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SHADOW OVER THE BACK COURT
Author: Matt Christopher
2008 Reissue Edition
5"x 8" Trade Paperback
$7.95US; 132pp

ISBN 978-1-933523-37-8
LCCN 2008936423

CHAPTER ONE

The ball slapped the floor inches from Jeff's foot and bounced up into Eddie Russell's waiting hands. Jeff spun, the sweat shining on his bare shoulders. He jabbed hard at the ball. But Eddie, guard on the jayvees' team, feinted an overhand pass, then bounced the ball under Jeff's right arm.
    Jeff whirled in time to see Gil Baker catch the ball, pivot, and shoot for the basket. The ball banked against the backboard and fluttered through the hoop. It was Gil's favorite shot, and he seldom missed.
    "Thatago, Gil, boy!"
    Jeff shook his head. He'd never make first team that way.
    A second-string player tossed in the ball from behind the out-of-bounds line. The first team rushed down the court to cover their basket. The second team dribbled the ball down cautiously. Beyond the center line Dick Mizner, who had the ball, stopped and passed to Jeff.
    Jeff dribbled down the side line, then stopped quickly and shot a quick overhand pass to Sam Bullick, who stood free under the basket. Sam caught the ball, turned, and tried for a lay-up.
    Somebody rushed in and hit his hand. The ball banked in to the net but the whistle shrilled. Coach Stu Cochran called a foul on the play and gave Sam the ball.
    "Watch that charging. Ike," he warned a slender redhead.
    Sam missed the shot. Jeff stretched high for the rebound and caught the ball on his finger tips. He jumped, arching the ball just over the rim of the basket. The ball riffled through the net.
    Sam tapped him gently on the hip. "Nice shot, Jeff."
    Jeff's heart sang as he bolted down the court toward the other basket. But a bucket now and then was not enough to assure him of being a regular player on the first team. Eric Wilson and Bill Godell were good, too. Those were the two he had to beat out—especially Eric.
    Jeff passed the center line and turned. Gil Baker brought the ball down the court. He passed to Eric. Eric dribbled in fast, going through three players. Suddenly he pulled up straight, lifted the ball high over his head, and snapped his wrists. The ball struck the backboard and banked through the hoop.
    Jeff looked at Eric. Not a hair on that shiny black head seemed to have moved out of place. Eric caught Jeff's eye. He winked, and cracked a thin triumphant smile. Jeff looked away, resentment flaring in him. If anybody could get under Jeff's skin it was Eric.
    The second team tossed in the ball from out of bounds. Jeff took it, dribbled across the center line, then passed to Sam. Quick as lightning Eric leaped forward, struck the ball from Sam's hand, and dribbled all the way down the court to his basket. Jeff raced after him.
    Eric leaped for the lay-up. The ball struck the backboard, rolled halfway around the rim, and dropped over the outside edge. Jeff and Eric jumped for the rebound. Jeff felt Eric's shoulder brush hard against him. Jeff caught the ball, pulled it down, and started to dribble away. Eric sprang like a cat in front of him and clawed at the ball. Jeff stopped. He saw a team-mate run up behind Eric. Jeff faked a throw, bringing the ball over his head with both hands. Eric leaped. Jeff came down on his heels, whirled on his pivot foot, and swished a pass to Sam who was streaking for the basket. Sam caught the ball, bounded high for a lay-up, and made it.
    Jeff turned and ran down court, a faint pleased smile on his lips. He had fooled Eric completely on that play.
    The whistle blew.
    "That'll be it for this morning," said Coach Cochran. "Take your showers."
    Jeff took a deep breath. He wiped the sweat off his brow with his finger tips and headed for the basement. On the way down the concrete steps he yanked off his Number 8 jersey. He was tired. Lee Mattoon, the tall center for the first team, trotted up beside him.
    "You did all right, Jeff," Lee said. "I think you'll make it."
    Jeff smiled.
    "Think so, Lee?"
    Lee shrugged.
    "You looked pretty hot out there today."
    "Thanks," said Jeff.
    He was trying hard for a position on the first team. Last year as a freshman in high school he had warmed the bench most of the time. He was going to work harder this year. Nothing was worse than sitting on the bench throughout a game, hopefully waiting for the coach to put you in—and then, when he did, to play for only half a minute.
    He had to make first team this year. It wasn't only because he wanted to play basketball more than anything else, but there was another reason, too. Jeff's brows pulled together, leaving tiny worried lines just above his nose, as he thought of something his father had said recently:
    Basketball is a waist of time!
    Jeff's father, a supervisor at the Dunnigan Electronics Laboratories, had said other things, too: You're going to school to learn, Jeff. You're a Dooley. Dooleys are creators, builders. They're men who have helped to shape the world. They've never had time to spend on foolish things like baseball, football, or basketball.
    Mr. Dooley wasn't mad when he said those words. He had said then as he would say anything else. But he had meant them, and that's what hurt.
    That had been two weeks ago, when basketball season started. But something that was so close to your heart couldn't be broken so easily. Basketball was like that for Jeff. He couldn't keep away from it. Ever since the first word got around that players were needed for the junior varsity, he was in the thick of it. He belonged like a frog belonged to a pool.
    Jeff reached the locker room. He pulled his locker door and hauled out a towel. Bruce Parker, a first stringer for the jayvees, began to sing in his deep husky voice. Bruce couldn't carry a tune, but he loved popular music and knew the words of most of the songs. Right now his off-key singing brought a grin to Jeff's lips and made him forget, for a while, those strong words of his father's.
    The needle spray of the shower felt good. Jeff dried himself, dressed, and was combing his hair when he heard Lee Mattoon say:
    "No! You can't do that to us, Gil!"
    Jeff turned. Others who had heard turned, too.
    "Do what, Lee?" said the coach, who was standing in the doorway. "What's the matter?"
    "Gil's quitting the team," said Lee.
    Jeff started.
    "Quitting the team?" Coach Cochran bolted from the doorway. He walked between the benches filled with player and sweat-soiled uniforms, and stopped in front of Gil. Gil, who was an inch shorter than he, was buttoning up his shirt.
    "What is this, Gil? Is it true?"
    "I'm thinking about it, coach," said Gil softly. "I haven't definitely made up my mind yet."
    "What's your reason? Why do you want to quit?"
    Gil reached for his jacket.
    "I'm falling down in my studies."
    "What subjects? Any one in particular?"
    Gil shrugged.
    "All of them. I flunked a test yesterday."
    The coach looked directly at him, then turned to the other players in the room.
    "I'm sorry to hear that. I was figuring—" he paused, looked back at Gil. "Never mind. I'll talk to you about this later."
    Silence filled the room as the coach turned on his heels and walked out. Jeff could hear his feet slowly plod up the stairs and then fade.
    "Study nights, Gil," Bruce Parker suggested. "Can't you study nights?"
    "I do, a little. But I'm poohed out by the time I can sit down and study. I can't think straight. I'm not like Jeff, or some of you other guys. I have to read a page three or four times to remember what I have read. You guys don't."
    "So what does that prove?" said Eric. "You want to be a college professor or something?"
    "I want to be an engineer," Gil answered in his quiet voice.
    "A train engineer?" Eric Laughed. "You don't have to go to college for that."
    Somebody laughed. But the remark wasn't funny. Jeff didn't find it funny, nor did Lee Mattoon.
    "There's mechanical engineering, and there's civil engineering, and other kinds too," said Lee. "Don't wisecrack. Gil knows better what he wants than anybody else."
    "Oh, I was only kidding," said Eric. "I didn't mean anything, Gil."
    "That's okay, Eric," said Gil. He pulled on his calfskin gloves and headed for the door. Lee and Bruce followed him out. "See you guys tomorrow."
    "Yeah. See you." The words fell softly from Jeff's lips. He gave the dial on the locker door a twist and walked out behind Sam.
    So Gil was quitting the team because he couldn't keep up with his studies, Jeff thought. Evidently basketball wasn't in his blood as it was in Jeff's. And Gil was good, the best on the team. He'd surely get on the varsity if he stayed.
    Jeff shook his head. He compared himself with Gil. Gil was a brilliant basketball player. He handled himself expertly on the court. He was good at set shots as well as lay-ups. He could break up plays better than anyone and was quick as lightning. He was everything a basketball player should be. Yet he wanted to quit because he couldn't keep up with his studies.
    Why can't I be like Gil? thought Jeff. I'd give anything to be as good as he is.
    But Gil was right. Jeff had the advantage when it came to studies.
    The Saturday noon sun looked like the yolk of an egg amid the cottony shreds of clouds. A shiny black car stood at the curb. Jeff went to it.
    "Hi, Dad," he said. "Been waiting long?"
    "Hi, Son." Mr. Dooley's gray eyes warmed behind dark-rimmed glasses. He was wearing his usual dark gray suit, dark hat, and pastel-blue necktie. "No. I just got here," he said.
    Mr. Dooley started the car and sent it cruising from the curb.
    "Are you hungry, Jeff?" he asked.
    "Kind of. We had a pretty tough scrimmage."
    "Can you go for another half hour or so without starving?"
    Jeff shrugged.
    "I guess so. Why?"
    His father smiled.
    "I'll show you in a few minutes."
    The big car moved smoothly along the city streets. Jeff relaxed against the seat, wondering what his father was up to. They left the city limits and made some turns which looked familiar. In a little while the car came to stop in the parking lot of the city airport.
    "What are we doing here, Dad?" Jeff asked.
    His father grinned.
    "Come on. You'll see."
    Mr. Dooley led Jeff across a walk and then through a gate. Five planes of various makes were parked near the edge of the huge runway. From the cabin of the fifth plane emerged a familiar figure. Jeff was surprised when he realized that it was Kevin, his older brother.
    "What's Kevin doing here?" he asked.
    "That's Kevin's plane," Mr. Dooley said. Your brother finally saved enough cash to buy himself a secondhand Aeronca Champion.
    Jeff still didn't understand. He knew that Kevin, who was about eight years older than he, loved flying. But he and Jeff were very different. What could Jeff have to do with this?
    "Hi, Jeff," said Kevin, his dark hair blowing all over his head, and a big happy smile on his handsome young face. "Look what your big brother's got."
    Jeff admired the single-wing, red and yellow plane.
    "Dad told me," he said. "It sure is a beauty.
    Mr. Dooley put an arm around Jeff's shoulders.
    "Kevin's arranged to have you take flying lessons, Jeff. What do you think of that?"
    Jeff frowned.
    "Me take flying lessons? Why? I never said I cared that much for flying."
    His father smiled.
    "I know, but flying and electronics go hand in hand, Jeff. It's the thing now. You have to think about what you're going to do when you get out of high school. And this is it. This is the ground floor. Kevin and I want to help you get started."
    Jeff looked at his father. Suddenly he knew what this was all about. It was a plan—a very sly plan to take his interest away from basketball.

©2008 Matt Christopher Royalties, Inc.

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