Rainer Wasinger 8 th Grade Short Story Manhattan Middle School for the Arts and Academics I stood there, hands thrust into the air like Gandalf staring down the Balrog in that epic scene in Lord of the Rings. In my case, as opposed to a dragonish beast, I was staring at a chubby red haired kid who thought he was god's gift of basketball. The kid locked on to his wing, his eyes lighting up at the sight of his open teammate. I knew that one of his fancy passes would be disturbing the air from our buddy Ginger to his little friend, and I exploded into the passing lane thinking "My ball, Bitch." I tore the ball from the air and dribbled towards the basket that my team was supposed to be scoring on. I was by no means a fleet-footed kid, and I was aware that the red-haired kid had some wheels on him for a tubby child. I sensed his creeping up on my right side, but I was nearing the basket and couldn't resist just putting up the shot. In mid air, the red-haired fellow slammed into me and I heard the whistle, but by some crazy miracle, I managed to keep my composure and get a shot up. The ball hit off the backboard and swooshed through the net. I glanced up past the basket and the enormous white and orange dragon depicted on the wall to the gym's scoreboard, which showed that the game was tied, 38 to 38, with 5 seconds remaining on the currently immobile clock. The referee made his whistle tweet once again, and said in a loud, authoritative voice, "White, 22, Push, 1 shot, on the line."
Then, in some sort of dream-like state which blended sounds together and blurred nothing but the path that I knew I must take, I walked to the free throw line in solitude. For all I knew, there may have been encouragement from the crowd, but all I seemed to hear was silence. As I reached the line, all of my senses seemed to rush back to my brain in blur of sound and color, and I suddenly began to hear sounds that seemed impossible to hear. I heard my teammate Juan Garillio, AKA "The Chosen Juan", mutter "Don't screw up, Jaunce, don't screw up" I saw the scorekeeper record a 4 down in a table. And then I heard the crowd, the roar was almost deafening and it drowned out any sound that could possibly be made in the gym. I then focused my attention on the task at hand. It suddenly came to me how important the shot I was about to take was, and the outcome of it was far more important than I had initially expected it to be. The fact that the game was tied was enough to make this shot an essential one, but we were taking on our rivals, the Fairview Feeder Knights, who had beaten us once this season in stomping fashion, and our pride was on the line. I looked at the crowd, expecting to see something, anything, that could possibly help me drain this free throw, but instead, I saw the opposite. Jane Bates, a very good-looking blonde girl, was staring right at me. I gulped. The sound echoed throughout my brain, as if all of the cortexes in my mind had emptied, both literally and abstractly, because, to be quite honest, I had no idea how I was supposed to make this shot. Then, like they were pulled by some magnetic force, my hands moved from the top of my head to an area around my waist, just in time to catch the basketball, which the referee had pelted at my pelvic area, as if to add insult to injury, or maybe the other way around. I just held it there
for a second, and it seemed like I had forgotten what I was supposed to do with a basketball, but I suddenly realized that I must have looked beyond stupid, and began my free throw routine. I went through the motions without any control over my body. I brought the ball up above my head and moved it side to side, before spinning it between my hands and taking three measured dribbles. However, my fancy little free throw routine had left me in quite the pickle. Now, I was expected to take the shot, something that I was so unprepared for I might have just have better luck trying to hit the other basket in the gym than putting the ball through the net that the ball was supposed to grace. I glanced to the ceiling, expecting it to turn into some deity and explain to me how to make the free throw, but the only thing it did was make me want to jump off the service catwalk that stood right above me. I suddenly had an urge just to shoot the ball, and end this misery once and for all, but I caught myself, just before my body got the signal to begin my shooting motion. My shooting motion had never done me well. I kinda just flung the ball at the basket, praying that the ball would sink through the net. It looked pretty stupid too. In my shot, I brought the ball behind my head a little, and then I jerked my legs and all hell broke loose. Who knew where the ball was going after that. I wished I spent more time on my shot over my lifetime, if only as opposed to spending six hours a day shooting up virtual humans with my buddies over the summer, I had spent six hours a day preparing for this moment. Well, damn, woulda, coulda, shoulda. I then looked back on what I had learned in the time I actually had spent practicing, but I drew a blank. I even began to ask existential questions like "What am I doing here, What is my purpose in life?"
At that moment, I caught my own total stupidity, and resolved myself, maybe out of fear or some spark of confidence that had magically entered my system, to attempt the shot. However, I began to understand that attempt wasn't good enough and I was suddenly harkened back to a time when I was a nerdy little child watching Star Wars with my sister, when an odd, green, elflike alien named Yoda said the immortal phrase, "Do or do not...there is no try." Though I giggled internally at my own nerdyness, the quote fit my predicament like hand in glove. So with more meaning and purpose than I may have ever thought the phrase, the words, "Let's do this," Flitted through my mind at the speed of light. I took the ball to my chest, attempting to cradle it, willing it to stay true to my interests, not to those of that red-headed kid. I bent my knees, and stayed in that uncomfortable position for a millisecond to long, and this slight action threw me off my practiced free throw. I tried to catch my balance and make at least some sort of rational adjustment to salvage the shot, but as opposed to a measured shot at the basket, it became a random fling at the net. I released the ball, and as I saw the ball roll of my fingers, I began to ready myself for failure. I watched the ball spin in slow motion, slicing through the air in an odd, curveball-like motion, and watched the ball near the right side of the rim, and right as the ball almost slammed into the right iron, the ball jumped up and to the left, and dropped through the net in a breathtaking swoosh that seemed so loud it silenced the crowd for a couple of seconds. I stood there for what was probably just a couple of seconds, but it seemed like hours in my shell shocked mind. There I was, looking stupid once again, mouth partly open with my big buckteeth showing, eyes drooping like a dog, but after the shock had worn off slightly, I threw
my hands into the air in total elation and bounced up and down for no reason but because I could. I could have ran in circles, chasing some none-existent tail, or I could have jumped off the service walkway above me, not out of fear or any other negative emotion, but out of complete surprise and hysteria. I could have cried, I could have laughed until I ran out of breath and fainted, but I just bounced, springing off the hardwood, and at that moment, I could have just bounced forever.