Hoops and Dreams

[10.1] We didn't win

Gameday at Irvine High is big. And that's an understatement if the pep rally when I walked into school that morning was anything to go by. I had to pick out at least five pieces of blue and black confetti from my hair afterwards. Every announcement on the PA system today has been about the game. They posted about it at least three times on their Instagram page and their Twitter account. Using the hashtag #PanthersvsRavens. They've spent their entire PR budget on this one game. Hinging their hopes on Coach Carter and his poorly chosen power forward.

People are walking the halls wearing school colours, taking the opportunity to add blues and blacks to their outfits, on shoelaces, on zippers, and in their make-up. Dress codes be damned because teachers can't exactly enforce the rules they're breaking too. Anika turns her look up to the nines. For her hair, she's swapped her purple for an electric blue stripe. She wears a short blue, thin-strapped dress with a baggy blue sweater over it and she doesn't break a sweat, almost as though her body has forgotten that this is California.

When I ask her about it she says, "Come on. I'm from India. This is sweater weather for me."

I don't bother. For most of the day, I've worn black jeans and a white t-shirt I stole off my brother. The only part of my wardrobe reflecting any school spirit is the team's black sweatband I have in my hair. I'm the mascot, I'm going to spend the rest of my day under a panther head that smells faintly of sweet cheese no matter how many times I dry clean it. I think I deserve a break.

The day passes in a blur with a weekend workload that should be illegal in some parts of the world but clearly isn't here. I'd complain more but the air is so static with anticipation that I barely notice.

Fast forward to four-thirty pm and its moments before the game. The anticipation I felt earlier is nothing compared to what I feel now. I'm wearing my mascot uniform with the head twirling between my hands, waiting for the moment the announcers call us out and I can run onto the court with the rest of the cheerleading team.

My original idea was to get on the court earlier and start hyping up the crowd, putting the hideous excuse for a bird mascot the Ravens have on their side in its place. But I was vetoed. Something about it being a bit confrontational for our first game.

Instead, I walk out alongside the cheerleaders. The motive for that is psychological, if you walk out with someone dressed as a panther you look ten times prettier by comparison. It's scientifically proven.

When we do walk out it's to the song The Nights by Avicii. The excitement that's been building all day culminates now. In this moment. The crowd is feverish either because girls in short skirts are doing cartwheels or for the love of the game, either way, I'm enjoying every second of it.

There's a feeling I get whenever I wear the costume. I lose the part of me that's afraid. The anonymity of it grants me the confidence I wouldn't have in another situation. I don't feel like Hazel Monroe, an average student, and mediocre friend. I'm not that girl anymore.

"Are you sure about this," I whisper to Leah as we get into formation for the biggest move.

"Of course," She whispers back whilst keeping her smile in the perfect place. "And even if you don't, it'll be very entertaining to watch."

Although that last statement doesn't do much to motivate me I still manage to get in position. It has the desired effect. Then when everyone has lined up behind me, I'm lifted off the ground. The crowd around goes insane, it's not every day they get to see Irvine's Pete the panther topping a pyramid of cheerleaders in the school gymnasium. Moreover, it's not every day when I get to be the sole center of attention. Even the Ravens fans in the bleachers opposite are applauding. I tumble off someone's shoulder just as we reach our last few counts.

At the very end of our routine, I rush up to the front of the crowd and throw in our big finish, the splits.

In a flurry of tumbles and pyramids, clasps and twirls, the energy of the gym floor shifted. As though impossibly, we were going to win. And in those few seconds, I believed it.

*****

We were going to lose. There were less than ten minutes on the giant clock hanging over the gym and we were going to lose. Every minute that passed as we sailed toward the end of the fourth quarter spelled doom for our team.

The game was stalled at 87- 92, with the Ravens in the lead, Now their main goal was to maintain possession of the ball and make sure it skipped out of bounds as many times as possible. And they were succeeding because in the last five minutes the closest we'd gotten to making a basket was No. 23's attempt which only landed the ball on the backboard. I'm forced to admit that for once, it wasn't Darnell's fault.

For the first few quarters, he had done a decent job of controlling the ball and keeping the most advantageous positions open. He hadn't scored but he didn't have to, our team was making headway. Until the disastrous end of the third quarter where the Ravens had scored in rapid succession. All the points we'd gained on them were lost as they equalized and surpassed us.

Now I've pulled my head off and I'm sitting on the bleachers watching what looks like a scene in my own personal horror film. Coach Carter twists the baseball cap he was supposed to be wearing in his hand as he stares down the scoreboard. The players grow more dejected losing the initial adrenaline rush and giving in to their fatigue as the Ravens dance the ball out of bounds again. The fans in the stands scramble, trying to reclaim their quickly diminishing bet money having placed their hopes on the wrong team.

I'm not looking at the scoreboard, the ball, or the clock. I'm looking at one player in particular who's caught and held my interest for most of the game. Flynn March. The Raven's center and No. 18. He's scored most of the points in the game and gotten away with more subtle fouls in the past hour than I can name. It must be one of the perks of having blond hair and Nordic good looks.

But that isn't why I'm staring.

A local newspaper once ran a feature on him in their sports section. A rising star athlete who'd made it onto a varsity basketball team at fifteen. On the road to a sports scholarship, UCLA bound. That was what they'd written about him. But there was something else. Something more personal about an accident he'd gotten into, an accident that had nearly cost him his athletic career...

I'm out of my seat before I can even fully formulate my thought.

"He broke his hand once," I whisper to myself. "He broke his hand."

One of the substitutes sitting on my left stares at me before shaking his head but I can only ignore him as I walk over to Coach Carter.

"Coach Carter," I say disrupting his pacing along the bleachers.

He doesn't notice until I say it again with a tad more force.

"Yes. What it is Hazel?"

I'm already full steam ahead on my new wavelength before he can say anything else, "I don't know if you've seen this sir but player No. 18...."

I drift off when I realize he isn't even paying attention and we've only got seven minutes on the timer.

So I skip through the niceties, "Coach Carter," I bark.

"What?" He says alarmed.

"Player No. 18 has a previous injury on his right arm. He doesn't shoot with it."

"And so?" He asks.

"So that's his blind spot. If we could design a play that worked to that advantage we can lead them to their net and create an opening. We could equalize."

We could win.

"Too late," He says finally but it feels like every second he wastes thinking, is one we could use to win. "We don't have the time to create an entire play and for them to learn it. But it's a good idea, regardless."

Before he can turn back to the game I pull out the piece of paper I'd been doodling on. Or more accurately termed an offensive play.

"That's where you're wrong." I counter. "It's a short play and it only needs our fastest player."

He stares down the play and then looks back at me holding my gaze for a full five seconds, weighing his options.

I raise my eyebrows, "Are you going to call the timeout or should I?"