Sweat poured from my forehead. I faced my opponent; her blond ponytail bobbed ferociously as she passed the leather ball between her hands. I glanced up at the scoreboard: 27-24. We were only four points away. Four points and we would triumph over the only undefeated team in the league. Four points and we would be heroes. Four points and I would be a hero.

"Watch out for the pick!" The shrill warning brought me back to my senses, but it was too late: a blue blur flew by me, headed straight for the basket. I tried to reach my opponent, but was blocked again. The fans sitting on the wooden bleachers clapped and cheered ebulliently; it was 29-24. We were six points away and I was mad.

I angrily heaved the basketball toward the point guard and tore up the court, adrenaline pulsing through my aching body. This was our only chance. It was all up to me now.

The point guard eased her way down the court. Thump, Thump, Thump. My heart raced. Suddenly, the point guard sprinted towards the basket.

"Spaghetti!" she called. That was me, my play. I was frozen with fear. What if I missed? I wouldn't be a hero, I'd be an absolute failure!

The ball flew into the air. I watched it turn and twist, almost frozen in space. Then it was in my hands.

In a spilt second, my opponent was upon me. "Help!" I screamed desperately. I can't do this, I thought to myself.


"Shoot!" The cries of my teammates protruded through my desperate thoughts. I released the ball, knowing I would miss. The only way I could redeem myself was the rebound. I had to get the rebound.

I squared up, getting ready. The ball was coming down now. Jump! I screamed to myself. I threw my body into the air. I could feel my opponent beside me, her sweaty frame pressed against mine. I felt the leather ball touch my fingertips. I sighed in relief: the ball was mine. I landed on the floor, feet first, arms up, ready to shoot. And then everything went black.

It was Sunday, January 21, 2007. The Comets lost that day, 34-32. It was the last game I played that season.