mattster!” said his friend. “Let’s go. We can be first for twos if we hurry to the rec center. I’m thinking total gym domination today.”

  “Sorry,” Matt replied. “I’m out for today. My hand is killing me. I can’t even eat breakfast properly, let alone shoot hoops. It was sore before, but Jackson got it pretty good with his foot when he kicked me last night.”

  “That guy is a major jerk,” Jake said. “I don’t know what his problem is. I know he got booted off the team and I know his dad is pissed, but that stuff isn’t your fault.”

  “I know,” Matt said. “Jackson has been like that with me ever since that day i
n the summer at Anderson.”

  “He’s jealous,” Jake shot back. “Maybe because you’re a better point guard than he ever was.”

  Matt smiled despite the pain. Jake was a loyal buddy.

  “I was thinking quite a bit about last night,” Jake continued, after swallowing a big bite out of his donut. “You were right to walk away from Jackson. I had forgotten that you already had a suspension this year. Coach would have turfed you for fighting. And we can’t afford to lose you for Friday. Not against North Vale.”

  “I just hope I can still play,” Matt replied. “This hand is brutal.”

  The two moved into the living room. Now that playing basketball was out of the question for that day, they plopped down on the sofa and turned on the television. If they couldn’t play hoops, they could always watch the NCAA Tournament. It was the first weekend of the sixty-four-team event and most of the teams were still alive. Matt loved watching the way CBS switched back and forth, going from the end of one close game to the next. He couldn’t think of anything else on television that he’d rather be watching. Seeing the teams, the cheerleaders and the buzzer-beating shots made him even more excited about playing Friday’s big game against the Nuggets. If he was able to play, that is.

  chapter sixteen

  Matt had never given much thought to what it would be like to be physically disabled. But by Monday morning, he felt as though he had a pretty good idea.

  His right hand was still so sore he was unable to grab anything with it, leaving him to get by with his left. Now simple things Matt had never given a second thought to, like getting dressed in the morning or tying his shoes, were either impossible on his own or required considerable planning and effort.

  Matt’s mom helped him put his backpack on as he headed out the door for school. It felt weird, taking him back to kindergarten and winter days when she used to tie strings to his mittens and attach them to his jacket to make sure he wouldn’t lose them at school. At the same time, he was happy to have her there to help him out.