Goal-Line Stand Read Free

for?”
    “It’s short for nothing. Just Deke.”
    Knight nodded. “What should I call him?”
    “Well, Chop always says, ‘Call me anything—just don’t call me late for dinner!’”
    Knight laughed politely.
    Cody leaned back, resting his elbows on the second tier of bleachers. “I probably should tell you one thing about Chop,” he said. “You probably notice that he’s got quite a tan.”
    Knight nodded again.
    “Well, his dad’s white. His mom was black. Still is, I guess. She bounced a couple years ago. See, we don’t have a lot of, uh, African-Americans in this part of Colorado. It was hard for Chop’s mom. It’s been hard for him too. I’ve been with him when people have driven by and called him—well, you know. You should see his eyes when it happens. I mean, he’s a tough guy, but when people say stuff like that, racial stuff—”
    “People still do that? In Colorado?”
    “People still do that. And worse. Anyway, he can be a bit sensitive about the subject. Just so you know. But don’t get the wrong idea. He’s cool. He has a great sense of humor. Funniest guy in the school, as far as I’m concerned.”
    “So, you guys are friends?”
    “Best friends.” Cody felt his voice cracking as he said the words. He hoped Kris Knight didn’t notice.
    They turned their attention back to the game. They watched Pork Chop grab a rebound, swinging his elbows viciously from side to side as two opposing players tried to steal the ball from him. “Get offa me!” he snarled.
    “Watch the ’bows, Chop,” Coach Smith snapped.
    “Wow,” Knight said. “I wouldn’t want Pork Chop mad at me.”
    Cody whistled through his teeth. “No,” he said, “you sure wouldn’t.”
    After one of Pork Chop’s teammates shot an air ball from the free throw line, the shirts team gained control of the ball and launched a fast break. Their point guard drove down the middle of the court, stopped abruptly at the top of the key, and lofted a jump shot that slid through the net without even grazing the rim.
    “Wow,” Knight said, “who’s that guy? He’s good!”
    Cody watched Terry Alston stand and admire his shot for a moment, then turn and lope downcourt with smooth, easy strides.
    “That’s Alston,” he said. “Best athlete in the whole school. Just ask him. He transferred here from a private school in the Springs—Colorado Springs. He says basketball’s his best sport. And, from what I’ve seen in gym class so far, he’s probably right. We should be pretty good this year. We’ll have a new coach. It should be fun.”
    Cody stopped talking. Knight had been nodding politely, like a bobble-head doll, but it was obvious he wasn’t that interested in what kind of year the Grant basketball team would have.
    Gotta shut up, Cody scolded himself, before you bore this poor guy into a coma.
    He focused on the game again. Alston intercepted a lazy crosscourt pass and then dashed downcourt, sandy hair flying behind him. It looked like another easy layup for the shirts team.
    Cody was startled when a huge blur streaked by. He thought he heard a cheerful “Check this!” as Pork Chop passed in front of him.
    Alston slowed slightly as he zeroed in on the basket, sizing up a right-handed layup. As he released the ball, Pork Chop accelerated behind him. With a loud grunt, Chop propelled his 190 pounds into the air and extended his left arm.
    He got just enough of his fingertips on the ball to direct it off the bottom of the backboard.
    “Yeah! That’s what I’m talkin’ about!” Pork Chop’s chest-deep bellow echoed off the gym walls. “How do you like that, TA? How do you like the taste of leather in the mornin’?”
    Alston shot a glare at his much larger opponent. He retrieved the ball and then fired a hard chest pass at Pork Chop’s stomach, but Chop caught the ball deftly and set it gently, almost lovingly, on the baseline.
    “It’s your ball, Hollywood,” Chop said. “I swatted your mess outta