In the Paint (12 page)

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 in 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.

“I want you to get that looked at today,” she said, eyeing his hand. “I'll take you to the clinic after practise.”

Matt nodded. He knew that unless his hand improved considerably, it would make it impossible for him to play well against North Vale on Friday. He had hoped all weekend that the hand would be a lot better by the time practice resumed, but it was still pretty much useless. And as Matt headed for school that day, he knew he would have to tell Coach Stephens about it right away.

Phil and Jake were waiting in their usual spot under the oak tree as Matt trudged toward them. By this time, e-mails and phone calls had alerted both of them to the status of their friend's injury. Neither said much to Matt, purposely avoiding the topic of his hand and instead chatting about what had happened over the weekend in the NCAA Tournament.

When they arrived at South Side Middle School, Matt turned to his buddies. “Guys, I'll catch you later,” he said. “I have to go talk to Coach about something.” Phil and Jake nodded. They didn't have to ask. They knew what the subject of that discussion would be.

Matt made his way down the long hallway to the gymnasium. It was empty at this time of the morning because most students didn't get to their lockers until just before the first bell. When he reached the door of the coach's office, Matt knocked lightly. “Come on in,” came a voice from inside.

Matt opened the door to find Coach Stephens reading the
Post
and drinking coffee from a large mug emblazoned with the words:
Basketball is life.
Everything else is just details.

“Hey, Matt,” the coach said. “All ready for a big week of practice?”

“That's what I came to talk to you about,” Matt replied solemnly. “It's my hand.”

A look of concern flashed across the coach's face. He listened intently to Matt's recount of what had happened with Jackson. And when the story was finished, Coach Stephens said, “Let me see the hand, Matt.”

The coach examined Matt's extended right hand, carefully surveying the knuckles for about thirty seconds. “I can bet it's painful,” he said. “You'll need to get that checked out by a doctor to make sure it's not broken.”

Matt nodded. “Do you think it'll be better in time for Friday?” he asked hopefully.

“Hard to tell,” the coach said. “Let's see what the doctor says. We'll get Andrea to give you plenty of ice during practice. And you should avoid using it or, obviously, banging it against anything during the next few days. We'll have to see by Wednesday how you're doing. But if it's really bad, Matt, I don't want you to try to play. It's a big game, but it's only a game. There will be other big games for you, I'm sure.”

Other games? Matt couldn't even think about other games. Friday was the game he had been waiting for all his life and now he might not even be able to play. He couldn't believe Coach Stephens could be so calm about all of this. Matt certainly didn't feel that way.

“Go on to class and try to forget about it,” Coach Stephens said as he got up from behind his desk. “We'll see you at 3:55 sharp for practice.”

Matt headed down the hallway toward Room 107, his advisory class. Miss Dawson was the only one in the room when he arrived. She was marking her way through a pile of papers but glanced up and smiled when Matt walked into the room. “How's the basketball star this morning?” she said. “Ready for the big game?”