One Shot Case

It all came down to one shot. We just left a time-out with a play that would decide the game. There were sixty seconds left until the final bell would ring, almost like a gavel would before the verdict. The clock ticking, the ball thumping, and my heart beating seemed orchestrated and in sync with one another. As I looked around everything seemed to play out in slow motion. My coach's pristine white shirt has been creased from the intensity of the game, like gentle skin would after years of hard work and age. His feet lay right by the boundaries of the court and his body was moving uncontrollably, almost as if someone was holding him back from putting on a jersey and playing himself.

Journalists were scribbling down notes like a seismometer would---recording a magnitude seven earthquake. The flash coming out of the cameras could have lit up the whole gym itself, easily hazardous to any standard level epileptic. The vast amount of news-channel video cameras recording the game resembled tank turrets ready for battle. The audience yelled at decibels unimaginable; the sound waves projecting from their vocal cords were blinding.

The other team was leading by two. Our opponents glistened with sweat. Their jerseys discolored due to the perspiration accumulated throughout the game. Their feet went up and down like a raging bull getting ready to attack. Their eyes looked restless, but vengeful, and after drawing up a play for his team the opposing coach looked like a pitcher would right after throwing a ball: waiting to see how the batter will swing.

For us, these last sixty seconds of the game meant so much more than the score. After reaching the semi-finals, we were told the game would be on the Sabbath and that we couldn't play. Every major news outlet in the country took stock in our team and our decision to refrain from playing due to our beliefs. We legally opposed the decision, got to play in the semi-finals, and won. We were finally heading to the championship.

A high shrieked noise sounded from the referee's whistle. The opponent's protected the ball like a mother lion would its cub. Our opponent's faces began to blur and the only thing visible was the team name on their red and white striped jerseys.

They ran down the court and missed their shot. We then recovered the ball and ran down the court, many of us for the last time. Our point-guard had the ball and it seemed that his face progressively resembled his white colored jersey. All of the battles we fought in the gym, the blood and sweat running down our faces, the injuries, the legal battles, and the interviews all came down to the next twenty seconds. The whole world was watching.

The play was run and the ball was shot. Everyone in the stand shot up. My hands rose up and my fingers squeezed the back of the hair on my head, holding on to dear life. I felt like every organ in my body wanted to explode in anticipation.

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