himself.
CHAPTER 5
F OUL SHOTS AREN’T ALL in the flick of your wrist, or in the way you plant your feet at the throw line. They aren’t exactly about the height of the jump or the bend of your knees or the angle of your elbows, either. In my mind, a foul shot is all about timing: the one pivotal moment of release. It’s a moment when your brain and your body flex together, like when you’ve swung up to the highest point you can go on a swing and, right before you begin to fall in a long, swooping arc back to earth, you’re inside a tiny breathless instant when time stops and your heart stops and your thoughts stop and all around you, life is frozen silent.
If I can make my shot right in the middle of that kind of untouched moment, I know as soon as the ball glides into the air that the point is mine.
We’re in the final minutes of the fourth quarter and the scoreboard has been clamped with a pair of 47s, a tie for us and Perry. I grip the ball. I hold my breath, bend my knees, give a last, assured fingertip squeeze. And then, right as I’m about to release the ball from my possession, I see Ty Amblin standing with his friends Jess Bosack and Scott McKinlin, right by the open doors.
And then the ball is gone, spinning out through the air, while the crowd, all eyes and stopped breath, follows its path from my hands to where it bounces off the edge of the basket. A disappointed groan rises in the bleachers. Timing. I waited too long, let my crucial moment get swallowed by the distraction of a clump of stupid guys.
I can’t look at Ty and am thankful when a Perry girl grabs the ball and starts driving it downcourt, throwing us into a tight brace of guarding panic. They score, one of the 7s flips to a 9, and there’s a polite murmur from the bleachers. The time buzzer sounds worse than ten fire drills in my ear.
I walk slowly over to the bench to grab my towel and water bottle, my head down to avoid eye contact. Our coach, Mrs. Sherman, yells something at me like “Buck up, kiddo”—she’s always on everyone’s case about being a better sport and a good loser. I feel empty, my mouth tastes like sweat and dust ( lacks not only zim but also zam, zip, and any emotion in between …), and the defeat drags my body into a slumpy depression. When I lose a game, I don’t care how I look to my teammates or to the other team. You lost. You’re a loser. That’s all I’m thinking.
Parents have swarmed in from their seats to collect girls and towels and sports bags, and I’m disappointed Mom’s not here; she’s usually around to see my games. She would rehash the details, revising key moments to her own Mom-vision, so that my mistakes wouldn’t be all my fault, and part of me wouldn’t believe her and part of me would be able to listen and laugh and maybe relax a little.
“Danny!” Portia waves from across the court and races over. “Guess who’s here?” she hisses loudly and wetly in my ear. “Your very own potential mutual Spring Flinger?”
I check out of the corner of my eye. Ty must have hit the vending machines; with one hand he’s glugging down raisins from the box straight into his mouth while the other holds a can of Sprite. “You want me to go over there with you?”
“Look, I was just going to call him tonight,” I protest weakly. Portia squishes up her nose, irritated with me.
“Dummy, why would you want to call him if he’s standing twenty feet away from you? We’ll both go. It’s not like we don’t know those guys; you’re being so insecure, especially since I’ve already asked Jess.”
“I am not being insecure, just because I don’t want to follow your plan.”
“But the conversation will go much better in a group, especially since you’re BNT-cubed.”
Which stands for Bringing Nothing to the Table, acting like deadweight. Right now, this is probably true. Portia scoops her hair high up in her hands and lets it fall—whoosh—over her jacket. Jess Bosack looks
CHAPTER 5
F OUL SHOTS AREN’T ALL in the flick of your wrist, or in the way you plant your feet at the throw line. They aren’t exactly about the height of the jump or the bend of your knees or the angle of your elbows, either. In my mind, a foul shot is all about timing: the one pivotal moment of release. It’s a moment when your brain and your body flex together, like when you’ve swung up to the highest point you can go on a swing and, right before you begin to fall in a long, swooping arc back to earth, you’re inside a tiny breathless instant when time stops and your heart stops and your thoughts stop and all around you, life is frozen silent.
If I can make my shot right in the middle of that kind of untouched moment, I know as soon as the ball glides into the air that the point is mine.
We’re in the final minutes of the fourth quarter and the scoreboard has been clamped with a pair of 47s, a tie for us and Perry. I grip the ball. I hold my breath, bend my knees, give a last, assured fingertip squeeze. And then, right as I’m about to release the ball from my possession, I see Ty Amblin standing with his friends Jess Bosack and Scott McKinlin, right by the open doors.
And then the ball is gone, spinning out through the air, while the crowd, all eyes and stopped breath, follows its path from my hands to where it bounces off the edge of the basket. A disappointed groan rises in the bleachers. Timing. I waited too long, let my crucial moment get swallowed by the distraction of a clump of stupid guys.
I can’t look at Ty and am thankful when a Perry girl grabs the ball and starts driving it downcourt, throwing us into a tight brace of guarding panic. They score, one of the 7s flips to a 9, and there’s a polite murmur from the bleachers. The time buzzer sounds worse than ten fire drills in my ear.
I walk slowly over to the bench to grab my towel and water bottle, my head down to avoid eye contact. Our coach, Mrs. Sherman, yells something at me like “Buck up, kiddo”—she’s always on everyone’s case about being a better sport and a good loser. I feel empty, my mouth tastes like sweat and dust ( lacks not only zim but also zam, zip, and any emotion in between …), and the defeat drags my body into a slumpy depression. When I lose a game, I don’t care how I look to my teammates or to the other team. You lost. You’re a loser. That’s all I’m thinking.
Parents have swarmed in from their seats to collect girls and towels and sports bags, and I’m disappointed Mom’s not here; she’s usually around to see my games. She would rehash the details, revising key moments to her own Mom-vision, so that my mistakes wouldn’t be all my fault, and part of me wouldn’t believe her and part of me would be able to listen and laugh and maybe relax a little.
“Danny!” Portia waves from across the court and races over. “Guess who’s here?” she hisses loudly and wetly in my ear. “Your very own potential mutual Spring Flinger?”
I check out of the corner of my eye. Ty must have hit the vending machines; with one hand he’s glugging down raisins from the box straight into his mouth while the other holds a can of Sprite. “You want me to go over there with you?”
“Look, I was just going to call him tonight,” I protest weakly. Portia squishes up her nose, irritated with me.
“Dummy, why would you want to call him if he’s standing twenty feet away from you? We’ll both go. It’s not like we don’t know those guys; you’re being so insecure, especially since I’ve already asked Jess.”
“I am not being insecure, just because I don’t want to follow your plan.”
“But the conversation will go much better in a group, especially since you’re BNT-cubed.”
Which stands for Bringing Nothing to the Table, acting like deadweight. Right now, this is probably true. Portia scoops her hair high up in her hands and lets it fall—whoosh—over her jacket. Jess Bosack looks
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