by Carl Deuker
We tried to deny the in-bound pass, but their center came back to get it. He returned the ball to the point guard, then set a solid screen as the guard worked the ball across the time line. With every dribble, a precious second ticked away.
Was it time to foul or was it still too early? I wanted to look at the clock, but I was afraid to take my eyes off my guy. Another dribble ... another. I had to foul ... I had to! But my guy got rid of the ball a fraction of a second before I could hack him. Right then our crowd picked up the clock. Ten ... Luke was all over his guy. Still no call. Nine ... A pass toward the top of the key. Eight ... Seven.... Another pass, this time cross-court. Time seemed to stop as the ball floated in the air. If it reached the Garfield guy deep in the corner, it was all over. We'd be out of time. I saw Darren dive, his fingertips stretching, stretching toward the ball, his body parallel to the ground. For an instant everything stopped—and then his hand was on the ball, tapping it away from the Garfield guy and toward me, and the world went from slow-motion to fast forward. In a flash I pounced on the ball, and broke for our hoop. I could hear the crowd counting down the seconds.... Five ... four...
The guy guarding me had good position; I couldn't risk a charge, couldn't shoot over him. I looked left; Luke was covered. On the right I spotted Trent, but two Garfield guys were running stride-for-stride with him. I knew Darren was lying in a heap at the other end of the court. There was only one player left.
I penetrated the key while the crowd roared Two, then spun and hit McShane as he spotted up just outside the three-point arc. It was his first three-point shot of the season. He released the ball as the crowd roared One. The shot was ugly—no arc, no spin, a laser. It streaked on a line to the backboard, smacked hard off the glass, and rocketed down and through the net just as the horn sounded.
The whole place gasped. It was as if no one believed what they'd just seen—the shot was so improbable. There was no way it could go in, but it had. McShane raised his arms above his head, and a huge smile spread across his face. A second later Luke tackled him, and everybody else piled on, until we must have looked like some ugly sea creature with more arms and legs than anyone could count.
Finally we stood, and arm-in-arm, danced our way off the court. From the stands poured down the most wonderful words in the world, wonderful because at least for that one moment they were true: "We're number one!"
Inside the locker room we hugged and high-fived, drummed on the benches and pounded on the metal lockers. We whooped and hollered as we showered, bouncing our excitement off the tile walls and floor.
You can't stay sky-high forever, though. The hot water changed to warm, then to cool. One by one guys turned off the water and headed back to the lockers.
As we dressed, guys broke into smaller groups. Still it was all the game—the drives to the hoop, the defensive stops, the baskets, the rebounds, McShane's incredible shot. Finally the talk wore down. Lockers banged closed; bags were zipped shut. Chang was the first one to leave, followed by Carver and Markey. "Great game!"..."See you Monday." ... "Later." One by one they left until it was just Trent and me.
"You in any big hurry?" he said.
I looked toward the door, thought about all the things that were outside it, all the things waiting for him and for me.
"No," I said. "Not really."
He shook his head. "Me neither."
So the two of us stayed where we were. A minute went by, then another, and another. It was pleasant just to sit, not saying anything.
Finally I stood. "Well, I guess we've got to go sometime, don't we?"
"Yeah. I guess we do."
We walked down the corridor. When we reached the door, I pushed it open. "Go ahead," I said.
He stepped outside and I followed.
The sun wasn't exactly out, but the sky wasn't all gray, either.
"Not a bad-looking day," I said.
"No," Trent answered, "not bad at all."