Break for the Basket (2 page)

“Mr. G.!” he shouted. “Mr. G.! Open up!”

He heard another crash. What was Mr. G. doing in there?

Emmett turned the knob and shoved his shoulder against the door. He almost went sprawling. With his hand still on the knob
he stared at the sight in the room — at the oil paintings strewn over the floor, torn and twisted. Then he stared at the man
in the middle of the room, a small man with a narrow face and a long, sharp chin. His hair was fire-red, and thick as a lion’s
mane. His brows were black as tar, and his eyes a heaven-blue. Right now those eyes pierced the room with a look Emmett had
never seen before.

“Mr. G.!” Emmett cried, afraid to advance any farther into the room. “What are you doing?”

Mr. G.’s chest heaved. “I’m smashing things, Emmett. Or shall I say, I’ve smashed them? I’m going to destroy every painting
I’ve ever done, Emmett. Every last bit of them. They’re no good. Not one of them is worth the cheap canvas they are painted
on. And I’ve given it my life. My life, Emmett.” He laughed. “Well, not exactly, because I am still here. Still alive. Not
too old, not too young. But still alive. Close the door, Emmett. My paltry allowance is hardly enough to pay for the fuel
to keep this place warm. I can’t warm the outdoors, too.”

Emmett closed the door. “I’m sorry, Mr. G.” He looked at the paintings. There were four of them, all ruined. They had been
hanging on the walls. Emmett
knew he was too small and too young to know very much about paintings. But he thought that those which Mr. G. had painted
were beautiful. One was of a horse and wagon going down an old road in the country. A boy and a girl sat on the high seat,
looking at each other and smiling. Another was of a farm in the wintertime, with a car stuck in the deep snow and a horse
trying to pull it out. The third one was of a little girl holding a kitten. The fourth was of a bell in a tower, and people
below going to church. Emmett had never realized that anybody could paint pictures which could look so real. Now they were
lying all over the floor, ripped apart by the man who had painted them.

Emmett stared at Mr. G. What had made him tear up such beautiful things? For a while Emmett didn’t know what to say or do.
He had never seen Mr. G. in such a bad temper.

“I’m no good, Emmett,” Mr. G. said. “I’m going to quit painting.” His voice was soft and kind again, just the way Emmett had
always known it. The angry look in his eyes was gone.

“Oh, you can’t, Mr. G.! You can’t quit painting!”

Mr. G. smiled and put an arm around Emmett. “I must, my friend. I must stop it right away and do something else. Give me a
hand cleaning up this mess, will you, Emmett?”

“Sure, Mr. G.”

Emmett began picking up.

“Did you
have
to tear up these beautiful paintings,
Mr. G.?” said Emmett. “They weren’t hurting anybody.”

“I guess I was too disgusted to realize what I was doing, Emmett,” said Mr. G. “It was a foolish thing to do. Very foolish.
I see that now, and I’m a little sorry. Those paintings
were
rather beautiful, weren’t they, Emmett?”

“They sure were, Mr. G.”

Emmett sat on a chair near the table and looked at Mr. G. He had known the little red-haired man for almost a year, ever since
Mr. G. had moved into Mrs. Maxwell’s basement apartment and had invited Emmett in to eat some of his homemade cookies. He
had come from New York City and was attending an art school here in Westvale. Before that he had gone to a university and
had studied art.

“It’s my life,” Mr. G. once had told Emmett. “I don’t think there is anything I’d be happier doing than painting pictures.
Look at Leonardo da Vinci. He was an
_,
inventor, but people will always remember him as the painter of
The Last Supper
. A good painting throbs with life, Emmett. It’s a gift God has given me, and I feel obliged to make the most of it.”

Emmett enjoyed visiting Mr. G. and listening to him talk about his work. Quite often Mr. G. would let Emmett watch him paint.
But it was during his moments of rest that Mr. G. would sit and talk to Emmett as if he were talking to an old friend.

“I’ve been here almost a year, Emmett,” Mr. G. had
said only a few days ago. “I’ve sold two illustrations to magazines, and I’ve tried to peddle some pieces which I thought
were really good art to stores and art collectors. They turned me down as if I were a beggar.”

“How about painting people?” Emmett had asked.

“Portraits?” Mr. G.’s short laugh was a far from happy one. “People will give you five or ten dollars. They can’t afford more.
But there are those who can afford, and will pay well.”

“Who are they, Mr. G.?”

“They are the ones who appreciate art, Emmett. They buy it to look at and have others look at for sheer enjoyment. Pick up
a magazine, Emmett, and leaf through its pages. What attracts you instantly? The paintings, Emmett. Those beautiful illustrations
that go along with the stories. They are the things that attract you first, that make you want to read the stories. Yes, Emmett,
the field for an artist is wide, but it’s a hard one. So hard that sometimes you want to give it up and start all over with
something easier.”

Emmett remembered those words now, and he said, “You won’t really quit painting, will you, Mr. G.?”

Mr. G. looked unhappily at his hands. “I don’t know, Emmett,” he said dreamily. “I really don’t know.”

Presently Emmett heard new sounds outside. He looked out of the window. The boys were back. They had fixed his basketball,
and were shooting it at the basket, playing more carefully now than they had before.

“I think I’ll go, Mr. G.,” Emmett said, forcing a smile.

Mr. G. returned the smile. “Thanks, Emmett. I’m grateful to you. I’m sorry you found me in one of my rare moods.”

Emmett went out of the door and ran around the hedgerow to the court.

“Hi!” cried Robin, and passed the ball to Emmett. “It’s patched up and works like new! Hey, how would you like to play on
our team — the Penguins?” he continued. “We can use another sub.”

Emmett stared. “Who? Me?”

The boys laughed. “Yes, you!” said Robin Hood. “We play in the Ice Cap League every Saturday morning at the Northside Community
Hall.”

A lump formed in Emmett’s throat. At last he said, “I don’t think so.”

But he thought, “I’d like to! I’m just afraid!”

E
MMETT DIDN’T KNOW
what he was afraid of. He knew he was, that’s all. It was just the way he had felt when Robin Hood had come into the yard
without being invited. Emmett had gotten that strange, prickly feeling all over him. All he could think it might be was fear.
He always felt that way, every time strangers came near him.

“You don’t think so?”. echoed Robin Hood. “Why not? Don’t you like basketball?”

“Oh, sure, I like it,” said Emmett.

“Then why don’t you join us?”

Emmett shrugged. Now was his chance. Why did he hesitate? Why didn’t he say yes without worrying about what might happen next?

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll play.”

“Good!” said Robin Hood. “Can you practice tomorrow after school? It’ll be from four to five at the Northside.”

The Northside Community Hall was a four-story brick building three blocks away. “I think so,” said Emmett.

A car pulled up to the curb. Mom and Dad were home! And so were Charlene and Georgianne, his little sisters. They piled out
of the back seat of the car, their curls bobbing on their shoulders. Both of them wore blue winter coats and hats and white
mittens.

“Guess your folks are home,” said Robin Hood. “So long! We’ll see you tomorrow afternoon!” They started off at a run. “Oh,
yes! Thanks for letting us play with your ball!”

Emmett waved to them, then went forward to meet his Mom and Dad. Charlene and Georgianne ran to him, and they both grabbed
his legs. He couldn’t move.

“Let go of me!” he shouted.

The girls laughed and let him go. Mom and Dad laughed, too. They put their arms around him and the three of them followed
the girls up to the front door.

“Those boys looked familiar,” Mrs. Torrance said as she opened the door. “But I’ve never seen them here before. Who are they?”

Emmett explained who they were, but all the time his stomach felt as if butterflies were inside of it.

He put away his basketball and hung up his coat and hat. Then he helped the girls remove their coats. They jabbered like little
monkeys, telling all the things they had done during the day. Real crazy things, thought Emmett. His mother hustled around
the kitchen, from the cabinets to the refrigerator and the gas range. Once more hunger gnawed at Emmett’s stomach, and he
remembered the crackers.

He went to the hall closet, stuck his hand into his coat pocket, and hauled out the crackers he had put into it. They were
all broken. He had forgotten all about them.

“What have you got there?” his mother exclaimed as she saw him come into the kitchen with the crumbled crackers. He told her
how hungry he had become, and about the boys coming over and playing with his basketball, about the hole in the ball and everything.

Then Emmett went into the living room to see his father, who was reading the evening paper.

“Robin Hood asked me to join their team, the Penguins,” Emmett said.

His Dad glanced over the edge of the paper.

“What’s that? A midget basketball league?”

“It’s the Ice Cap League, Dad,” said Emmett enthusiastically. “Our team’s name is the Penguins.”

“When does the team play?”

“Saturday mornings at the Northside Community Hall. Robin Hood said there’s practice tomorrow after school —” Emmett rambled
on like water gushing from a spout. And his father listened to every word, a warm smile on his lips.

Then Emmett remembered something that wasn’t as pleasant. He told about Mr. G.

Mom had come in from the kitchen, and both she and Dad looked at Emmett in amazement. “What’s gone wrong with that man?” Mom
said. “Has he gone crazy?”

“Nobody is paying any attention to his paintings, so he figures he might as well give it up,” said Dad.

“But destroy those beautiful creations?” said Mom. “Did you ever see them? They were magnificent!”

Dad shrugged. “I’ve seen them, and I agree with you. But an artist has a tough time selling his product these days. There
are too many good ones. A man hasn’t a chance unless he gets a break.”

“How does he get a break?”

“That’s a good question, and I can’t answer it.”

Emmett wasn’t sure what they were talking about. Could Mr. G. sell those paintings to somebody if they were really good? Is
that what Mom and Dad were saying? But, gee whiz, those paintings
were
really good, weren’t they?

Emmett brushed the thought from his mind. He liked Mr. G. all right, but when it came to paintings he was lost.

“Okay. Set the table,” said Mom. “Supper is ready.”

Emmett could hardly wait.

Emmett carried his sneakers to the Community Hall with him the next day after school. The other Penguins were already there,
dressed in their black satin uniforms. There were six of them. He would be the seventh man. Also present was a man sitting
at the sidelines, watching with silent interest.

“Hi, Emmett!” shouted Rusty Kane.

Emmett waved. Then he thought he saw double, but
it was the Dunbars — Robin Hood and Mickey. One of them came forward. “Hi, Emmett! Want you to meet Mr. Long. He’s our coach.
Mr. Long, this is Emmett Torrance. He’s joining our team.”

Emmett did not need a second guess to know that this one was Robin Hood.

Mr. Long smiled and stretched out a hand. “Fine,” he said. “Glad to have you with us, Emmett. Put on your sneakers and warm
up with the boys.”

Emmett put on his sneakers. He began to feel very strange again. On the court somebody passed the ball to him. It bounced
out of his hands. He went after it, picked it up, and passed to Mickey. It was a poorly aimed throw. The ball hit the wall
and bounced back onto the court.

One of the boys laughed. Emmett blushed. That cold, terrible feeling crept back into him, stronger than ever.

E
MMETT WATCHED THE BASKETBALL
pass from one player to another, until someone dribbled up to the basket and shot. He stood by like a store dummy. He felt
foolish wearing his long pants and a shirt while the others wore their black satin uniforms.

Had Robin Hood really meant it when he had asked Emmett to come to practice? Had he asked Emmett just to be nice, really hoping
that Emmett would not come? Was that it? Emmett wished he knew, and found himself wondering whether he could trust Robin Hood.
When practice was over Mr. Long got up and the team clustered around him.

“Well, you boys are shaping up fine,” he said. “Maybe we’ll take the Eskimos Saturday morning.” He looked at Emmett. “Get
a pair of black trunks and a jersey, young fella. Be here Saturday
A.M
., nine-thirty sharp.”

Emmett went home, the cold night wind biting his cheeks. Tiny flakes of snow began whipping against his face. He had forgotten
that he had to have trunks and a jersey to play on a team.

He was glad when he reached home and the comfortable warmth of the living room.

“Well, how did you do?” his Dad asked. Dad was on his hands and knees on the floor. Both Charlene and Georgianne were on his
back, “riding” him around.

Emmett shrugged. “Okay.” He was ashamed to say that the boys had hardly thrown the ball to him, and that when he did have
it he was so clumsy that he had acted as if he had never handled a basketball.

“What about your suit?” said his Dad.

Emmett looked up in surprise.

“Well, you have to have a suit, don’t you?” said his Dad.

Emmett nodded. “Yes. By Saturday morning. But —but where am I going to get a suit?” he stammered, hopelessly.

“I’ll buy it for you,” said his Dad. “What color do you need?”

“Black satin,” said Emmett, suddenly feeling very happy. “The trunks and jersey are black satin. And I want number 5 on my
jersey. No one else has that number.”