Coach Stull looked at Jerry. “Kid, for some reason or other you’re way off target. You’re not playing half as well as you played last year and I’m at a loss to understand why. Is something bothering you?”
Jerry shook his head. “No. Nothing’s bothering me.”
Danny Weatherspoon came to his mind, but he couldn’t mention Danny. If he said that Danny was a warlock, they’d laugh him off the court. Jerry was really inclined to believe now that his playing was once again so poor that what Danny said could be true — he was a warlock.
“Maybe you’ll snap out of it eventually,” Coach Stull said. “In the meantime, I think you’d better rest a while.”
Feeling everyone’s eyes on him, Jerry looked at the floor and said nothing. As soon as the horn blew to start the second quarter, he left the circle of men and sat down.
The Skylarks had control of the ball during most of the quarter and led 31 – 19 when the half ended.
It wasn’t until the fourth quarter that the coach had him go in again. The Skylarks now led 44 – 29, a lead that almost assured them of a win.
Jerry saw the dirty look that Freddie Pearse shot at him, and wished that the coach had kept him on the bench. The thrill of the game had been drained out of him. He lacked not only the enthusiasm to play, but also the strength. All he would do is make himself more humiliated.
A minute went by and he didn’t get the ball once. It was obvious that the guys were freezing him out, and he couldn’t blame them. Anybody could see that he was practically worthless.
He saw Danny in the stands. For a mo ment their eyes met, and Danny shook his head sadly from side to side.
Jerry wanted help from him, but was sure he wouldn’t get it. Danny wasn’t one to go back on his word. At least not under these conditions. Whatever Jerry wanted, he had to earn.
Jerry was alone in a corner on the front court when Ronnie dribbled the ball across the keyhole and snapped a pass to him. Caught by surprise by the unexpected throw, Jerry almost missed it. He clamped his hands tightly on the ball, glanced around for someone to pass to, and saw Freddie’s hands fluttering high in the air. But Freddie’s guard was on him like a leech, and Jerry was afraid that a pass to the Chariot center might be intercepted.
“Shoot, Jerry! Shoot!” the coach yelled.
Jerry shot. The ball arced through the air and headed directly for the center of the hoop. It struck the side of the rim and bounced off.
Jerry, running forward the instant he had shot, caught the rebound and tossed it to Ronnie. Ronnie rose out of the cluster of players and laid the ball up and into the net for two points.
In the din of voices Jerry picked out one he recognized. It was his father’s. “Nice play, Jerry!”
During the next few seconds as the ref took the ball to the sideline to hand over to a Skylark, Jerry looked up into the sea of faces. His mother was at home recovering from the flu, but he saw his father, and felt his chest tighten.
They’ve been so good to me, he thought, and I’ve just taken them for granted. After this game is over I’ll start making it up to them. Just wait and see.
The remaining minutes seemed endless. Jerry had to sit the last two out, which he didn’t mind. He had decided that after this game was over he would turn over a new leaf. He would never steal again, and he would show his parents how much he really loved them.
The Skylarks won, 58 – 43, and Jerry rushed to the locker room to be among the first to shower and get out of the place. There was a kid he wanted to see, a kid who would also be waiting to see him.
Quickly he showered, dressed, and hurried outside. But the street was empty. Danny Weatherspoon was nowhere in sight.
12
THE NEXT MORNING Jerry rose at the first sound of his mother’s voice, washed and dressed, then tried fixing his bed. He did the best he could and went downstairs, taking the clothes he had worn yesterday with him.
“Good morning, Mom,” he said. “How do you feel?”
“A little better,” she said. “Thanks for bringing down your yesterday’s clothes.”
“That’s okay.” Jerry dumped them into the clothes hamper. “You should’ve stayed in bed, Mom,” he told her. “I can fix my breakfast.”
“I’m up now,” she smiled. “I might as well fix it. Eggs and toast?”
“Yes, please.” He watched her crack the eggs into a pan and scramble them. He got two slices of bread and dropped them into the toaster.
“Your father said that you didn’t do so well last night,” said Mrs. Steele.
“I didn’t do well at all, Mom,” Jerry said.
She smiled at him. “You’ve got to work harder.”
“I will, Mom,” he said. “I promise.”
Jerry hoped that he’d see Danny Weatherspoon before the next game, but Danny seemed to be keeping out of sight. Jerry was worried. Had the little guy lost faith, believing that Jerry would never listen to him?
I hope not, Jerry thought. I really hope not.
While he was putting on his uniform in the dressing room, a shadow crossed in front of him and paused. Jerry looked up into Freddie Pearse’s unsmiling face.
“Tell you what, Jerry,” Freddie said. “If you play, I’ll give you a dime for every basket you make. For everyone you miss, you give me a nickel. Fair enough?”
“That’s gambling,” Jerry said. “Sorry.”
Freddie snickered. “Why don’t you admit that you don’t have a chance to win?”
Jerry rose from the bench and stood with his face within three inches of Freddie’s. “Because I do, Freddie,” he said evenly. “I have a very good chance.”
He strode out of the locker room, feeling Freddie’s eyes boring into his back.
The game was against the Pilots, and Jerry didn’t get in till the second quarter. He saw the familiar stone-hard expression come over Freddie’s face and wondered if, after the game was over, it would be gone. He would just have to wait and see.
The Pilots played well. Jack Horn, their center, was an equal match to Freddie, and now and then seemed even better. He scored seven of the Pilots’ eleven points during the first quarter, while the Chariots racked up nine.
“Okay, Jerry,” Coach Stull said. “Let’s see what you can do.”
Fresh and full of vitality, Jerry went into the game with the worst scoring record he had ever had, and began to play as if it were his best. Sparking the guys with chatter whenever he saw their spirits waver, the team regained new vigor and played like a brand new ball club. The score was tied 31–31, with two minutes to go in the first half, and Jerry had yet to take a shot.
Finally, when Ronnie passed to Jerry near the basket, and no one was near him — Jerry shot.
His heart still, Jerry turned and watched the ball strike against the boards, bounce back, roll around the rim, and drop in.
A resounding cheer exploded from the Chariot fans as Jerry rushed downcourt to cover his man. He thought of a little guy with an elfish smile and looked up at the bleachers. There sat Danny, clapping his hands and shouting, “That-a-boy, Jerry! You’ve done it! Keep it up!”
Jerry thought he detected more than one meaning in that last sentence. Yes, he promised himself, that’s what he would do. He would keep it up, doing his chores at home to lighten the burden for his mother and father, and being obedient and honest to them and to his teachers and friends. He might have to put a lot of effort behind all this, but the rewards on the court and off would be great.
He watched a Pilot bring the ball up-court, then he quickly shifted as the Pilot started to throw a pass. Instead, the play faked him out of position and the Pilot tossed to another man.
Disgusted for momentarily having been fooled, Jerry raced after the receiver. But the man had taken a step toward the basket and shot, and the ball sank through the net for two points.
“You didn’t look hot on that play, man!” Freddie laughed.
Jerry ignored him, trying not to show the puzzled look that came
over his face, for suddenly he was uncertain again about whether or not his promise to be an honest human being to his parents and friends would mean anything.
Again the thought came to him: Is Danny a warlock, or isn’t he?
Three seconds before the clock on the scoreboard ticked away the first half, Jerry stole the ball from a Pilot, dribbled up-court across the center line and shot. The ball arced high through the air, dropped, and slithered through the hoop with barely a whisper. The buzzer sounded just as the crowd let out a loud, ear-piercing yell.
“Should’ve bet with me, Jerry,” Freddie said in the locker room as the boys wiped their faces with towels and sucked on orange slices. “You would’ve made twenty cents.”
Jerry grinned. “No, thanks, Freddie. Even if I were sure of hitting every shot, I wouldn’t take you up on it.”
“Why not?”
“I told you. I don’t gamble.”
A hand patted him on the shoulder. He turned and saw the smiling face of Coach Stull. “Nice shooting, Jerry. Looks like you’re back in the groove.”
“There’s still another half to go,” Jerry said.
When the second half started, Jerry was in there, playing as hard as he had that second quarter. His dribbling and passing fired up the Chariots, and the team moved in front of the Pilots, 47 – 39. His own shooting was next to spectacular, but not perfect. Twice his set shots missed, but three of his lay-ups went in, and so did two foul shots out of three.
In the fourth quarter he kept up his pace, scoring a shot now and then, passing to Ronnie or Freddie who, in turn, would shoot — sometimes missing, sometimes hitting. He kept watching the expression on Freddie’s face as the minutes dragged on toward the climax of the game, and with each minute he saw a change. After a while, kinder remarks came from Freddie’s lips. “Hey, you’re shootin’ like wild, man!”
“Where’d you find your eye, buddy?”
“Good play, Jerry! You’re really cookin’ with gas!”
When the game ended the victorious Chariot fans let out a cheer, a kind that hadn’t been heard in a long, long time. Hands pounded Jerry’s back and shoulders, and happy words thundered in his ears.
“Jerry, I’m glad to see that you’re back in your old form again,” Coach Stull said, beaming at him as they shook hands.
Freddie Pearse shook his hand, too. “I used to be jealous because you scored more baskets than me,” he confessed. “Then I got sore because you weren’t hitting ’em at all.”
Jerry smiled. “How do you feel, now?”
“Darn good. I like winning, no matter who scores the most baskets.”
“Thanks, Freddie.”
Jerry looked around for another face, saw it, and his heart pounded. Danny Weatherspoon ran up to him, his grinning face radiant, his eyes shining brightly.
“I knew you’d finally come through, Jerry!” he cried. “I knew it all the time!”
Jerry’s eyebrows lifted. “You knew that I’d finally start sinking shots again?” he asked.
“That — yes,” Danny said. “But I’m thinking about you and your promise. Your mother and father will be real proud of you, Jerry. Just as proud as I am. Now I’ll be able to go back to Salem and give a good report.”
Jerry frowned at him as he turned and started away. There was still doubt in Jerry’s mind.
Suddenly Danny turned and his eyes sparkled. “By the way, it was nice of you to have fixed your own bed this morning, even if you didn’t do a good job.”
Jerry stared at him. “How did you know about that?”
Danny grinned elfishly.
“Then you really are a warlock!” Jerry exclaimed.
Danny winked. “Isn’t that what I’ve been telling you all the time?” he said.
Front Court Hex
by Matt Christopher
What would you do if a warlock put a hex on you?
Jerry Steele couldn’t understand why he had suddenly turned into such a bumbler on the basketball court. Last year he was his team’s star player, but this year he couldn’t score a point.
When Jerry meets Danny Weatherspoon he really begins to think something strange is going on — for Danny says he’s a warlock who is purposely preventing Jerry from scoring.
Why Danny feels he has a good reason to hex Jerry and how Jerry reacts to Danny’s claim of supernatural powers make up the intriguing plot of this fast-paced sports story by one of the most popular authors of stories for young readers.
Illustrated by Byron Goto
MATT CHRISTOPHER
NO ARM IN LEFT FIELD
When his family moved to Forest Lake, Terry Delaney sensed that being one of the few black kids in town might not make his life particularly pleasant. However, Terry finds a friend in Mick Jordan, and all seems to be going well until Terry tries out for the local baseball team and meets Tony Casterline. Tony seems to take every chance he can to show his dislike for Terry, and Terry knows the reason for Tony’s hostility. The situation is further complicated, for although Terry can hit and catch well, his throwing arm is so poor that he sometimes damages the team’s efforts. The story of how Terry and Tony settle their differences and discover the meaning of teamwork forms the plot of this easily read action-filled book by one of the most popular authors of sports stories for young readers.
Illustrated by Byron Goto
SPORTS BOOKS BY MATT CHRISTOPHER
BASEBALL BOOKS
The Lucky Baseball Bat
Baseball Pals
Two Strikes on Johnny
Little Lefty
Long Stretch at First Base
Challenge at Second Base
Baseball Flyhawk
Catcher with a Glass Arm
Too Hot to Handle
The Reluctant Pitcher
Miracle at the Plate
The Year Mom Won the Pennant
Hard Drive to Short
Shortstop From Tokyo
Look Who’s Playing First Base
The Kid Who Only Hit Homers
Mystery Coach
No Arm in Left Field
Jinx Glove
BASKETBALL BOOKS
The Basket Counts
Basketball Sparkplug
Break for the Basket
Tall Man in the Pivot
Sink It, Rusty
Long Shot for Paul
Johnny Long Legs
Front Court Hex
FOOTBALL BOOKS
Touchdown for Tommy
Crackerjack Halfback
Counterfeit Tackle
The Team That Couldn’t Lose
Catch That Pass!
Tough to Tackle
HOCKEY BOOKS
Wingman on Ice
Face-Off
Ice Magic
Lucky Seven: Sports Stories by Matt Christopher
ANIMAL STORIES
Desperate Search
Stranded
Front Court Hex Page 5
