Battles on the court

The Ticking Clock

The whistle blew.

The time-out had ended. The coach drew up the plan as we tried to steal the victory from the opposition. 

The game was in the dying embers and set up for a stunning finale. The crowd was ecstatic, holding out banners of their favorite players and the long foam fingers. The faces on the players clearly indicated the pressure building up inside their mind by the second. 

To be frank, I didn't even heed to the coach's tactics. I was immersed in my own zone, having an adrenaline rush, excited about the outcome of the crucial final game. This is why I love basketball, the possibilities were infinite. It gives me a sense of belonging, a war-like feeling which encapsulates my whole body. 

Instead of fidgeting, my fingers curled up so tight that the knuckles turned pale. As my eyes darted from side to side across the stadium, I could only see one thing in each and every player's eyes. Every one maintained a calm disposition unlike me who was pumped for the nerve-wracking ending.

The referee's yells grew louder as he was beckoning us to enter the arena again. The other team was already set up in their positions, as they knew a steady flurry of attacks were in order. Cracking my knuckles and flexing my muscles, I walked in to the center of the court as my tattoo, a fiery basketball on my dominant right arm, glistened in the brightly lit American Airlines Center. We were fortunate enough to be provided an opportunity to set foot in this glorious arena.

Forty seconds left on the clock, we were trailing by four points. 

Four measly points stood between us and history. My gaze turned towards the skipper when he called my name. Instantly, the ball landed in my sweaty palms as I barely managed to get a firm grip on it. 

"Go, Austin," was his call when he got back into his favored Point Guard position. We may have a difference in opinion when it came to life in the university, but when it was basketball, the unity among us knew no bounds. 

Making a few dribbles with my right hand, I brushed the sweat across my forehead with a cotton wrist band with the initials S.W marked on them. The onus was on me, the Power Forward hailed as a phenomenon and a young prodigy, to guide us across the finishing line. My orange jersey was sticking to my chest in which the thumping heart resided. 

A few dribbles later, we were in their half with the captain on the ball and he made a neat, effective pass to Mike, the Small Forward. In a flash, the ball was directed towards me with ease as I was already in air. That's how much faith I held in my friend. 

Clutching onto it mid-air, I was just a few yards away from the hoop, feeling unstoppable as I was about to perform my signature drive and dunk. There was no way I could fail to score this regardless of the two bulky players who rose to challenge my shot. I out-muscled them, using the momentum I gained by twirling the ball between my legs and slamming it into the hoop with a hard albeit smooth finish. Holding on to the hoop, I shrugged off the sweat on me and landed with a heavy thud. 

As my feet touched the ground, the crowd went absolutely ballistic from the display. I quickly scurried back along with my team as there was no time to waste.

The game was still alive!