Three-Point Play by Todd Hafer Page B

poetry , but at least it’s way private.
    The piece was titled “For a Friend.” He hoped it wouldn’t make him cry. It had been at least three days since he cried—when the Martins had dinner guests and his dad happily announced Beth as “my wonderful wife.” The same way he used to introduce the first Mrs. Martin.
    Cody took a deep breath and began reading Robyn’s carefully rendered lettering.
    You’ve seen things that most can’t see, done things most can’t dream.
    You have dreams you fear won’t last, because you fear you won’t succeed.
    But you already have.
    You keep looking back, into the past, at what you’ve lost—reliving old pain.
    Turn around, look ahead of you, and you’ll see how much you’ve gained.
    I know that you still have some wounds that only hope can heal.
    I know it’s hard to open up and tell me how you feel.
    I’ll remember to be patient, if you’ll hold on to hope, and remember, too, you’re in my prayers no matter where you go.
    â€œWow, Hart,” he whispered. “No one’s ever written a poem for me. Guess I’ll have to keep runnin’ with you in the mornings—no matter how cold it gets.”

    â€œDid practice go okay, dude?” Beth asked, studying him in the rearview mirror.
    â€œYeah, it was pretty good.”
    â€œReally?” Beth’s voice was tinged with suspicion. “Because you look like you just scarfed some bad egg salad or something.”
    Cody forced a smile. “Is there such a thing as good egg salad?” he asked.
    Beth giggled, perhaps a bit too hard. “Point taken,” she said. “But, Cody, I can tell you’re carrying a lot of weight inside. If you need someone to help with the heavy lifting, I am here for you. I’m always gonna be here, you know?”
    Yeah, Cody thought. And that’s the problem. Well, not THE problem, but it’s definitely in the top ten.

    The rumor began spreading, like smoke, through the freshman team at Thursday’s practice. Central’s frosh team, which was 5–0 on the young season, was serious about going into the holiday break with its perfect record intact. And as insurance, Rick Macy would be making the trip to Grant.
    â€œWell, there goes our chance of getting a W this year,” Gannon grumbled as he stood behind Cody in a layup line. “Macy scored fourteen for the varsity a couple weekends ago. I can’t believe they’re gonna let him go against us.”
    â€œWell,” Cody said, “it’s only a rumor.”
    â€œYeah,” Gannon countered, “like Pork Chop’s moving away is just a rumor. But that’s true, isn’t it?”
    Cody felt pressure on his chest, as if someone were bear-hugging him. “Chop doesn’t like to talk about it. But, yeah, after the school year, he could be gone.”
    â€œThere you go,” Gannon said as he took off toward the basket. “Sometimes rumors are true.”

    Gannon proved prophetic. As he led his team onto the court to warm up, Cody looked to the opposite end of the gym and saw Macy launching long-range jumpers from the baseline. His baggy shorts hung so low on his hips that Cody wondered what held them up.
    Coach Clayton wasn’t fond of loose-fitting uniforms. He didn’t make his team wear old-school John Stockton short shorts, but he insisted, “None of my players are gonna be running around in drawers ten times too big. This is basketball, not some hip-hop fashion show. You keep them drawers pulled up, jerseys tucked in.”
    Cody almost shuddered as he and Macy met at half-court for pregame instructions from the lead referee. It’s like shaking hands with a Komodo dragon , Cody thought.
    But while his handshake was creepy, Macy’s face bore a smile. “I thought you’d be playing JV at least, Martin,” he said.
    Cody shrugged. “Not ready yet, I