Full Court Press Read online

  FULL-COURT PRESS

  BOOK 2

  Other books in the

  Spirit of the Game series

  Goal Line Stand (Book 1)

  Second Wind (Book 3)

  Stealing Home (Book 4)

  Three-Point Play (Book 5)

  Cody’s Varsity Rush (Book 6)

  Split Decision (Book 7)

  Ultimate Challenge (Book 8)

  This book is dedicated to the life and memory

  of Tim Hanson, a true athlete, a true friend.

  ZONDERVAN

  FULL-COURT PRESS

  Copyright © 2004 by Todd Hafer

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of Zondervan.

  ePub Edition August 2009 ISBN: 978-0-310-86618-3

  Requests for information should be addressed to:

  Zondervan, Grand Rapids, Michigan 49530

  * * *

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Hafer, Todd.

  Full-court press / Todd Hafer.– 1st ed.

  p. cm. — (The spirit of the game sports fiction series)

  Summary: An eighth-grade basketball player finds his training, both

  physical and spiritual, put to the test too soon after his mother's death.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-310-70668-7

  [1. Basketball—Fiction. 2. Grief—Fiction. 3. Christian life—Fiction.]

  I. Title. II. Series.

  PZ7.H11975Fu 2005

  [Fic]--dc22

  2004000186

  * * *

  All Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version® (NIV®). Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan Publishing House. All rights reserved.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  Editor: Bruce Nuffer

  Cover design by Alan Close

  Photos by Synergy Photographic

  * * *

  06 07 08 09 10 11 12 • 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3

  Contents

  Cover page

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  1. Trial and Air

  2. Tattoo Angel

  3. Cuts That Don’t Heal

  4. Smells Like Team Spirit

  5. Laying It on the Line

  6. Gut-Bucket Greta

  7. Un-Merry Christmas

  Epilogue

  About the Publisher

  Share Your Thoughts

  Foreword

  I love sports. I have always loved sports. I have competed in various sports at various levels, right through college. And today, even though my official competitive days are behind me, you can still find me on the golf course, working on my game, or on a basketball court, playing a game of pick-up.

  Sports have also helped me learn some of life’s important lessons–lessons about humility, risk, dedication, teamwork, friendship. Cody Martin, the central character in “The Spirit of the Game” series, learns these lessons too. Some of them, the hard way. I think you’ll enjoy following Cody in his athletic endeavors.

  Like most of us, he doesn’t win every game or every race. He’s not the best athlete in his school, not by a long shot. But he does taste victory, because, as you’ll see, he comes to understand that life’s greatest victories aren’t reflected on a scoreboard. They are the times when you rely on a strength beyond your own —a spiritual strength—to carry you through. They are the times when you put the needs of someone else before your own. They are the times when sports become a way to celebrate the life God has given you.

  So read on, and may you always possess the true Spirit of the Game.

  Toby McKeehan

  Chapter 1

  Trial

  and Air

  It’s time to attempt suicide!” barked Coach Clayton.

  “Everyone on the line!”

  “Aww—I hate suicides,” Alston groaned. Cody looked at the star point guard, who was bent over beside him, hands on his knees. Terry Alston’s neck gleamed with perspiration. The back of his sweat-soaked gray practice T-shirt clung tightly to his back. Cody studied the sweat stain, noting that its shape looked like the continent of Africa.

  “Here’s the deal,” Coach Clayton said with a smile. “Whoever wins the first suicide gets to shower. The rest of you—ah, I pity the rest of you. Because I’m going to work you like government mules. Now, let’s see who’s quick enough to escape the pain.”

  “The first day of tryouts wasn’t like this last year,” Alston whispered. “This new coach—I don’t like him.”

  “I heard he coached at Holmes last year.” said Pork Chop, who, sitting to Cody’s left, was frantically lacing up a size-ten Nike. “I saw him shooting before practice. He’s got game.”

  “Whatever,” Alston snorted. “And don’t worry about your shoelaces, Chop. You’re not gonna win this suicide anyway. It takes you too long to get all of that beef moving.”

  “You never know,” Pork Chop replied, smiling grimly. “When I get all this beef moving, the momentum is something to behold. I might win. Even Cody here might take it. At least neither of us smokes Marlboros, like you do.”

  Alston arched his eyebrows. “Martin? Win? He’s got no wheels. Do you, Martin?”

  Cody stared at his worn-out Adidas. He felt anger rising inside him. Then he thought of the words his youth pastor, Blake Randall, spoke on Sunday—“When words are many, sin is not absent.”

  Cody felt too tired to say anything sinful, but he decided it was best to take no chances. He stared straight ahead and stayed silent.

  Pork Chop finished double-lacing his shoe and rose slowly to his feet.

  “Well,” said Pork Chop, “they say this Colorado air is thinner than in other places. That ought to give us nonsmokers an edge.”

  Instantly, Coach Clayton blew a shrill blast on his whistle. Alston swore under his breath and exploded off the baseline at the south end of the court.

  Alston had the fastest feet Cody had ever seen. He touched the near free throw line with his left foot, then changed direction like a ricochet. He reached the south end line again—two strides ahead of Cody—then sprinted for half court. Cody struggled to keep up. He stayed low, he ran straight, and he didn’t look around. He focused on each line. The squeaking shoes, panting, and occasional swearing swirled around him in another dimension.

  He wasn’t gaining any ground on Alston, but he wasn’t losing any either. On the long last sprint, from end line to end line, Alston slowed noticeably. Must be the cigarettes, Cody thought. He pumped his arms furiously and focused on driving his knees forward. As he crossed half court, he was only a step behind Alston. Cody lengthened his stride, straining to devour the distance between himself and the fastest athlete in the school.

  As they hit the south free throw line, Cody saw Alston glance over his shoulder. They were almost stride for stride now. As they crossed the end line, Alston’s track experience saved him. He leaned forward, edging Cody by inches. Victorious, Alston slammed into the slice of crimson wrestling mat that hung on the wall under the basket. The
n he slumped to the floor and coughed like a barking seal.

  Cody kicked the wall in disgust. Pork Chop finished third, two strides behind Cody. He sunk to his hands and knees, his caramel skin wet with sweat, and began panting as if he were trying to blow out birthday candles—lots of them.

  Meanwhile, Alston had staggered to the gym’s south doors. He stood under the green exit sign, smiling. “Have a nice run, boys!” he laughed before erupting into another coughing fit.

  Coach Clayton glared at Alston. “I suggest you shut up, Slick. Save your air. And I suggest you learn to do without the cigarettes this season. I don’t allow ’em.”

  Alston gave the coach a startled look, then exited the gym as if it were on fire.

  Pork Chop shook his head. “Man, how does Coach know Alston smokes? Does he have ESP or something?”

  “How many eighth graders cough like coal miners?” Cody asked.

  “Alston’s been smoking since he was twelve,” noted Brett Evans, the better of the Evans twins—although both had made the starting five the previous season.

  “It’s not fair that he won,” Bart Evans said. “He cheats. He never touches all the lines!”

  Coach Clayton’s whistle pierced Cody’s eardrums again. As he planted his foot on the free throw line, he felt a blister forming on his right instep. He tried to keep his weight on the outside of his foot, but then his calf started to cramp. He finished suicide number two just behind Brett. Pork Chop was third again.

  Midway through the third suicide, Cody felt the chili-dog and thirty-two-ounce soda he had for lunch rising in his throat. He finished running, dropping to fourth place this time, then dashed from the gym, through the small foyer between the gym and the locker room. Once outside, he doubled over and relinquished his lunch on a knee-high pile of snow that had been cleared from the entryway at the school’s south end.

  He straightened and watched his breath vaporize in front of his face as he exhaled heavily. His throat burned, and his stomach muscles ached, as if he had been gut-punched. He turned and jogged back to the gym.

  Coach Clayton smiled as Cody toed the line again. “Lose your lunch, Martin?”

  “Oh, I bet he didn’t lose it, Coach,” Pork Chop said. “I bet he knows right where it is.”

  Cody thought he was too spent to smile, but he felt an almost involuntary tugging at the corners of his mouth.

  “I’ll tell you what,” Coach Clayton said, “if you all will make this one count—really bust it—we’re done, okay? But if I see even one guy dogging it, you’ll keep running. I don’t care if we go all night.”

  Cody inhaled hungrily. “One more,” he said quietly to no one in particular. He heard the whistle and willed his feet to move. He concentrated on braking with his left foot. He knew he had opened the blister on his right and guessed it was the size of a quarter at least.

  As Cody headed for the far end line, he felt someone pull alongside him. It was Coach Clayton. “Martin!” The voice blasted in Cody’s ear. “There are fifteen seconds left in the game! We’re down by one! If you get downcourt quickly enough, you can get the inbound pass and score a layup! Come on—the ball’s in the air! Sprint for it, or it’ll go out of bounds!”

  Cody pumped his arms and churned his legs. His quadricep muscles burned with fatigue, but he matched the loose-limbed coach stride for stride. They touched the end line together. Cody winced as he made a half turn and pushed off with his right foot. Just one more court length to go.

  “Good, Martin—you got the layup,” Coach said. “But there are still five seconds left. Now the other team has the ball. The opposing point guard is streaking downcourt. He’s ahead of you. You gotta catch him and steal the ball, or it’s an easy bucket and we lose. You gotta save the game!”

  Cody saw Brett three strides ahead of him as they crossed the north free throw line. He pretended he saw Macy instead. Loudmouthed, mad-game Macy. He drove his knees forward. But as he neared half court, he began to slow. His air was gone. His legs were heavy. It felt like running through molasses. And the blister burned like fire.

  “No, Martin!” Coach Clayton was in his ear again. What did this guy have for lunch? Cody wondered. That breath could gag a maggot!

  “Martin, I don’t care if you lose your breakfast along with your lunch! Don’t you quit! Don’t you quit on me!”

  Cody pumped his arms fiercely. He caught Brett ten feet from the end line. They finished in a dead heat. Emphasis on dead. Cody pressed his body against the wrestling mat. It felt cool against his face. He tried to stay upright, but his legs failed him. He crumpled to his knees, then flopped onto his back. He felt his heart jackhammering in his chest. The ceiling lights overpowered his eyes. He closed them. Just leave me here, he thought. Don’t make me move ’til morning.

  Cody wondered how much time had passed when he felt someone kicking the sole of his right shoe, kicking him right in the blister. He opened his eyes and stared up at Pork Chop, standing at his feet.

  Chop extended a thick right arm. “Come on, Cody. You need to walk it off before you stiffen up like a dead carp.”

  Cody felt himself being pulled to his feet. He marveled at Pork Chop’s strength.

  “Thanks, Chop.”

  “Ain’t no thang. Let’s get out of here before Coach makes us run the bleachers or something.”

  Cody followed Pork Chop toward the locker room. At the doorway, he felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to face Coach Clayton. “You did it, Martin! You didn’t let him score. You saved the game, Martin! You see, that’s why we run like this. So we can be ready. And we will be ready.”

  Cody nodded.

  “And you, Porter, way to hustle! You move well for a big man. You remind me of Charles Barkley. You know Barkley, don’t you?”

  “Sure, Coach,” Pork Chop answered. “We get ESPN Classic. I know all the old-timers.”

  Coach Clayton’s eyes widened. “Old-timers?”

  Pork Chop cocked his head. “Yeah. It’s not like he plays anymore. He’s from back in the nineties. You know—old school.”

  Cody felt the warm water cascade over him, washing away the sweat of a first hard workout. Some of his fatigue seemed to wash away, too.

  Four more days of tryouts. First cuts would be announced tomorrow. He thought about his chances. Coach Clayton would probably keep twelve guys. Cody had been tenth or eleventh man last year, but Hooper, who was the last seventh grader cut, was back this year, and he had some game. He had gone to two summer camps and had turned himself into a fundamentally sound player, even if he was only an average athlete.

  And Terrance Dylan, the new guy from Michigan, was tall and tough. He had crazy hops, too. He would probably crack the starting five.

  Matt Slaven, last year’s twelfth man, had grown a couple of inches. He was at least five foot eight—two inches taller than Cody. He still couldn’t shoot to save his life. He was strictly a shot-blocker and rebounder. But he was a threat.

  “Good practice, Martin,” Pork Chop called as he entered the large square communal shower area.

  “Thanks. You too. I think you’ll start again this year.”

  “Could be. But you—you must have impressed Coach tonight. He wouldn’t pay so much attention to you if he didn’t think you were worth it. And you’ve got pretty good speed. You’re even faster than I am now. I think you’ll move up in the rotation. Maybe even to sixth or seventh man.”

  Cody stepped gingerly from the shower, wrapping a threadbare white towel around his waist. “I don’t know. I think I’m on the bubble. Everybody’s bigger, better, and faster. I guess we’ll see. I gotta bounce, Chop. See you tomorrow.”

  “Yeah.”

  As he left the locker room two minutes later, Cody heard Pork Chop, still in the shower, doing a rap version of “Thank God I’m a Country Boy,” at full volume.

  At first the cold night air had felt refreshing after the sticky heat of practice. But now the air felt—well, cold. Cody wondered if his dad had forgot
ten to pick him up—again. He headed back into the school. There was a pay phone in the lobby. He tried the door. Locked.

  “Hey—hold that door!” said a voice calling from behind him. The voice came from Gabe White—or maybe it was Wyche—a stocky, square-headed guy Cody had seen around town. Cody didn’t think he was in high school anymore but wasn’t sure whether he had graduated or just dropped out.

  “I can’t hold the door for you. It’s locked.”

  White-Wyche approached Cody and glared down at him. “Are you mouthing off to me?”

  “No, not at all. It’s just that the door is locked.”

  “I can see that, pinhead! But it wouldn’t be locked if you hadn’t let it close behind you, would it?”

  “No, you don’t understand. I didn’t let it close. It just—uh—”

  Cody felt himself being pushed backward. His head hit the door with a deep thump.

  White-Wyche spoke slowly through gritted teeth. Cody could smell beer on his breath. “I need to get in there. But I’m freezin’ out here—all because of you.”

  A few silent seconds passed, then, “You got any money?”

  Cody slid his hand into his hip pocket and produced the $20 bill Dad had given him. Why am I handing this over? he asked himself. Probably to keep from being beaten to a bloody pulp.

  “This will do,” White-Wyche said, snagging the money from Cody’s hand. “This is your penalty.” He grabbed Cody by the collar of his coat and spun him away from the door. “But maybe I’ll toss you in the snow and stomp a mudhole in you anyway, just for laughs.”

  Cody heard the door open. He hoped it would be Coach Clayton. It was only Pork Chop. Only Pork Chop, he wondered to himself. I didn’t think I’d ever put those three words in the same thought.

  “So here’s a question,” Pork Chop said evenly, sizing up Cody’s attacker. “Are you able to turn loose of my friend, or do you need some help?”