Big Chance

Big Chance

Dave McGuinness could not believe what he was seeing. For the last few years, here in the college gym, he had been playing pickup basketball and getting better little by little, often the result of playing against some very good players, the kind who had been stars on their high school teams. It had taken time to build up even a little reputation. Certainly no one was going to pick him by sight. This was Court One, where serious players came to play. The big state school had six courts in the gym, but the best games were always on Court One. In the past, Dave often got bypassed when guys were looking to add players for the next game.

After all, what could some little white kid do? But Dave had been working and hustling for the past two years, just to get that bit of respect. Yeah, man, pick up the white boy, he can play. It had taken all he had the past two years to hear those words: he can play.  But the group walking in right now were the players on the college team, the stars of the school. This was a whole new level. Here they were, to get a pickup game amongst each other and a few mere amateurs. Tonight, Dave would be one of them.

In a moment he internalized the vast difference between himself and these guys. They had all been high school stars, and recruited to be on campus as scholarship players. Dave had never even made his high school team. They had played before big crowds for years, Dave had been shooting around in his backyard by himself, on a rim attached to the shed and all the grass worn away by his moves against imaginary defenders. Right now, these were real college players walking onto the court. Their skills were refined, movements sharpened under the eyes of coaches for years. Dave's progress was the result of the mental notes he took after his pickup games and little clues he picked up watching games on TV. These guys were all over six feet tall and powerfully built. Dave was 5'5" and 130 pounds. At least he was quick.

Teams were drawn up, even enough, with the best player in the school on Dave's team. Antony Bowie was 6'6", 220 pounds, sinewy and sculpted, aggressive and mean. The captain of the other team was Sam Jones, a 6'9" lefty, a very smooth player who made the game look easy. Both teams had two or three other players from the college team. Dave was in awe of seeing their size and footwork up close. Their movements were efficient, at times explosive. No wasted steps. In the world of pickup basketball, stakes were still high enough. Win and you stay on to play the next team. Lose, and you could wait for over an hour if there was a big turnout to get on Court One.

The game began well enough for Dave. He moved the ball quickly to the college players in good spots for them to score. That was always his way when he got into games with better players. Penetrate on the dribble and pass the ball, be unselfish and show you could be trusted with the ball. The game went back and forth and was tied up 6-6. Dave’s team was mostly about Antony Bowie, the one man show who demanded the ball and attacked the rim at every chance. Sam’s team was the antithesis: full of eye contact, quick partnerships, and clever passing. They moved like a fluid collection of parts, triangles forming and reforming as they passed, moved, picked and cut for one another with easy intuition. Dave hustled and concentrated, trying to keep up with all of this. He missed his first shot but made his second from outside, exhaling deeply as he saw his shot caress the net.

Then momentum turned. Dave was the last man back facing a two on one, and could do little to stop them. Another two on one, another basket. Bowie protested loudly. Dave wondered what more he could have done. But he certainly was not going to tell his thoughts to an angry Antony Bowie. But after another miss from his team, another break, another two on one, Bowie exploded. Arms waving, and cuss words careening off the cemented walls. And all of Bowie's anger found its resting place in silent Dave McGuinness' solar plexus. 

The game quickened now. Game point. One mistake and you can go sit for an hour or even be done for the night. Dave's mind raced. How should he approach the game now? Pass the ball, and get out of the way? Or seize the moment, take his big chance and prove to these college players that he, Dave McGuinness, could handle himself among the big boys?

Guys watched eagerly from the sidelines, waiting for the winning shot and their chance to come on. But tonight, nobody will be getting the next game. Out of nowhere, dozens of girls appeared in the gym, and that meant only one thing. Aerobics. Starting soon. Frustration simmered through all of the ballplayers.  None of them were checking out the girls one bit. There was only one thing that mattered at this moment. Winning. This would be the last game of the night, and now the sidelines were packed with people.

Everything in the game sharpened up. Cuts, feints, shouts, all short, sharp, and quick. Dave got the ball, passed and moved, arcing around the baseline, and the ball came back to him. Wide open, he had to shoot. Only an eight-footer on the baseline, easy enough. Or was it? A shot from outside, and he could put all his strength into the release. Anywhere around the basket and he could bank the shot off the glass. But this little eight-footer had to be all finesse. And that meant relaxing at the moment of release. Dave jumped, shoulders tensed, and shot. And missed badly. Air ball. A thousand volts of electromagnetic humiliation shot out through to his fingertips and back, as Antony Bowie bellowed out a string of profanities, as the ball was sent flying downcourt for an easy winner. Game over, and everyone out. 

Aerobics time now. Big Sam Jones gave Dave a sympathetic tap on his shoulder on the way out. That was something, getting a tap from one of the guys on the college team. But Dave had trouble taking that in. All the way back to the dining hall, all he heard were the withering remarks of a furious Antony Bowie. Dave hung back behind the pack of the college players, invisible again, walking with his head down.