Basketball: The Focus

Untitled Part 1

I

Never in fourteen years of moving to every type of town, living in every type of house, and meeting every type of person did I envision myself here. Where am I? Sitting in the gym of Newport High School in Newport Kentucky swallowing down my own puke and waiting to hear my name. Any second now the large man with the bushy grey beard holding the clipboard will bark my name. For the tenth time my stomach tries to erupt and land on my shoes. I don't let it. I watch the twenty or so kids who went before me running a series of drills up and down the basketball court. I never knew a court could hold so many people, or that there could be so much noise. Basketballs pound against the polished floor. Shoes screech and slide around the gym. Barked commands echo against the ceiling and reverberate around the room. Twenty kids and I'm one of ten left waiting. In case you're bad at math, that makes thirty. Thirty boys who are all here for the same reason I am, to make a team. Okay, not just a team /the team/ Banners hang all around the room, showing just how good the Newport Panthers are at basketball. Three state championships in a row. Before that, three regionals, a division, and two more regionals. For the thirtieth time that day, I remind myself how crazy I was to try this. Before I can tell myself to shut up or run from the room in terror, I hear my name. "Colton Meyers!" Head coach John Rosanthal barks with his southern twang. My stomach lurches like it wants to be the new Mt. Vesuvius and I stand up. I jog weakly over to the coach. He puts a heavy hand on my shoulder.

"You've seen the drill, rotate around like all the other boys" and just like that I'm in the middle of it. Shaky legs trying to hold me up, sweaty hands trying to control the basketball. There are people everywhere, and not just players. The eyes I can't shake, the ones that won't stop following me, belong to guys with clipboards. They're everywhere, tracking our every move, waiting to see if we're any good. So far, I'm not. Apparently dribbling is nothing like riding a bicycle, although I've never tried to ride a bicycle while in the presence of over thirty apprehensive humans. Even though I've spent hours in different driveways practicing my behind the back, between the legs, crossovers, I'm now no better with a basketball then a toddler with very little hand-eye coordination

I fumble my way through the dribbling drills: losing the ball on the obstacle drills, bouncing it off my foot during the defended drills, basically losing the ball at every opportunity. I start to wish this was a game of hot potato instead of basketball. Finally I get a break from embarrassment and get to run three laps around the court. This I can do without any extra stress, but halfway through my second lap, one of the clipboard men pulls me to the side for a chat.

"What's your name, kid?" He asks, having simply referred to the number pinned to my shirt until now.

"Colton," I say, trying not to sound like a dog on a hot day.

"Alright Colton, when you get back out there, just take a deep breath and relax, okay? You're in your head too much right now." Great, they noticed how much I suck.

"I will, thank you" I reply before finishing up my laps and returning to the court. My game doesn't improve much. I'm a mess of floppy limbs, sweat, and nervousness. I manage to improve a little during shooting drills, but only the ones where I don't have a guy in my face, going after the ball. For instance, I made all my free throws, but only by a crazy stroke of luck.

By the end of the day, I want to throw something...bad. This was definitely that kind of day. The hit something, throw something, scream yourself hoarse, do nothing but eat and sleep until bed kind of day. I sit in one of the chairs and wait. Sweat drips off my hair and nose. I can feel it running down my back and legs. At least it looks like I tried. Seth walks over and slaps me on the shoulder,

"Let's go, tiger" I get up and follow, dragging my feet. Seth says goodbye to Coach Rosanthal on his way out. Typical Sophomore. I shuffle past with my head down. Together we wait out by the sidewalk for his mom. Michelle Raines pulls up and we climb in. I briefly consider asking to ride in the trunk, it was that bad of a day.

In the front, Seth and his mom chat about tryouts. Seth is foster brother number eight, and so far he's not bad. In fact, I would have to award him the Best Foster Brother Award. I mean, sure, it's barely been a week, he certainly has time to be banned for ever competing for the title again, but for now he's alright. He's easily the most invested foster brother ever. He actually encouraged me to try out for the basketball team. Most guys would have given me a shrug and moved on. Michelle and her husband Levi are also pretty good. It helps that Levi's a doctor and they have all the latest stuff. Nothing like some of the dumpy homes I've been stuck in before. Michelle looks back at me in the rear view mirror.

"How'd you do, Colton?"

"Eh," I grunt and shrug.

"I bet you did better then 'eh'" she encourages.

"Actually I did way worse then 'eh'" I mumble.

When we get home I go straight to me room and then to shower. I feel better afterwards, but not well enough to keep me from feeling like an idea. I mean, what kind of person moves to a new town where high school basketball is all the rage and decides to try out for one of the best teams in the state? An idiot, right? Well, turns out I'm that idiot. I'll stop feeling worthless within a couple of days I guess, but see if I ever play basketball again. I curl up in the big bean bag chair in the corner and put in my earbuds. Bonus 1 to living with the Raines: iPod and iTunes money.

Someone knocks on the bedroom door and I jerk. I must have fallen asleep somewhere around song number ten.

"Come in," I call, groaning and stretching and trying to wake up.

Seth opens the door, "mind if I stay?" I shrug, looking down at my iPod and trying to figure out which good songs I missed.

"What did you think about tryouts?" Great, do we have to go over this? I've been working hard to forget that I ever made such a stupid decision by drowning my sorrows in music, and your not helping.

"It was okay, I didn't do so great." I say.

"I thought you did alright." He responds. Typical Seth. He's rather a suck up; always agreeing with you, doing whatever you want, trying to make you feel good.

"Thanks," I mutter.

"Come on," he says, managing to catch my sarcasm, "I think you have a shot at the team."

"Oh yeah? Well I don't." I told him bluntly and flopped back in my chair, hoping he'd leave.

"Alright, but I bet you Coach really liked the defense he saw."

I snort; like he knows anything. I'm a decent shooter, but what I'm best at is dribbling, and I totally blew that. Anybody can be a good defender. That's nothing special.

"Okay," Seth says, standing up to leave. "But whenever you want to shoot around in the driveway to get ready for practice, let me know."

Ha ha, very funny Seth. I don't appreciate you lying to me. I don't need that. I'm not five. I know when I've performed poorly. He leaves the room and I turn my music on again, going back to some of my favorites.