We started the game against Wetherhood with our best five. The Hoods players were tall, lean and mean. They managed to hassle us without drawing out too many fouls. That was until Totem charged poor Rat square on with a massive full-frontal attack that sent Rat skidding across the floor on his backside and into the back wall.

The crowd erupted. The referee got Totem on a charging foul, but he should have been sent off. It was blatant.

Mrs Cartwright took Rat off, even though he bounced back up, shrugging off the knock. But she made a big thing of it, and soon Rat was sitting on the bench, icepacks all over him.

So, that was Wetherhood’s plan. To knock Rat out of the game, preferably unconscious. And, of course, it didn’t matter that he wasn’t injured. Our ‘coach’ would make sure that he at least looked injured so she could keep him on the bench.

For the last few minutes of the half, Wetherhood edged away from us. At half-time, the score was 19 – 14 in their favour.

‘We’re in real strife,’ Mrs Cartwright said to us. ‘Little Daryl here won’t be playing–’

‘I’m fine. I’m okay,’ he said, jumping off the bench.

‘Sit down!’ snapped Mrs Cartwright. ‘Travis, you’re in foul trouble. You’re starting on the bench, too.’

Fisk looked at her, aghast.

‘I’ve only had two fouls!’ he said.

Mrs Cartwright leaned closer to him. ‘You speak to me like that, and you won’t play again today, do you hear?’

Fisk’s mouth opened and closed, but nothing came out.

We were five points behind, and our two best players were off and possibly not coming back on.

‘Right. Good luck,’ Mrs Cartwright said. We looked at each other.

‘C’mon, guys!’ I shouted. ‘We can do this! Steady with the ball. Hold it up until the pass is on, and don’t shoot unless you really think you can nail the shot!’

Chaz and the others nodded and we walked back on for the second half, ready for anything.

Wetherhood scored the first four points of the half and were out to a nine-point lead.

23 – 14.

The crowd noise was huge. People shouted and screamed. I didn’t realise until later that a lot of the shouting was coming from the Sandhurst supporters, who were yelling for Rat and Fisk to return.

Suddenly, over all the noise, came another voice trying to break through. Finally, the crowd quietened enough for everyone to hear the message.

‘Mrs Morris, please report immediately to the front office. This is an urgent call for Mrs Morris to report to the front office. Thank you.’

I looked over at Mrs Cartwright. She seemed totally confused. No one else looked at her, except the Wetherhood players. The referee held the ball. The stadium remained quiet as people contemplated the awful news that might be waiting for Mrs Morris – whoever she was. Slowly, Mrs Cartwright moved off down the court toward the office.

One of the refs spoke to her. Mr T jumped down and bounded onto the court.

‘The boys need a coach. I’ll take over until she gets back,’ he called to the referee.

‘Okay. Let’s get on with it!’ said the ref.

I intercepted a pass, but knocked it out over the sidelines. Mr T called for a time-out. We raced in, excited.

‘Okay, Rat, you’re on,’ he said. ‘You too, Travis. Walt, take a spell, and Alex, I’m saving you, too, okay? Now, get in close.’

It was great having a real coach again. My heart was suddenly pumping and it felt good.

‘Okay, Travis, take every rebound that’s on. Rat, you’re the playmaker. I want you to call the shots out there. Mitch,’ Mr T looked at me. ‘You’ve got a sweet spot for those three-pointers out on the edge. Look for space, okay? Chaz, help him get that space in offence by keeping Wetherhood away. Jamie, I want you to man up on their number seven. You’ve got no foul trouble. Stay close and frustrate him, offence and defence.’

We each had our instructions, and as the noise from the crowd started to build we huddled in close, threw our hands in together, and yelled out ‘Sandhurst’. Mr T did, too. For the first time I felt pumped and fired up and ready to do something big.

I looked over at Fisk. He’d been swept up in Mr T’s enthusiasm. He looked sharp and his mouth was set in a grim line. He nodded at me, then shouted encouragement to us all. He wanted to win as much as any of us, and I think for a moment he may have even forgotten about the Legends series.

We held our own for the next five minutes. Fisk worked hard on the boards, taking great defensive rebounds. But we weren’t scoring. The Hoods manned up and hassled close. From a fast break from one of the rebounds, Rat worked the ball up through the centre of the court. I raced on and found some space out near the side, right on the three-point line. I took the pass from him, worked in a bit closer and took the jump shot just as a Wetherhood player darted in front and slapped my arm. The ball swished through the ring, and I was called up to take an extra shot from the free-throw line. My arm stung a bit.

I took the ball from the ref, took one hard look at the ring, bounced the ball a few times and let go. The ball slapped into the backboard and fell through the ring. I looked across at the bench. Mr T and the subs were on their feet, fists in the air, shouting and screaming. So was the crowd.

23 – 17

Suddenly the level of sound increased. I swung round. Rat had pulled off an amazing intercept from the Wetherhood throw-in and looped a neat round-arm shot toward our goals for another two points. The five-point gain had us right back in the game.

23 – 19

We all worked back to keep the Wetherhoods out for the next play. Rat played high, following and hassling, looking for the steal. But the Hoods played carefully, watching their passes and keeping possession. There were just over four minutes left.

‘They’re running down the clock,’ Chaz called. But it was too early for that.

A tall kid with a half-shaved head took a shot from inside the key. The ball rimmed around the edge and fell away to the right. Fisk jumped and tapped it over his head.

Rat was onto it in a flash, but the moment he had it he got steamrolled by a Hood. It was a solid knock. Rat went for his second major slide of the game, his elbows burning on the wood.

‘Yeah!’ came a call from the Wetherhood bench. The Wetherhood coach was on his feet, thumping his fist into his other hand. I looked over at our bench. There was still no sign of Mrs Cartwright. Rat hadn’t moved. He was staring at the ceiling, tears in his eyes.

The Wetherhood players were at the other end of the court, pumping each other up and shouting. Rat slowly got to his feet. Anger rippled through the Sandhurst crowd.

Mr T was on court, talking to Rat. The referee signalled a foul to the scorers. The clock had stopped. Rat took the ball from the referee for a free throw-in. Two Hood players were crowded round him, their huge arms waving about. I went over to help him out.

‘Next time, I’ll put you through the wall, you traitor!’ one of the Hood kids spat.

‘Probably the only way you can win,’ I said. As the Wetherhood player digested this, Rat sent a neat bounce pass, right between the guy’s legs. I shot the ball back to Rat.

‘All the way, Rat!’ I screamed.

He weaved his way up the court, dummied a pass to Fisk at the top of the key, and made a jump shot that was never going to miss.

23 – 21.