Front Court Hex Read online

  Both teams fired in more baskets, and by the end of the third quarter the score was Foxfires 31, Chariots 34.

  Coach Stull talked to his charges during the brief intermission, urging them to play “tight ball” during the last quarter. “We’re in the lead so let’s keep it that way,” he said. “Make sure of your passes and don’t take any long shots. Freddie has been shooting great this second half, so keep feeding him. If he gets double-teamed, feed Ronnie, or take a shot yourselves. I want you to remember that too, Jerry. The Foxfires must think by now that you’re not a shooter, so fool them. Drop in a couple. You’re due.”

  Soft laughter trickled from the players as all eyes turned to Jerry. His face got hot as he found himself the center of attention.

  The horn sounded, announcing the beginning of the fourth and last quarter, and Jerry found himself walking out onto the court with Freddie.

  “Sure, drop in a couple, Jerry.” The tall center laughed. “That wouldn’t fool only them. It would fool everybody!”

  Jerry found himself becoming blindly angry with Freddie. He wanted to hit him, and only the knowledge that fans were watching stopped him.

  The Foxfires took the tap and moved with renewed energy, passing the ball swiftly and accurately in a zigzag pattern up the court. The Chariots seemed dazed at what was going on and suddenly the Foxfires had scored again. 33 – 34.

  Chariots’ ball. They passed it upcourt, then back and forth to each other as they tried to maneuver it closer to the basket. Then — an interception! The Foxfires took the ball down to their end of the court and in two passes they scored again. 35 – 34! They were ahead!

  “C’mon, you guys!” Freddie yelled. “Let’s stop ’em!”

  They didn’t. The Foxfires dumped in more baskets, raising their score to 43. Twice Jerry had stolen the ball from a Foxfire. Three times he had intercepted passes. But his efforts weren’t enough to stop the rolling Foxfires.

  The Chariots called time, and once again Coach Stull talked to his charges. “You’re too tight, guys. You’ve got your minds made up that they’re going to win, and you’re letting them do it. Sure you’re playing hard, but you’re going about it the wrong way. Think when you’ve got the ball. Hold it for a second before you get rid of it. You can do it. I know you can.”

  They went out and began playing a different game, a better game. Their passes were accurate, their shots better timed. The gap closed on the score. The minutes became seconds. Fifty-nine… fifty-eight… fifty-seven…

  The Foxfires dumped in a shot, then the Chariots dumped in one. With fifteen seconds to go the Foxfires were leading 48 – 47. The Foxfires had the ball, passing it among themselves to kill time. Suddenly it was intercepted!

  Jerry had it, his fifth steal of the game. A resounding roar exploded from the Chariot fans as he dribbled the ball upcourt, not a single Foxfire nor Chariot near him.

  “Make it yourself, Jerry!” the familiar voice of his father shouted.

  He reached the basket and shot. The ball hung on the rim a moment — then rolled off!

  It seemed, as Coach Stull had said earlier, that “someone had pulled a string on it” to keep it from going in. The resounding cries died as quickly as they had started.

  Two seconds later the game was over.

  4

  FREDDIE AND JERRY almost got into a fight in the locker room.

  “You stink, Jerry,” Freddie was saying. “You must be paying Coach Stull to let you play because you’re next to worthless.”

  Jerry couldn’t take it any longer and barged into Freddie, fists clenched. But Ronnie jumped between them.

  “No, Jerry! No!”

  An ache lodged in Jerry’s throat as he looked at Ronnie, then at the glowering face beyond. Freddie’s jaw stuck out, and his fists were clenched, too.

  Coach Stull stepped into the locker room. His black eyes flashed. “What’s going on here?” he demanded.

  “Nothing,” said Ronnie. “Everything’s okay now, Coach.”

  The coach looked at Freddie and Jerry, then at the others. “Take your showers, then get out of here. And don’t put the blame for our loss on anyone. You each played an excellent game. Winning’s fine, but losing is no disgrace. See you tomorrow.”

  Fifteen minutes later Jerry finished dressing and looked for Ronnie.

  “He’s gone,” said Lin Foo, zipping up his jacket. “Left about five minutes ago.”

  Jerry headed for the door, an ache in his stomach. He didn’t care if Freddie Pearse never spoke to him again, but it was different with Ronnie. Ronnie had always been a good friend, a buddy. They rode bikes together, worked for the same merit badges together, shared each other’s secrets. Without Ronnie he had no one.

  Oh, sure, there were Mom and Dad, but they were different. The three of them went on picnics together, to movies and to vacation spots in the mountains. But that wasn’t like being with a kid your age, a kid who enjoyed doing the same things you did.

  Lin Foo walked with him most of the way home, then turned off on another street. “G’night, Jerry. See you tomorrow.”

  “Good night, Lin.”

  Snow flurries whipped about like tiny white feathers, striking Jerry’s cheeks and melting almost instantly. A car’s head lights pierced the darkness. Jerry waited till the car passed by, then started to cross the street when somebody called his name. He paused and looked down the street. A kid was running toward him, a kid slightly shorter than he.

  Jerry stepped back onto the curb and waited for him. He frowned as the figure drew closer.

  “Hi, Jerry. I’m Danny Weatherspoon,” the kid said. “I — I’d like to talk to you a minute.”

  He wore a heavy Windbreaker and was bareheaded. Jerry had never seen him before in his life.

  “It’s late,” Jerry said. “And it’s cold.”

  “It’ll only take a minute,” Danny Weatherspoon said.

  Jerry shivered. “Okay, go ahead and talk.”

  Danny Weatherspoon looked him directly in the eyes. “Don’t — don’t you think it’s kind of funny that you haven’t been making baskets?”

  Jerry blinked. What was the kid driving at?

  “Well?” asked Danny.

  “Yeah,” Jerry replied after he was able to. “Why?”

  “I’m responsible,” Danny said.

  Jerry stared at him. “You’re what?”

  “I’m responsible,” Danny repeated. “Well — in a way, that is.” Danny smiled, looked up and down the street and back again at Jerry. “The truth is, you brought this on yourself, so don’t blame it all on me.”

  “Brought what on?” cried Jerry, completely baffled at what Danny Weather-spoon was trying to tell him.

  “This — this thing!” Danny said seriously. “This — problem!”

  “You’re nuts,” Jerry said, and started to cross the street. “Good night. I’m bushed. I’ve got to get some sleep.”

  Danny Weatherspoon hurried up alongside of him. “I’m here to help you, Jerry! Please listen, will you?”

  Jerry crossed the street and stopped. “Look, Danny Weatherspoon, I don’t like jokes on a cold, snowy night — especially from some kid I’ve never seen before. Now leave me alone, will you? Play them on somebody else. Freddie Pearse, for example. He might just love ’em.”

  “But Freddie is not a relative,” Danny said.

  Jerry frowned. “A relative? You mean that you’re a relative of mine?”

  Danny chuckled. “That’s right. From way back, and I mean way back. Three hundred years, at least.”

  “Mom and Dad never mentioned any Weatherspoons to me,” Jerry murmured.

  “Of course not. That’s because they’re not your natural mother and father. You do know that, don’t you?”

  “Sure I do. My natural parents died when I was about three.”

  “Right. In a car accident,” said Danny.

  Jerry frowned. “How did you know about that?” he asked curiously.

  Danny g
rinned. “It’s true, isn’t it?”

  “Well — yes.” Danny’s parents must have read about it in the newspaper and told him, of course. How else could he know?

  Jerry saw the snow piling on Danny’s head, and knew that it must be piling on his, too. He felt chilled and wanted to hurry home before he caught a cold. Mom and Dad would be wondering what had happened to him.

  “What’s all this got to do with my not making baskets?” he asked.

  “You’ve been spoiling the good reputation of a Weatherspoon, and until you change for the better your shots won’t get any better either,” Danny said.

  Jerry stared at him, and laughed. Suddenly he wasn’t angry at the kid anymore. He was amused. He would play along with him for just another minute or two, then go home. It seemed that he had found a new friend, even if Danny was talking a lot of nonsense.

  “What have I been doing to spoil a good reputation?” he asked.

  Danny shrugged. “A lot of things, like aggravating your mother, for instance. And letting your father carry out the garbage and shovel the snow when you are supposed to do those jobs yourself. And, to top it off, asking Ronnie Malone to do your book report for you. Man, that’s real nerve!”

  Jerry’s heart drummed. “How — how could you know all this?” he asked huskily.

  Danny’s eyes twinkled. “I’m a warlock,” he smiled.

  “A warlock?” Jerry echoed. “What’s a warlock?”

  “A person with supernatural powers. A man is called a warlock, a woman is called a witch. You know what a witch is, don’t you?”

  “Sure I know what a witch is,” Jerry replied, getting more annoyed with Danny by the minute. “Now that you’ve ex plained it to me, mind if I go home?”

  “Jerry! For Petey sakes, believe me, will you? I’m serious!”

  “Okay, I believe you. All right?” Anything to get rid of the obnoxious kid, whoever he was. Warlock! Oh, man!

  Just then the sound of loud, screeching tires drew Jerry’s attention, and he saw a red sports car cutting around the street corner at a rate of speed that must have exceeded the town’s speed limit.

  “Wow! Look at him go!” Jerry cried. “How would you like to have wheels like that?”

  He turned to look at Danny, a fat grin on his face. Instantly the grin faded. His skin crawled.

  “Danny?” he said.

  But Danny seemed to have vanished. He was nowhere in sight.

  5

  WHAT KEPT YOU so late?” Mr. Steele asked as Jerry pulled off his snow-covered jacket and tossed it over the back of a chair.

  “I met a kid who said his name is Danny Weatherspoon,” Jerry replied. “He said he’s a relative of mine, and a warlock.”

  His father laughed. “Where does he live?”

  “Somewhere nearby. I didn’t think to ask him.”

  “A warlock, huh?” Mrs. Steele picked up his jacket, shook the melting snow onto a rug near the door, and went to hang it in the closet. “What kids will do nowadays for kicks. Want something to eat, Jerry?”

  “A bowl of cereal and something hot to drink,” he said.

  “Hot chocolate?”

  “Okay.”

  In bed he tried to erase Danny Weatherspoon from his mind, but couldn’t. How could Danny know so much about him? Danny’s words echoed in his ears as he fell asleep.

  The next morning he heard his mother yelling to him to get up, but he only turned over and tried to fall back to sleep. She would call again, he was sure. She always did.

  Suddenly he remembered what Danny Weatherspoon had said to him, and in a flash he was out of bed, yanking on his clothes and running downstairs just as his mother was about to yell again.

  She stared at him as he popped into the kitchen, panting. “I can’t believe it,” she exclaimed. “Is it really you, Jerry?”

  He grinned. “It’s really me, Mom.”

  He looked out of the window and saw a thick blanket of snow covering the driveway. Deep tire tracks indicated that his father had left for work without having shoveled off the snow.

  “I’ll shovel out the driveway before I eat, Mom,” Jerry volunteered.

  He put on his jacket, noticing his mother’s surprised expression.

  “Jerry, are you all right?” she asked.

  “I’m just fine, Mom,” he smiled.

  He got the shovel from the garage and had the driveway half shoveled out when his mother yelled to him from a window, “You don’t have to shovel it all now, Jerry! Leave the rest of it for this afternoon!”

  A good idea, he thought. He was getting tired, anyway, and it wasn’t absolutely necessary that he finish it now. His father wouldn’t be home till about 5:30, by which time Jerry, starting after school, could have the driveway shoveled out clean. He put the shovel away and went into the house.

  He took a shower, then sat down for breakfast, feeling hungry enough to eat a whole hog. Well, two eggs and two slices of toast, anyway, which were what his mother made for him.

  That afternoon, when he returned home from school, he finished shoveling off the driveway. When Mr. Steele drove in his expression clearly indicated that he couldn’t believe what he saw.

  “Who did you hire to do that?” he asked Mrs. Steele.

  She smiled and nodded at Jerry. “Your son did it.”

  Mr. Steele’s eyes brightened. “Good work, son. I had a rough day, and thinking about shoveling off this driveway when I got home made it rougher. Thanks very much.”

  Jerry didn’t tell him that he had done it just to see if being obedient and cooperative at home could have anything to do with his making baskets. What nonsense! How could it possibly have a connection? A guy has to be a nut to believe such garbage.

  Nonetheless, he decided he would go one step farther. After supper he would wash and dry the dishes. If Mom and Dad wondered if there were an ulterior motive in his being such an eager beaver all of a sudden, he would think of an explanation.

  “Jerry! What do you think you’re doing?” his mother asked as he cleared the table after supper and started to run water into a large pan in the sink.

  “You and Dad sit in the living room and relax, Mom,” Jerry said. “I’ll do the dishes.”

  “I can’t believe it!” she cried. “What’s got into you?”

  “Nothing. I just want to give you and Dad a day off. Isn’t that all right?”

  She looked at him a long moment before she answered. “Yes, of course, it is, and we appreciate it a lot. But you don’t have to overdo it, you know. We don’t want you to get so tired that you won’t want to do it again. Let me wash the dishes and you dry them.”

  Well, I won’t argue with her, Jerry thought. So she washed and he dried.

  On Thursday night, December 9, the Chariots played the Peacocks. The game started with Jerry on the bench. He couldn’t believe it. Even as he watched the short, stocky player running out there, catching a pass, throwing it, jumping for a rebound and not getting anywhere near it, Jerry couldn’t believe that Coach Stull would start Manny Lucas instead of him.

  Immediately he thought of the chores he had done at home — the hard work of shoveling off the driveway and the easy job of drying the supper dishes — and he told himself that he had wasted his time. Believing a single word that Danny Weatherspoon had told him was like believing in elves and leprechauns.

  He looked around for Danny and saw him sitting among a group of guys on the top row. Danny waved and Jerry waved back, though not enthusiastically. Frankly, he was hoping that Danny had stayed away.

  Freddie Pearse sank the first basket for the Chariots, then Ronnie was fouled and managed to sink one out of two. The Peacock playing opposite Manny was fast and handled the ball well, scoring twice and even stealing the ball once from the stocky Chariot. Jerry covered his eyes and wondered how long Coach Stull would keep Manny in there.

  The Peacocks crept up to a 13 – 8 lead. Then — Jerry could hardly believe his eyes — Manny sank a twenty-footer! The Chariot
fans roared and Manny grinned, taking a bow as he ran upcourt.

  Jerry couldn’t help but smile, too. Manny deserved a basket once in a while.

  But so do I, Jerry thought. Why can’t I sink one? And now, while I’m warming the bench, what chance have I got to get back into the groove again? How long will the coach have me sit here?

  There were two minutes left in the first quarter when Coach Stull sent Jerry in to replace Manny. Jerry, caught by surprise, wasn’t ready. He had practically accepted the fact that he wouldn’t be playing at all the first quarter.

  After reporting to the scorekeeper he ran in and met Freddie Pearse’s eyes squarely.

  “I was wishing you’d sit out this whole game,” Freddie said evenly. “Manny was doing fine.”

  “I knew you’d be happy to see me come in,” Jerry replied.

  Freddie glowered at him and looked away, shaking his head. Jerry knew he had to play harder now, harder than he had ever played before, to keep the team together and to show Freddie a thing or two.

  6

  JERRY GOT THE BALL only once during those two minutes. Even though he was in the open several times no one passed to him. Not until he ran to a corner on a hard press by the Peacocks did Ronnie pass him the ball.

  “Shoot!” a voice Jerry recognized as Danny’s shouted. “Shoot, Jerry!”

  Nervously Jerry stood looking at the basket, the ball gripped in his hands. He wanted to shoot, but he was afraid he would miss. He had missed so many times before.

  “Jerry, shoot!”

  Jerry never saw the Peacock sweeping in until the player hit the ball out of his hands. He hustled to retrieve it. But the Peacock, a little dynamo, dribbled it away and passed it downcourt to a teammate. Seconds later the Peacocks scored another basket. 15 – 10.

  Jerry ran downcourt in a daze. He felt that every eye in the gym was on him. He bumped into Chuck Metz, who almost tripped over his own feet as he tried to regain his balance.

  “Look where you’re going, will you?” Chuck snorted.