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what Coach would say—what his teammates would say. He thought of how everyone would look at him in the hallways on Monday—how they would whisper behind his back and wag their heads disappointedly.
    Why does it have to be me? God, what have I done to deserve this? Why can’t Alston be up here? He lives for this kinda stuff. Maybe I could faint right now. If I can pull off a convincing face-plant, maybe Alston can shoot for me. I think there’s a rule that provides for a sub—
    The referee’s whistle snapped Cody from his thoughts. He pried the ball from Cody’s tense fingers. “Time-out, white,” he called.
    Cody shook his head. Calling a time-out to ice the shooter was good strategy, but not your own shooter. He and all the other puzzled Raiders circled around Coach Clayton on the sideline.
    â€œWhat’s up, Coach?” Alston asked. “Why did you call a time-out at a time like this? Martin looks like he’s about ready to cry.”
    â€œTerry,” Coach Clayton began, “shut up—please. Let’s remember who the coach is.”
    Alston dipped his head and muttered something Cody couldn’t decipher.
    â€œI have good reason for this TO. To celebrate the championship, we’re all going to Louie’s Pizza after the game.”
    He pulled his cell phone from the breast pocket of his well-worn, navy-blue blazer. He punched in a number and held the phone to his right ear. “Mike,” he yelled, as the Grant Middle School band began its assault on ‘Sweet Georgia Brown,’ “Coach C. here. Listen—those victory pizzas we talked about earlier today? Start making ’em. We’ll be there in about twenty-five minutes. Yeah, that’s right. Pitchers of pop, too. And hang on a minute, Mike—”
    Coach Clayton looked at Gannon. “Gannon, you’re still a vegetarian, right?”
    Gannon nodded his head sadly. “Yes, my mom’s still forcing me.”
    Coach Clayton yelled into the phone again. “Yeah, I’m still here, Mike. Listen—make one of those pizzas all veggie, okay? Gannon and I are vegetarians, at least for this weekend.”
    The coach said goodbye and slipped his phone back into his pocket. He scanned the eyes of his team. “Any questions?”
    No one said a word. Even Alston could only manage a weak whistle.
    â€œOkay then. You’ll all need to hustle and get showered after Cody drains these two shots. I want to get to Louie’s while the pizzas are still hot. And your parents are invited, by the way.”
    The Raiders broke their huddle and headed back to the game. Coach Clayton tugged on Cody’s jersey.
    â€œCody, it’s six-thirty, you got it? It’s six-thirty.”
    Cody started to frown, but then a small smile of recognition creased his face.
    He walked to the line, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. It is six-thirty , he assured himself. It’s early in the morning, and I’m here, as I am every weekday. Won’t leave the gym until I hit a hundred free throws. One hundred. These are just two more. It’s just me, a ball, and a hoop. No crowd. No distractions .
    He opened his eyes. He dribbled the ball three times, then brought it to eye level, his fingertips finding a seam. He made sure his right elbow was straight and close to his body. Now the ball didn’t seem large and foreign. It felt perfect as it rested on his fingertips, as if it belonged there. He eyed the rim, bent his knees, and flicked his wrist.
    He knew when the ball left his hand that it would find nothing but net. The crowd exploded into cheers and roars of approval, but the noise seemed faraway. Cody wanted the rock back—now.
    Macy was saying something to him but it was lost amid the noise.
    The ref handed him the ball. “One shot, gentlemen. Play the miss.”
    â€œThere isn’t going to be any miss,” Cody whispered. He went through the routine