If there was one player capable of spoiling the Stingers' shot at a city championship it was Tommy Layne, the star Middleton guard.
That put the pressure squarely on Matt's shoulders. He would have to guard Layne when they met the Marauders in a city quarterfinal playoff.
Middleton had slipped badly during the final part of the regular season after Layne was sidelined for a half-dozen games with an ankle injury. But the Marauders' star was back now, healthy, and Matt knew he was in for the biggest challenge of his brief basketball career.
It was Layne who had embarrassed Matt by stealing the ball for the game-winning basket earlier in the season. As classes began on the morning of the Friday playoff, Matt just kept thinking about Layne, and how he couldn't afford to make the mistake of playing the Middleton star too tightly.
It was impossible not to dwell on the challenge as Friday wore on. Unlike regular-season games, the South Side student society staged an elaborate pre-game pep rally in the gym during lunch hour. Principal Walker made a speech and so did Coach Stephens. The school's precision drill team performed a few numbers. Then the coach asked Dave Tanner, the Stingers' captain, to step up to the microphone and say a few words.
“It's been a great year,” the beefy center with the spiky blond hair grinned awkwardly into the microphone, looking more than a little uncomfortable. “I don't know what else to say. We'll do our best.”
Matt felt proud to be a Stinger and excited about the playoffs as he stood there with his teammates. He spied Miss Dawson standing off to one side. She waved and smiled proudly at him, her hazel eyes beaming.
By the time tip-off rolled around, the South Side gym, which sat about four hundred people, was jammed. Matt got a huge boost when he looked for his mom in her usual spot and saw his smiling big brother sitting next to her. Mark had made the drive down from Eton and would finally get to see him play â and in the playoffs too.
The teams lined up for the start of the game and shook hands with each other. Tommy Layne's huge right hand overlapped Matt's, but he smiled and winked at his younger adversary. “Have a good one,” Matt said.
The fans who had shown up on what was a bitterly cold, snowy afternoon weren't disappointed. South Side and Middleton played neck and neck throughout the first half and the teams headed into the locker room tied thirty-two to thirty-two. Layne had outplayed Matt, scoring ten points by the half, but he had also had some trouble containing Matt's crossover dribble. The Marauders' star had three personal fouls at the half while Matt had picked up just one.
Coach Stephens was pleased in the locker room at the break. “We're in good shape here,” he said. “We're a much deeper team and, as the game wears on, we'll be able to run away on these guys.
“Matt, you're doing a good job on Layne,” the coach continued. “In this half, concentrate on taking the ball right at him. I think you can foul him out. You're quick enough and smart enough. If we can get him out of the game, it's over.”
Layne began the second half on fire. He made two quick threes to put the Marauders up by six and seemingly in control. But the next trip down the floor, Matt remembered the coach's advice. He shoulder-faked Layne to the right and then put the ball on the floor and cut hard left. As the Middleton guard backpedaled to stop the anticipated drive, Matt pulled up for the jumper. Layne swung his right arm toward Matt but was slightly off balance and bumped his elbow. The shot missed, but Layne was whistled for a foul.
Matt stepped to the line. He was nervous. He had never shot free throws in such a pressure-packed situation or in front of such a big crowd. He missed the first one, as the ball unluckily rolled off the front of the rim and spun out. But he bore down, dribbled the ball twice and swished the second attempt. South Side was within five points now, and Tommy Layne had picked up his fourth foul.
The teams battled hard back and forth, with Middleton clinging to a small lead. With about ten minutes left, Matt found himself with the ball at the top of the key again. He noticed that Layne was overplaying him to the right side, just as he had done in their first meeting of the season. But this time Matt recognized that Layne was again playing coy, trying to set up the steal. He made a move left, but when Layne lunged for the ball Matt quickly crossed over his dribble, cut right and drove for what looked to be an open lay-up. Before Matt could lay in the ball, however, he felt an arm across his back and he lost his balance, crashing to the floor and twisting his right ankle under his own weight.
The pain was horrible as Matt limped to the free-throw line. Then he realized that the foul was on Tommy Layne. The Marauder star was gone.
Matt made both his free throws, pulling South Side to within one point. But his right ankle was throbbing. Coach Stephens sent Jake into the game to replace Matt.
Matt was disappointed about coming out. But Coach Stephens was happy with him. “Nice job on Layne,” he said. “Just have a rest. I've got a good feeling about this one.”
As Matt sat back on the bench, Andrea hurried over to him with an ice pack and carefully secured it to his right ankle with a roll of cloth bandage. The ice deadened some of the pain, making the ankle feel numb. Matt knew now that he wasn't going back into this game.
But it didn't matter. Without Layne in the lineup, Middleton couldn't stay with the Stingers. Jake turned in his best performance since being promoted to the varsity, scoring twelve points and teaming up with Phil to handle the ball perfectly. And McTavish led all scorers with twenty-five points, including a nice behind-the-back assist from Phil in the game's dying minutes. The final score was South Side sixty, Middleton fifty. The Stingers were going to the city semifinals.
In the locker room, Matt sat in his usual spot with a fresh ice pack on his ankle, which by then already felt considerably less sore. McTavish crossed the locker room, a smile on his face. “Nice job on Layne, man,” he said. “Things were a lot easier with him out of the way.”
“Thanks,” Matt replied. “Twenty-five isn't a bad night for you, either.”
It was the first time he had ever really talked to McTavish. And suddenly, he didn't seem like a bad guy at all. As the two spoke, Phil walked out of the showers and looked their way. “Sweet pass, man,” McTavish shouted at Phil. “Just like Jason Kidd.”
Matt wondered how his friend would react. Phil knew that McTavish had been part of the group that tagged his family's store. He knew that McTavish and Jackson had been close friends. But Phil must have sensed the same difference in McTavish that Matt had noticed. “Way to finish it off,” he said to McTavish. “You had a monster game tonight.”
Later, Phil asked Jake, Matt and Amar if they wanted to come and hang out at the store for the rest of the night. One of his grandmother's friends was having a seventieth birthday party, and she had asked Phil to look after things for a few hours.
They agreed to meet at the store at eight o'clock. Then Phil shouted across the locker room. “Hey, McTavish, you want to come over too?”
McTavish nodded. “Sure, that'd be cool.” He didn't say anything else and neither did Phil. They didn't have to.
That night started off in terrific fashion with the boys watching the 76ers-Bucks game on the portable TV set near the back of the store. Phil brought out some Cokes, chips and a couple of boxes of cookies, and the five boys sat around talking hoops.
It was just about ten and almost time to close up the store when Matt saw them coming down the street. Grant Jackson was walking at the front of a group of kids, including a couple of girls Matt didn't know. He was weaving slightly as he made his way down the sidewalk, headed for the store. Matt cringed at the thought of what was coming.
Jackson came through the door first, looking around with contempt. He didn't even seem to see the other boys, but he noticed Phil behind the counter. “I want some smokes,” he demanded aggressively, the smell of alcohol strong enough to detect from across the aisle.
Phil cleared his throat. “You know I can't sell you cigarettes, Jackson,” he said calmly. “You're not old enough. My grandma could lose her license if I did that.”
“Screw that,” Jackson said impatiently. “What are you gonna do if I just decide to take them. You gonna stop me, Wong-Ton Phil?”
Jackson made a lurching move toward the edge of the counter near where the cigarettes were kept. But Phil didn't even have time to respond. Andrew McTavish had already sprung in front of his former friend, halting Jackson's clumsy bid for the cigarettes. A flash of surprise crossed Jackson's face and his dark eyes flickered in disgust. “Oh, so now you're one of the China boys too,” he snorted. His friends laughed behind him. But the two girls they were with tried to look the other way, like they wished none of this was happening.
McTavish didn't respond to the taunt. He moved closer to Jackson and stood face to face with him, just in front of Phil near the cash register. McTavish was two inches taller and maybe ten pounds heavier than Jackson. “You should leave, man,” he said quietly between clenched teeth. “This isn't cool.”
“I'm not going anywhere,” Jackson shot back. “What's up with you, anyway?”
McTavish didn't back down, staring straight into Jackson's cold eyes. Jackson's right arm shot forward, shoving McTavish roughly back into the counter, but still McTavish didn't respond. It was clear he was trying to keep his cool, to avoid a fight. All he wanted was for Grant Jackson to turn around and walk out of the store.
But Jackson wasn't about to do that. And as the two boys stared at each other, Matt noticed Nate Griffin moving from behind Jackson around the right side of McTavish. It happened so quickly that Matt didn't have time to think about how to react. Griffin suddenly rushed McTavish from behind, knocking him in the back of the head with an elbow. Matt saw that Jackson was about to move in on the now stunned McTavish.
Matt stepped forward. Before Jackson realized what was happening, Matt had already thrown the punch. His right fist glanced off Jackson's nose. Matt felt the cartilage slide under his knuckles. Blood began to trickle from Jackson's numb face as he stumbled backward, hardly believing what had just happened.
Matt steeled himself for Jackson's response, but it never came. The older boy backed out of the store, a different look on his face than Matt had ever seen. Jackson's friends followed and so did the girls. In seconds, the store was quiet again. But everything about the night had changed.
“Holy crap!” Phil yelled. “Did you see Jackson's face?” The other boys nodded their approval in Matt's direction.
Matt's head was whirling with a mix of emotions he had never felt. He had never punched anybody before, except in play fighting, and his right knuckles were already swelling up. It had happened so fast that he hadn't had time to think about what he was doing. He was feeling a lot of things, but he wasn't proud at this very moment. Just confused.
Matt glanced up at the clock that hung over the store counter. It was 10:15. He had just enough time to get home on his bike. “I gotta go guys. I have to be home at ten-thirty,” Matt mumbled. The others nodded. “Me too,” Jake said. “I'll ride part way home with you,” McTavish added.
As Matt made his way to the store's front door, Phil caught up to him. “Thanks,” he smiled. “That guy is seriously out of control.”
Matt managed a weak grin in response and waved goodbye with his left hand as he walked outside. He climbed awkwardly onto his bike and joined the others riding down the street. His right hand was almost too numb to properly grasp the handle bar. It had been a weird night, and he wasn't quite sure how he felt about it yet.
By Monday morning, the swelling on Matt's right hand was gone, but the last three knuckles were still bruised and extremely sore to the touch. As he prepared for the walk to South Side Middle School, he had to be careful when pulling his backpack over his shoulder that he didn't catch the strap on his injured hand.
Matt had left the house a few minutes later than usual, so Jake and Phil weren't under the tree waiting for him this morning. They had already headed off to class. He shuffled through the coating of powdery snow that covered the sidewalk, completely alone with his thoughts.
He had been dwelling all weekend on the punch he had thrown at Grant Jackson, going over the scenario that had led up to it and wondering if he could have done anything to avoid it.
Part of him felt good about what he had done, about finally standing up to Jackson and being there to support his buddy, Phil. Andrew McTavish had also seemed surprised and grateful that Matt had stepped in to stop him from being ambushed. Matt played the scene over and over in his head and each time he came to the same conclusion: He'd had no choice but to do what he did.
That didn't make it any easier, though. Matt had never fought anybody â not seriously, anyway â and he had certainly never hurt anybody on purpose. Even though he didn't like Grant Jackson, he couldn't erase from his memory the startled look on the boy's face, and the sudden vulnerability he had seen in those normally cold, dark eyes. That part he wasn't proud of. Not at all.
Neither was he too keen about his mom finding out that he had punched another kid, not even a bully like Jackson. She had always been pretty strict about fighting. She didn't like it at all. Once, in middle school, his older brother Mark had scrapped another boy on the soccer field after school and Mom had grounded him for a week. Matt had so far avoided telling her about the incident with Jackson and had done his best to hide his sore hand from her. But hiding stuff didn't make him feel very good, either.
Matt was almost at the school when he heard Amar's voice from behind him. “Matt, wait up,” he yelled, loping across the street, his backpack bouncing off his lean frame.