Basketball
Today is a breezy April evening, and I’m on my way to the Varsity Basketball Banquet, dressed in my favorite shirt and tie. I take a seat next to all my favorite “OGs” (original gangsters). Being vegetarian, I was given the privilege to get first dibs on the penne alla vodka and garlic breadsticks. My “homies” and I reminisce over four long years of basketball practice and games, defensive drills and scrimmages, and wins and losses. When my turn comes to recall my most cherished moment of my four seasons as a proud Vaquero, I am unable to pinpoint a single event. Every moment seemed like a dot. It wasn’t until four years later that I would be able to look back and connect these dots.
In the fall of 2010, I put on my Nike shorts and sneakers, packed my basketball and Gatorade in my bag, and made my way to the hardwood floors. The ballers ran a few drills and scrimmages. On the first day of tryouts there weren’t any cuts, but the next day the coach separated us into two groups. Over the next two hours, I quickly realized that one group was significantly weaker than the other, and I was part of it. At the end of the try-outs, Coach moved a couple of people around and proceeded to then tell the eliminated group the usual spiel. I knew it was too late. I immediately gave up any hopes of playing basketball in high school. Walking around campus the next day at lunch, I saw the newest members of the team bonding over pizza that the Coach had bought them. I considered tennis, but my heart was still set on shooting, dribbling, and passing the ball. That night when I came home, my mom tried to comfort me, but my dad gave me this advice: don’t give up; try again. Taking these two puzzle pieces, I drafted a proposal for Coach that would allow me to practice with the team, but not participate in the games. I strictly wanted to hone my skills in hopes of making the team the next year. Surprisingly, he was impressed by my determination and readily agreed. Although I was laughed at and called the “ball boy” at first, my teammates gradually accepted my contributions to the team. They welcomed me with open arms when Coach announced that I had officially made the team because of my improvement in my basketball abilities and my true grit to work harder.
Keith and Sam, two of my teammates who teased me, became my best friends. This bond was developed in practice and tested in games. During the last game, Coach played me during the third quarter as expected, giving the starters a chance to reenergize for the fourth quarter. My solid defense and rebounding helped close our deficit. With the game tied at forty-two points and 3:42 left on the clock, much to everyone’s surprise, Coach called me into the game. This was my big moment, and all the pressure was on me. As soon as I entered the game, I felt all my fears take over my body and the end result? A turnover. Fearful, I lost all cognitive ability and dropped the ball on my defensive assignment. The coach immediately called a timeout to pull me out of the game, but Sam, the captain, suggested otherwise. The coach wasn’t entirely sure about this plan, but he decided to trust Sam’s judgment. Coach quickly drew up a new plan, the team huddled around, and I was still in shock. Just as we stepped back inbounds, Sam patted me on the back and told me, “Just chill. It’ll all be fine.” The next play, Sam passed me the ball, however I noticed a defender coming my way. Immediately, I saw Keith cut towards the basket from the opposite side. Passing the ball behind my back, Keith finished the lay-up. Although the next few plays did not work in our favor and we lost the game, our teamwork was the basis of our friendship—the three-musketeers.
Just as I finished retelling this story, Coach called me up, awarding me with the “Most Improved Player” award.
In the fall of 2010, I put on my Nike shorts and sneakers, packed my basketball and Gatorade in my bag, and made my way to the hardwood floors. The ballers ran a few drills and scrimmages. On the first day of tryouts there weren’t any cuts, but the next day the coach separated us into two groups. Over the next two hours, I quickly realized that one group was significantly weaker than the other, and I was part of it. At the end of the try-outs, Coach moved a couple of people around and proceeded to then tell the eliminated group the usual spiel. I knew it was too late. I immediately gave up any hopes of playing basketball in high school. Walking around campus the next day at lunch, I saw the newest members of the team bonding over pizza that the Coach had bought them. I considered tennis, but my heart was still set on shooting, dribbling, and passing the ball. That night when I came home, my mom tried to comfort me, but my dad gave me this advice: don’t give up; try again. Taking these two puzzle pieces, I drafted a proposal for Coach that would allow me to practice with the team, but not participate in the games. I strictly wanted to hone my skills in hopes of making the team the next year. Surprisingly, he was impressed by my determination and readily agreed. Although I was laughed at and called the “ball boy” at first, my teammates gradually accepted my contributions to the team. They welcomed me with open arms when Coach announced that I had officially made the team because of my improvement in my basketball abilities and my true grit to work harder.
Keith and Sam, two of my teammates who teased me, became my best friends. This bond was developed in practice and tested in games. During the last game, Coach played me during the third quarter as expected, giving the starters a chance to reenergize for the fourth quarter. My solid defense and rebounding helped close our deficit. With the game tied at forty-two points and 3:42 left on the clock, much to everyone’s surprise, Coach called me into the game. This was my big moment, and all the pressure was on me. As soon as I entered the game, I felt all my fears take over my body and the end result? A turnover. Fearful, I lost all cognitive ability and dropped the ball on my defensive assignment. The coach immediately called a timeout to pull me out of the game, but Sam, the captain, suggested otherwise. The coach wasn’t entirely sure about this plan, but he decided to trust Sam’s judgment. Coach quickly drew up a new plan, the team huddled around, and I was still in shock. Just as we stepped back inbounds, Sam patted me on the back and told me, “Just chill. It’ll all be fine.” The next play, Sam passed me the ball, however I noticed a defender coming my way. Immediately, I saw Keith cut towards the basket from the opposite side. Passing the ball behind my back, Keith finished the lay-up. Although the next few plays did not work in our favor and we lost the game, our teamwork was the basis of our friendship—the three-musketeers.
Just as I finished retelling this story, Coach called me up, awarding me with the “Most Improved Player” award.