Free Full Court Press by Todd Hafer Page A

beauty. After all, this was Grant Middle School, not a production of Cinderella . Greta was still a plain-looking girl. Clean, but plain. Still, she had a nice smile.
    After the Cody-Neale showdown, almost everyone in school quit going into wall-hug mode in Greta’s presence. But not Terry Alston.
    The following week, Cody arrived in the science hall after first period. The scene was identical to the one a few days earlier, except this time it was Terry Alston camped in front of Greta’s locker, like a watchdog. Neale, Schutte, and a few other of Alston’s sycophants stood nearby, taunting Greta in their nasal voices.
    Cody walked grimly toward Alston. He knew that getting pummeled by Alston and his homeboys wouldn’t get him a place in the next Jesus Freaks book, but he hoped that Blake would use a “Cody the Courageous” story the next time he preached for Pastor Taylor—or maybe at his memorial service.
    Cody whipped around as he felt a strong hand on his shoulder. He hoped it was a teacher. It was Pork Chop, looking uncharacteristically grim and shaking his head slowly from side to side.
    â€œHey, Chop,” he said quietly. “Don’t try to stop me. I gotta do this. Just come and visit me in the hospital. Or say a few kind words at my funeral.”
    Pork Chop’s head was still moving. “No, Cody. I got this one.”
    Cody couldn’t stop the sigh of relief before it escaped from his throat. “You don’t have to—”
    â€œCody,” Pork Chop interrupted, “I’ve been thinking about what you said, okay? And you were right. And then what you did last week—that showed me something. I guess you could say you inspired me. Now, like I said, I got this. You just watch my back in case one of Alston’s monkey boys tries to jump on it.”
    Cody nodded solemnly.
    â€œYo,T,” Pork Chop called as he and Cody reached Greta. “Step off from Greta’s locker, or I’ll put you through it.”
    Alston’s hands were at his sides, but Cody saw them curl into tight fists. “Try it, fat boy. I can hit you ten times for every time you tag me.”
    Pork Chop shrugged. “One time is all I need. And don’t call me fat. I prefer the term ‘big-boned AfricanAmerican.’”
    The ripple of Coach Clayton’s whistle preempted Alston’s response. The coach loped toward the scene, with smooth, ground-gobbling strides. Cody felt a twinge of disappointment. The “Fight of the Year” had just been postponed.
    â€œProblem here, fellas?”
    Alston spoke up first. “Nah, Coach—we were just talking.”
    â€œYeah?” Coach Clayton’s voice was laced with suspicion. “Well, you best save your breath for the extra suicides you’re all going to run tonight. My athletes get to class promptly, understand? They don’t hang out and clog up the hallways. Now, all of you—get to class!”
    As the students dispersed, Cody heard Alston address Pork Chop in a conspiratorial whisper, “Someday, Porter, you and I are gonna war!”
    Pork Chop smiled good-naturedly. “I know,” he said. “Meanwhile, I’ll just keep stacking hay, pumping iron, and sparring with Doug in our basement, waiting for that fateful day to come. I’m gettin’ thicker and stronger every day. What’re you gettin’?”

    Grant faced a disorganized Cook team and a tired Lincoln squad that week, beating both by twelve—on the road. In the Lincoln game, Cody held Locke, a five-foot-nine power forward who was averaging fourteen points a game, scoreless. At halftime Locke was zero for eight, and Coach Clayton issued a challenge to Cody, “Martin, if you blank Locke in the second half, I’m buyin’ hot-fudge sundaes for everyone after the game.”
    Later, when Cody tipped just enough of Locke’s last-second turnaround jumper to make it fall short, the