In the Paint Read Free Page A

Jim Stephens told the thirty-three players assembled around center court. “I’ve got three basic rules and if you follow them, we’ll be all right.
    â€œThe first is that you listen. When I blow the whistle, or I’m talking, you hold the ball and don’t say a word. That way, I won’t waste my time or yours.
    â€œThe second is that you try your hardest all the time. I’m not saying you have to make every shot or get every rebound. We all fail sometimes and we all make mistakes. I can live with mistakes if they come honestly. If I see you’re not giving it your best, though, you won’t last long here.
    â€œThe third rule, and this is the most important one,” Coach continued, his voice rising slightly and his eyes narrowing below his bushy gray-flecked brows, “you must respect your coach and your team-mates. There will be no back talking or infighting at South Side. You will be supportive of each other.”
    As he talked, most of the players listened intently. South Side was the smallest of nine middle schools in the city. But it consistently had one of the best basketball programs, and its constant stream of graduating players was a major reason why the South Side High team was always a regional contender. The biggest reason the middle school feeder program was so successful was Coach Jim Stephens.
    A tall, rigid man in his mid-forties who had once been a college basketball star, the no-nonsense coach commanded instant respect from most players. He also had a pretty simple way of operating. If you didn’t give him that respect, you didn’t last long.
    There had been many talented, tall kids who had gone through the school during the fifteen years Coach Stephens had worked there who didn’t stay on the team because they couldn’t, or wouldn’t, follow the rules. There were no exceptions, no matter how good the player. In the coach’s world, no one player was ever more important than the team.
    â€œIs all that clear?” the coach said, looking around as heads nodded. “Good then. Let’s get started.”
    Matt surveyed the group, which seemed so much older and more mature than the Glenview Elementary team on which he and his buddies had played for the last three years. He instantly recognized the player directly behind the coach, a muscular boy about five-foot-ten with dark hair and eyes. It was Grant Jackson — the boy from the incident at Anderson Park. But if Jackson recognized Matt, he wasn’t letting on.
    As Coach Stephens wrapped up his pre-practice talk, Jackson and his friends were smirking at the coach’s comments, as if they’d heard this speech too many times before. The boys were laughing quietly about something, but they all went absolutely silent when the granite-jawed coach spun their way.
    â€œMcTavish, Jackson, White,” he barked at the trio. “Since you guys have been through all this before, why don’t you lead everybody in ten man-makers to get us warmed up?”
    Jackson’s grin disappeared. He raised his eyebrows, but nevertheless hustled down to the baseline to lead the fitness drills. South Side’s first practice of the year was officially on.
    Once the balls were bouncing and the players moving, Matt’s nerves faded into the background. The drills weren’t much different than those he had done at Glenview, the players were just bigger and faster. The prospects worked in stations, with a half-dozen players under each basket, concentrating on specific skills such as dribbling, boxing out under the boards and defensive shuffles. For Matt and his friends, just being in the South Side gym with its see-through backboards, glistening oak floor and the huge maroon letters spelling “HOME OF THE STINGERS” painted along each baseline wall, was a thrill. Several times during the session Matt looked around, drew a deep breath and reminded himself to work as hard as he