Cruise Control by Terry Trueman Page B

back, and almost unconsciously throw up another three-pointer that hits nothing but net. Their lead is two with under a minute left to play. As soon as their guy gets the ball, we pressure full court and foul.
    Their kid hits his first shot but misses the second. The Hankster grabs the board, passes out to me, and I bring the ball back up and hit another shot. My foot was on the line so it’s only a two-pointer. They lead by one with thirty-one seconds left to play. We haven’t led this game for a single second. It’s their ball.
    We full-court press again and I manage to get a steal. It’s almost the identical move to that day when I poked the ball away from Tim and gouged his little finger, only I don’t touch the kid from Kennedy.
    I dribble the ball back to the top of our key and our guys spread the floor. I’m thinking about the game but I’m also thinking about Shawn—imagining him somehow knowing what’s going on. The kid guarding me, who came in after the flagrant-foul guy was tossed, has quick hands, but he’s shorter than I am and not as strong. I’m dribbling the ball, relaxed, waiting for the clock to go down. I glance at the shot clock; there are seven seconds left. I glance at the game clock; sixteen seconds—this means that after I make my shot, we’ll have to hustle right back on D, because they’ll have almost ten seconds to bring the ball in, get it down, and …
    In a flash, the kid guarding me jabs the ball free, catching a lot of my hand as he does. I listen for a whistle, but the refs don’t call it. The kid hurries over and grabs the loose ball. Once he corrals it, he takes off toward his basket.
    Everything slows down, almost stops, as I think about what’s happening: the game, Georgetown, my dad, Shawn …
    I turn and chase the kid who’s stolen the ball. I’ve got a slight angle on him, and as he reaches his basket, trying for a layin that would clinch the game for them, I time my jump from behind perfectly and block his shot. Even though I don’t touch him, he falls down over the end line, flopping for a call. The ball bounces toward the out-of-bounds line on the right side. There’s no whistle. I manage to grab the ball an instant before it goes out, leaning over the line and barely getting my balance. The game clock reads three seconds. I dribble toward our end. The clock ticks down … two seconds … one second. I’m still way out, not even up to half court yet, but I have to shoot now .
    There’s no time to think about it. So I let it go, a high, arching shot. The buzzer sounds while the ball is still soaring through the air. Everything is clear; everything is right here, my whole world, everything wide open—
    My release felt good, felt perfect, actually—nice rotation, good height—the buzzer stops, and there’s total silence; fourteen thousand fans, every player and every coach, watch the flight of my desperation shot.
    I don’t feel desperate, though, I feel perfectly calm and happy; whatever happens will happen, whatever—
    Swish .
    It’s funny, you know, how you see guys on ESPN hit the miracle shot, the buzzer beater, then fall to their knees or jump in the air or run around with their arms spread out and their mouths wide open looking for someone to hug. Moments like this don’t come very often in sports or in life. And now it’s happening to me . Maybe I’m not ready for it, or maybe I’m too ready—whatever the reason, I don’t do any of those celebration things. I’m glad that the shot fell. I’m glad that we’ve won the game. Although it’s fun, it doesn’t matter in the same way that so many bigger things matter.
    My teammates disagree, mobbing me at center court in a pileup that resembles twenty madmen trying to escape a madhouse.
    At the bottom of this crazed, laughing, screaming, smelly, sweating pile of