In the Paint (5 page)

It took half an hour for Matt to finish showering and getting dressed as he savored the afterglow of his breakout game. By the time he glanced at his watch, he was shocked to see it was nearly 6:00 p.m. His mom would be waiting for him

Matt grabbed his gym bag and headed down the empty hallway toward his locker. He had forgotten his math homework, but luckily he could swing by and pick up what he needed before heading for home. Matt was just rounding the corner toward his locker when he heard voices, ringing loudly through the hallway.

“You had five turnovers,” barked a deep voice that Matt didn't recognize. “I don't know why you're so happy after a game like that. Keep giving it up and you're never going to get that scholarship.”

“Whatever,” came the reply. Matt recognized this voice immediately. It belonged to Grant Jackson. “Why are you always on me about stuff?”

“Somebody's gotta keep you focused,” came the reply. “You obviously don't care enough to do it yourself.”

The voices grew nearer and Matt almost bumped into the pair as they rounded the corner. It was Jackson, all right, and an older man with the same distinct dark hair and eyes. It must be Jackson's dad.

“Hi,” Matt said awkwardly.

The two brushed by him, not even noticing he was there, still arguing as they headed out the double doors of the school.

chapter seven

The hallway was crowded as Matt made his way toward Room 107, where he and Amar had advisory period with Miss Dawson first thing every day.

Amar spotted him first and cut immediately away from the girls he was exchanging math homework with.

“Hey, did you hear about Jackson and White?” he asked Matt. “They got caught shoplifting after the game yesterday. Coach and the principal already decided. They're gone for the Middleton game. Suspended. They would have got longer, I bet, if it hadn't just been chocolate bars and magazines that they took.”

Matt was shocked. Jackson and White gone for the Middleton game? That was bad news for the entire South Side team. Jackson was their best player, and the Middleton game was for first place. The Marauders had Tommy Layne, who was supposed to be the best point guard in the entire city, and without Jackson the game would be practically impossible to win.

Then the other side of the equation registered. If Jackson was gone, Matt was probably going to have to take his place as point guard for the big game. It also meant he was going to have to go head-to-head with Tommy Layne, who regularly scrimmaged against high school players during the summers.

Matt wondered how Jackson and White could have been so stupid. Shoplifting? Chocolate bars and magazines? What were they thinking? It seemed a strange thing to be doing, even for Jackson. How could a guy who usually made good decisions on the basketball court make such bad choices off of it?

That afternoon at practice, Coach Stephens confirmed that Jackson and Steve White, the lanky backup center to Dave Tanner, were suspended for one game and would be on what the coach referred to as “probation” for the rest of the season. Not only that, but Jackson and White would have to apologize to their teammates before they would be allowed back.

“I want each of you guys to know that this is serious,” the coach said. “I will not condone stealing or any other dishonest actions by players on this team. I am giving Jackson and White one chance. If it happens again, they're gone. I don't care how good a player is, he only gets one second chance.”

Coach Stephens had the players split into pairs and begin the practice by shooting fifty free throws. He pulled Matt aside. “Hill, you have a tough job ahead of you. You'll have to guard against Middleton's Tommy Layne. And Layne will likely be guarding you. It's a huge assignment for a grade seven. But I wouldn't ask you to do it if I didn't feel you could handle it. What do you think?”

“I feel okay, coach,” Matt said, trying to sound as confident as possible. “I mean, I can handle it.”

Deep inside he was much less certain.

Matt's nerves eased as practice continued. Something about running through the drills was soothing and reassuring. But as they were taking a mid-practice water break, Matt noticed Coach Stephens and another man talking on the far sidelines across the gym. It was Grant Jackson's dad. Matt couldn't hear what the two men were saying, but the visitor was waving his hands as he spoke. From across the gym, it looked like the two were arguing.

Suddenly Jackson's father turned and stalked out of the gym through an emergency exit. He slammed the steel door behind him and the noise reverberated around the gym.

Puzzled, the players looked at each other and the coach. Coach Stephens blew his whistle, completely ignoring the incident. “Okay, people,” he shouted, “give me five man-makers and hit the showers.”

Matt's mom came to the Middleton game, just as she had for the previous four that South Side had played. It was good to see her there in her usual spot, four rows up in the bleachers behind the South Side bench. He had noticed the unmistakable joy in her eyes when she had realized he was starting for the Mandela game. He just hoped she would be as proud of him after this one as well.

As Matt took his final warm-up shot then headed to the sidelines, he looked up at her. She smiled broadly and yelled, “Go Mats!”

This was embarrassing. His mom hadn't called him that for awhile. “Mats” was a family nickname he'd had since the first grade when, for awhile, he began signing his name in after-school care as “Mats” because he was such a big a fan of the Toronto Maple Leafs' captain, Mats Sundin. His ears burned at the sound of it now and he hoped none of his teammates had heard. But for a minute at least, the thought took his mind off Middleton and off Tommy Layne.

A few seconds later, however, Matt was lining up for the tip-off and sizing up Layne. The grade nine guard was about two inches taller than he was, with a blond brush cut, a lean build, long legs and huge hands. Matt had seen Layne play during the summer at Anderson Park and knew he could do it all — handle, defend, shoot and pass. This would not be an easy assignment.

Middleton controlled the tip and the ball went to Layne. Matt immediately jumped up to defend him tightly, and Layne dribbled the ball upcourt slowly, sizing up his opponent for the day. As he crossed the three-point line, Layne head-faked, shot out his right foot, head-faked again and got Matt to bite. In a blur, he reversed his dribble and drove left down the lane all the way to the basket for a twisting lay-up. It was that simple.

“You're too tight on him, Matt,” yelled Coach Stephens from the bench. “Give him some space.”

As the game wore on, Matt learned how to better play Layne by not crowding him so much. He managed to keep the senior guard outside most of the time, but in doing so he gave up several open jump shots. Layne was definitely holding the upper hand, but Matt wasn't being completely dominated, either.

Meanwhile, the taller South Side team was stronger in just about every other department. Heading into the final thirty seconds of the game, the score was tied at forty-two to forty-two. The Stingers had the ball and Coach Stephens called a time-out to set up a play for their final possession.

“Okay, people, listen up. Matt, you bring the ball down, and I want you to take some time off the clock. Wait for Amar to set a screen down low for Tanner. When Tanner comes high, get it to him. Then he can either drive or shoot with enough time left for a rebound if we don't score. Okay?”

Matt nodded. The Stingers broke their huddle. Matt took the inbounds pass from Pete Winters and dribbled upcourt. Layne picked him up tightly, but Matt passed the ball off to Winters. After getting the ball back at the top of the three-point circle, Matt looked at the game clock — there were just ten seconds remaining. It was time to go.

He waited for Tanner to come high off Amar's screen. But as that was happening, Matt noticed that Layne had suddenly started overplaying him well to the right and was completely out of position. Instinctively, Matt began to put the ball on the floor to drive left, through the large hole in Layne's defense. But almost as soon as the ball left his hands, Matt realized he had been tricked. Layne had been playing sitting duck, giving him the space and just waiting for the move. The Middleton guard stuck out his right hand, deftly scooping the ball away from Matt and into his own grasp before heading upcourt.

Layne was all alone on the break, so quick that Matt couldn't possibly catch him. He laid the ball softly against the backboard just before the final buzzer sounded. Middleton had won forty-four to forty-two and Matt's man had scored the decisive basket. Matt was responsible for the loss, and he felt like heading straight out the gym door and home.

On the bench, the Middleton players exploded, surrounding Layne and slapping him on the back. South Side's contingent began to solemnly pick up their warm-ups and head toward the locker room. Matt wished he could crawl right under the hardwood floor. He had screwed up. Why hadn't he just run the play the way coach wanted?

He was sitting next to Amar in the near-silent locker room when the coach approached him. Matt thought he was in for a lecture, but Coach Stephens sat down beside him. “Matt, there's no shame in somebody like Layne getting the best of you once in a while. He's all-city and you're in seventh grade. Don't sweat it too much. These things happen sometimes. It's all part of the learning process.”

Then the coach stood, cleared his throat and addressed the entire Stingers team. “Okay, people, let's keep this in perspective. It's one loss and it's the middle of the season. This game could have gone either way. You worked hard out there. Let's not hang our heads. Let's get back to practice Monday and work a little bit harder.”

chapter eight

Grant Jackson stood by the blackboard near the coach's office in the South Side gym, looking uncharacteristically uncomfortable. There was no smirk on his face and his dark eyes were darting nervously, trying to keep from looking at his teammates seated on the floor.

“Grant has something to say to you guys,” Coach Stephens announced. “Grant, you can go ahead now.”

“Um, I'm sorry,” Jackson mumbled before moving quickly to take a seat with the other players.

“Hold on,” Coach Stephens interjected. “That's not good enough, Grant. Try again.”

Jackson reluctantly rose and stood in front of his teammates again. He cleared his throat. “Sorry for letting you guys down,” he said. “It was stupid to take that stuff from the store. It won't happen again.”

Although Matt thought that even the second apology was less than heartfelt, this one was good enough for the coach. Grant Jackson was back on the team.

With Grant back in the line-up, Matt's playing time dramatically decreased. The Stingers reeled off three more wins to finish the first half of the season at seven wins and one loss. All in all, though, Matt was happy with the way things were going for him and for Amar, who had played his way into the starting small forward position and become one of the team's most important players. Matt was now getting back-up time as both point and shooting guard and rarely played less than ten minutes a game. Amar, meanwhile, was getting even more playing time because of the absence of Steve White, the back-up center who had been suspended along with Jackson for shoplifting. While Jackson had apologized in front of the entire team, White had flatly refused to do so. Coach Stephens' rules were simple and non-negotiable. White was gone for good.

The atmosphere in the Stingers' locker room had subsequently become more united. Jackson's corner crew numbered one less and he and McTavish had begun to talk to the younger players, even joke around with them a bit. The team was still clearly split along the same lines, but it was inching closer together as the season wore on.

The Christmas break seemed to help build team spirit as Coach Stephens held a party for the players and their parents at his house, and the team exchanged gag gifts. Matt got a broken doorknob from Dave Tanner, wrapped up in bright red paper, with a card that read: “Better work on your handle over the holidays.”

Matt had to laugh. He was the one player on the South Side squad who worked on his ballhandling every day — almost to the point of obsession. The guys on the team knew that and, Matt thought, they probably respected him because of it.

Matt nearly didn't recognize Andrea Thomas, who had come to the party wearing a black dress, makeup and her hair gathered up off her shoulders. She and her mother made their way over to Matt during the evening. “Mom, this is the other number ten,” Andrea said.

“Pleased to meet you, Matt,” Mrs. Thomas said. “Andrea's told me about you.”

“Nice to meet you too,'' Matt said, stammering slightly. He suddenly felt embarrassed. “She's a really good trainer for us.''

Inside, Matt cringed. What a dumb thing to say. There were a few seconds of awkward silence as he smiled at Andrea and her mother. “I think I'll go get some more food now,'' he finally said, slipping away from them.

Matt was quiet as he and his mom left the party that night. “What's wrong, Matt?” she asked. “You seem a little down.”

“No, Mom,” he said. “Just tired.”

Truth was, Matt was wondering what Andrea's mother had meant when she said she had heard a lot about him. Like what? He had barely talked to Andrea all season. Matt felt confused yet strangely pleased at the same time.

Matt and his mom spent a quiet Christmas Day together. Mark was working almost non-stop at Eton through the holidays in order to pick up premium shift money, so he couldn't make it home.

When it came time to open their presents, Matt was eager to see his mother's reaction. He had worked for three straight weeks in woodshop making a spice rack for the kitchen, which he had carefully stained in matching colors. She beamed as she opened it.