My chest burned, raw and tight, each breath rasping in the thick, humid air that clung to the court like a second skin. Sweat, gritty with the day's grime, stung my eyes, but I blinked it away, tracking the orange blur of the basketball. Larry, all elbows and desperate energy, had just tipped it, a loose cannon ricochet off the backboard. Twenty-three seconds. Down by one. This was it.
"Frankie! Get it!" Larry yelled, his voice cracking, already scrambling for position. "Move!"
"I see it, chill!" I snapped back, my own voice a strained grunt. The peeling green paint on the asphalt was slick under my battered high-tops, a sheen of grime and melted rubber. My left ankle twinged, a dull ache that had been a constant companion since last season. Distant sirens wailed down Salter Street, a familiar urban lullaby that usually faded into background noise, but today it felt sharp, an omen.
A blur of purple jersey flashed in my periphery—Julio from the North End crew. He was faster, always had been. But I had the angle. A desperate lunge, my fingers scraping against the rough concrete, then the satisfying thwack as the ball slapped into my palm. Hot, sticky leather. I tucked it tight, shielding it from Julio’s aggressive reach.
The Weight of a Promise
This game wasn’t just a game. It was a lifeline. For the rec centre, for Coach Miller's dignity, for that half-baked idea I’d cooked up back in May, thinking I could fix everything with a few grand in prize money. Best intentions, right? I’d told Miller we could make up the funding shortfall, that the summer league prize pot was ours for the taking. He’d looked at me, tired eyes behind smudged glasses, and just nodded. Didn’t say anything. That nod, silent and heavy, was worse than any lecture.
And now… this. Nineteen seconds. The crowd, a sparse collection of family and locals huddled under a tattered canvas awning, was a low hum of anxious energy. No one had expected us, the scrappy South End Kings, to make it this far. No one, perhaps, but me, and my stubborn, foolish pride.
I dribbled hard, the ball a frantic rhythm against the asphalt. Julio was on me, his breath hot on my ear. "Going nowhere, Frankie. Give it up."
"Dream on, pal," I muttered, faking right, then spinning left, the worn tread of my shoe protesting. He bit, just a fraction. Enough. My eyes scanned the court. Larry was open, a sliver of space at the top of the key. He had a decent shot, usually. But this wasn’t 'usually.' This was everything.
"Larry!" I shouted, a quick bounce pass arcing through the humid air. He caught it, hesitated, then launched. It was a good shot, clean arc. I held my breath, the metallic tang of sweat in my mouth. The ball kissed the rim, hung there for a torturous second, then… spun out. My stomach dropped.
"No!" I heard someone groan from the sidelines. Larry cursed under his breath, hands on his head. The North End crew's bench erupted, their 'celebration' a mix of relieved shouts and taunting jeers. Seven seconds. Their ball.
Coach Miller called a timeout. I jogged over, shoulders slumped, ignoring the burning in my calves. The air under the awning was marginally cooler, but it felt thick with disappointment. Miller didn't shout. He rarely did. He just stood there, hands on his hips, his old t-shirt clinging to his frame. His gaze swept over us, landing on me.
"Listen up," he said, his voice gravelly, but steady. "That was a good look, Larry. Frankie, you made the right pass. We live with it. Now, defence. We need a stop. A steal. Anything. Don't foul. Don't. You hear me?"
We nodded, a collective, grim agreement. But I could feel the tension, the quiet despair. Larry caught my eye, a flicker of apology there. I just shook my head. Not his fault. This was on me. Always on me.
"Right," Miller said, clapping his hands together once, a sharp sound that cut through the humid air. "Go get 'em."
I took a swig from the communal water bottle, the lukewarm liquid doing little to quench the fire in my throat. As I stepped back onto the court, the noise of the crowd, now mostly North End supporters, felt louder, more aggressive. Julio smirked at me from half-court. His team had the inbound. Four seconds.
Julio’s teammate, a lanky kid named Darryl, grabbed the ball. Julio set a screen, wide and aggressive. Darryl started his count, slowly, deliberately. The official's whistle screeched. "Technical foul! Delay of game!" The ref pointed at Darryl, who was still holding the ball, refusing to release it.
A collective gasp from the North End bench. A free throw for us. And the ball back. One shot. Two seconds. My heart hammered against my ribs, a wild drumbeat. I could feel the blood rushing in my ears. This was it. A chance. Miller looked at me, then at the ball. He didn't have to say it. I was the shooter.
I walked to the line, the weight of the moment pressing down like the summer humidity. The ball felt heavier in my hands, slicker than before. I bounced it thrice, a nervous habit. The rim, usually a wide, welcoming circle, looked impossibly small, a distant speck. I focused, pushing away the image of Larry's missed shot, the rec centre’s fading paint, Miller's quiet burden. One shot. Just one.
I took a deep breath, trying to calm the tremor in my hands. The opposing team's coach was yelling at the ref, livid about the call. The crowd was a cacophony of shouts and boos. None of it mattered. It was just me and the hoop. I extended my arm, followed through, watched the ball arc. It was clean. It spun, then dropped through the net with a satisfying swish. Tie game.
The official handed me the ball for the inbound. Two seconds on the clock. The score was even. Their bench was silent, aghast. Our bench, a mix of pure shock and burgeoning hope. Miller gave me a tight, encouraging nod. I scanned the court, every muscle taut, every nerve screaming. Larry was being double-teamed. Darryl was right in front of me, arms wide, trying to block the inbound. I had to get the ball in. I had to.
I faked a pass to Larry, forcing Darryl to shift his weight. A window, impossibly small, opened on the other side of the court. My eyes locked onto Jay, our fastest runner, who was breaking free. I threw it, a desperate, overhand lob, high and far, hoping he could catch up to it. The clock started ticking down: 2… 1…
Jay caught it, a brilliant, leaping grab near the baseline. He took one stuttering dribble, the ball a blur against the bright sun, and launched a wild, off-balance shot just as the buzzer blared. The orange leather spun through the air, high, almost lazy. Everyone on the court, on the benches, in the crowd, froze. It hung there, a suspended moment, against the too-bright summer sky. Then, with a sound like a whisper, it hit the backboard, bounced once, twice, off the rim, and suddenly, the court lights flickered, plunged into darkness. A collective gasp, then utter confusion. Was it in? Was it out? The game, and everything tied to it, was now shrouded in an unexpected, absolute blackness.