Yesterday his freinds had called him a Baller.
"Yeah right" he thought as the shot goes up.
And it goes in.
The other team is up by one now with 14 seconds left on the clock.
Heartbroken his team passes the ball in.
It’s swatted!
Both teams sprint for the loose ball.
He’s already there though.
As he goes down the court he looks up at the clock.
8 seconds left.
He fells the joy gushing up inside him.
Just him and a wide open basket
Then a player in blue rushes to cut him off.
He sees its #18, the Baller from the other team.
“So this is how it is going to end” he thought.
He slows down and looks #18 in the eye.
Then he drives.
The crowd yells five…four…
He makes a cross-over.
He can see the beads of sweat hang on the beginnings of #18’s beginning of a mustache.
He can feel his heart pounding on the inside of his chest.
Three… Two…
He gets past!
One…
Silence.
He jumps.
The basketball leaves his finger tips at the perfect angle.
Time seems to have slowed.
He hears the buzzer, but it seems distant and far off.
In a different world, even.
He lands on his feet.
He looks up in time to see the ball go through the net.
Glory.
They had won.
Maybe he was a Baller.