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NO
PRESSURE
By
B.W. “Bob” Morris
No pressure,
right?
We’re up by two
with two seconds left. Some kid – I think number 18 – had grabbed my wrist,
pretending he had gone for the ball. It was obviously intentional and the red
mark on my skin proved it, but the referees never call it. They always assume
players go for the ball in these situations.
Sweat rolls down
my forehead. My jersey clings to my skin. I haven’t even played that many
minutes. The gym always gets stuffy, even with the doors to the lobby open. But
I can’t worry about that now.
The referee
approaches the scorer’s table, says, “Red, 18, with the hold.” He raises his
hand and says, “Two shots.” Just two free throws, that’s all I need to make.
No pressure,
right?
I figured the
other team would foul me. Like I said, I don’t play many minutes. Coach uses me
as a defensive specialist. But I have to be out here now. One of our best
players fouled out.
I look to the
bench and I see him. John had five fouls. He drew his fifth a couple minutes
ago. He’s our leading scorer, but he can’t help us now. He must see the look in
my eyes. “It’s all right, Steve, you got this.” He cups his hands to his mouth
so I can hear him over the roaring crowd. “Just put them in.”
Just put them
in, he says. Easy for that guy. He’s a junior, but man, that guy has a sweet
touch on his jumper. Nice layups, too. Wish I could be that good.
I shouldn’t be
out here right now. My role is to come off the bench and put in time on defense
when I’m needed. I don’t mind, though. Coach always told me that everyone has a
role to play. Sometimes people ask me why I don’t get more playing time. They
say it’s the only way I’ll learn. Sometimes I wonder if they’re right. Then
again, I’m just a sophomore. Maybe I’ll get more playing time next year.
I walk to the
free-throw line. The other players have lined up. Well, only the opposing players.
The rest of my teammates are at half court. They have to be there. If I don’t
make these charity shots, they want to make sure the other guys can’t lob it
down for a desperate three.
Somebody pats me
on the back. I turn my head. There’s Anthony, our only senior. If we can win
this game, we’ll be Kansas League champions, and I know Anthony would love to
finish his high school career with a league title. He gives me a quick smile.
“You can get this done, Steve.” He hurries back to half court.
I’ve looked up
to Anthony for so long. He started as a freshman. I watched him that year, when
I was in seventh grade. I remember how nothing rattled him. He’d always clap
his hands, telling everyone, “Come on, let’s go.” He did that every year he
played. And when I was a freshman, my first year of high school ball, he always
gave me advice. Never treated me like I didn’t belong.
I know this
would be even sweeter for him on senior night. They recognized him and the and
the three senior basketball girls. Now I can make this night more memorable.
I step to the
line and look ahead. There’s our student section, filled with kids dressed in
our school colors. A few minutes ago, they were chanting “DE-FENSE” when the
other team had the ball. The pep band is right beside them. Every time during
time outs, I hear the students chant our school name and one of the band
members pound the drum in rhythm. I feel the vibrations from that stomping and
pounding. The pep band plays so many numbers. The one I like the most is that
song that goes “nah nah-nah nah nah,” whatever it’s called. My mom told me that
song was popular when my grandparents were in high school. But, hey, one of the
band members told me it’s an easy song to learn, so that’s cool.
The girls won
earlier tonight, had already changed out of their uniforms and were in the
student section, clasping their hands, smiling in enthusiasm. Now they could
sit back, flirt with the guys in the stands, and watch me freak out.
Another referee
has the basketball. He reminds everyone I’ve got two shots. I get the ball and
size up the hoop. Everybody thinks shooting free throws is a simple task. All
you have to do is take a deep breath, bend your knees and roll the ball off
your hands. If only it weren’t for the butterflies in my stomach.
Still, this is
it. Deep breath. I dribble the ball once. Twice. Spin it in my palm before
giving it a third bounce. That’s what I had seen a lot of players before they
take a free throw. Eric has a unique ritual. Before he gets the ball, he moves
his fingers across his heart, like he’s drawing a cross, kind of like a monk or
priest. I considered doing the same. Eric has made 80 percent of his free
throws this season. But I’m doing that. I’m not Catholic.
I pull the ball
up.
The crowd falls
dead silent.
I extend my arm
and feel the ball slide off my hands and toward the hoop.
It touches the
front of the rim. Rolls toward the net and… drops through. Our student section explodes.
Man, they sure are loud. The drummer fires off a quick beat. Goes right in time
with my heart thumping.
One down, one to
go. No pressure, right?
I step away from
the line. Anthony hurries over and high fives me. “Good job, Steve.”
I appreciate
that. Now if I can get the other shot, I’ll make him happier.
I turn toward
the sidelines. Coach is clapping. “Good job. Just relax now.” Coach is always
telling me to relax. He thinks I get too tense. He’s right. I can’t help it,
though. Sometimes the adrenaline gets to be too much and the nerves take over.
Another deep
breath. They say once you make the first free throw, the second one is easier.
I don’t know about that, though. I’ve always had this problem. Make the first
free throw, miss the second. Seems to be a regular thing. Explains why my free
throw percentage is just 50 percent. Coach always says I can do better than
that. He tells me to keep practicing, not to think so much. I’m lucky he’s so
patient. A guy who makes the first free throw but misses the second? It should
drive him crazy.
No pressure,
right?
Back to the line
I go.
“One more shot,
gentlemen.” The ref reminds the rest of the opposing players shifting into
position as, out of habit, they prepare to block out for the rebound. It
doesn’t matter that my teammates are all down court. Coaches teach you to
always block out, no matter the situation.
I glance at the
cheerleaders. They are about to raise their arms. They always raise them and
wiggle their fingers, like it’s for good luck or something. I never asked them
why. But if they think it helps, who am I to argue?
Deep breath
again. I bounce the ball, bend my knees, and twirl the ball in my hands. I
pause for a second. If I don’t make this, maybe I can get lucky and get the
rebound. I think I saw it happen once, when I was eight years old; the only
time I ever saw one guy beat four others for a rebound, though.
The ball goes
over the hoop and sails toward the backboard. I don’t move, like I’m mesmerized
by the ball’s path.
Uh oh. Looks
like I pushed it too hard. It’s going off the back of the rim and…
My heart drop in
my chest. I had lost it. I had lost it for Anthony, the school, my teammates
and…
Wait a minute.
The balls rolls back and falls through the net.
Got it! The
student section roars. The drummer fires that beat again. I’m about to lose my
mind. We just…
Wait, why did the
referee blow his whistle?
I turn to see
the opposing coach touching his hands to his shoulders, signaling for a
30-second time out. I forgot they had one left. They have two seconds on the
clock. He’s hoping to run one final play.
I hustle to our
bench. Usually during a time out, the guys on the floor take the seats and
everyone else gathers around the coach. Not this time, though. We gather in a
circle. Coach tells us that we need to be smart, play defense and don’t foul.
Sure, you’d
think when you are up by four with two seconds, the other team has no chance.
But if you foul somebody on a desperation three and it’s good, they send the
player to the line. And a free throw means overtime. I’ve never seen a game
like that, but I heard stories. I think my dad said he had a game like that
when he was in high school. Then the other team won in overtime.
I hear just
enough of what coach is saying. He says we need to focus. We all raise our
hands, shout, “Finish!” and break huddle.
I look up in the
stands and make out Dad and Mom. They’re sitting in the bleachers, not moving a
muscle, even though people around them are on their feet. How can Mom and Dad
be so calm?
I look back at
the student section. There’s my sister. She’s two years younger than me. She
played her last middle school game a few days ago, but I know she’s gonna be a
good player on varsity someday. She’s clapping her hands along with the rest of
the kids. Her enthusiasm fits right in.
Our student
section is chanting our team name, over and over. The other team’s got a lot of
students here, too. They’re on the other end of the gym, chanting something
that I can’t make out. Or perhaps I learned to tune them out. Considering how
obnoxious they can be, it’s not easy to ignore them.
I’m about to
return to the court. I feel somebody tug my shoulder. Coach pulls me aside.
“Steve, make sure you stay with number 24. They’re gonna try to get him the
ball.”
Number 24?
That’s their leading scorer. I don’t remember his name – like I said, I don’t
keep track of our opponents by name. But I know Number 24 can shoot the lights
out. I think he hit like six threes tonight. Maybe more than that? Whatever it
is, I know he scored a lot. Usually, John would defend him, but he’s out of the
game. Yeah, coach likes my defense, but he wants me on their top scorer?
No pressure,
right?
I look around
the court. There he is. Twenty-four. He’s a couple inches taller than me. He’s
positioned himself about half court. I can see what’s developing; they want to
get a long inbounds pass to him and he’ll let a shot fly.
We met this team
earlier this season. Back in December, before league play started. Played them
on the road. They beat us by 16 or something like that. All I remember was
number 24 draining shot after shot. Somebody said he scored 20. I don’t know
for sure. I don’t check the scorebook. None of us do. We only worry about the
final score.
I step next to
Number 24. He starts jockeying for position. He’s gonna try pushing me off, get
himself open for a shot. I’ve got to be smart. Stay with him, not let him get
away.
I look down
court. The referee signals for play to start. He hands the ball to the guy
making the inbounds pass. Number 12, again, I don’t remember his name. William
defends him. I’m sure coach put William there because of his long arms. The kid
making the inbounds pass looks in my direction. I read him like a book.
There’s the
whistle. Kid has five seconds to make that inbounds pass. He doesn’t even wait
a second. Lobs the ball right over William’s head.
Number 24 takes
off. I hurry after him. Trying to keep pace with him, but he’s a step ahead.
Now it seems
like time has stopped. I see the ball arching downward. Number 24 reaches for
it. He’s got it.
He turns toward
the hoop. I know I shouldn’t jump forward, but I can’t help myself. I raise an
arm. All I wanna do is deny that shot
I feel my
fingers graze the ball. Number 24 falls backward, pretending that I fouled him,
even though I never touched him.
The buzzer
sounds. I turn to the basket. The ball clatters off the rim.
I see the
referee. He doesn’t blow the whistle. He just waves his arms.
One word out of
my mouth: “Yeah!”
I run toward
half court. Here come my teammates. John is first to meet me. I jump toward
him, landing in his arms. He slaps my back, big smile on his face. “Way to go,
man!”
The mob doesn’t
last long. We gotta do that post-game show of sportsmanship. Walk toward each
other, slap hands and say “good game.”
I’m toward the
back of the line. Anthony’s behind me. I slap hands with these other players.
Yeah, it’s a rivalry, but you gotta make nice afterwards. Number 24 is last in
their line. When we slap hands, he also pats me on the back. “Good job,” I
think I hear him say.
I turn, ready to
join my teammates for a celebration. Before I can take a step, somebody puts an
arm around my shoulder. Pulls me in tight. It’s Anthony. I feel like he’s
crushing my ribs, the way he’s hugging me.
“Thanks, Steve,”
he whispers. “I knew you could get it done.”
I look up at
him. “That one was for you.”
He lets me go and
we rush forward. Our teammates join us at the center of the court. Our student
section has poured out to join us. You couldn’t turn around without bumping
into somebody. But that’s OK. This is a celebration.
We all crowd
around, raise our hands up above and start chanting. We finish it off with two
words.
“League champs!”
No pressure,
right?
Nah, none at
all. We’re league champions, man.
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