Three, Two, One. Swish.

That was the day he did it. Three, two, one. Swish. 

I use to watch him from across the street on my balcony, he did it every day. Swish. He ripped it, the turnaround fadeaway as the buzzer expired. He was fairly tall, I think he’s about 6’1 now. He’d be wearing one of the many shirts in his gym strip rotation. From basketball camps upstate, and from tournaments, warmup shirts and jerseys of his favourite players. Perspiration would dampen his hair, forming dark patches on his lean back. Swish. 

Tony was a great kid. If I didn’t see him from the balcony, I’d surely hear him. The sound of a basketball has a hollowed elastic echo at 9pm. Usually the time when he’d ‘give it a rest’ and go in for the night. 

He was so dedicated, so loyal. I was always jealous I won’t lie, and really, I still am. Two years older than me, I’d known him my entire life. Or barely knew him, or he barely knew me. Or I thought that, or I overthought it. From the balcony and the bus ride to school he became part of my family, like a big brother. Well, not like a brother. He was my first big crush. Swish. 

In the winter time he’d be out on the street with a shovel, plowing the snow into a court. I told him I admired his dedication, I told him he could go somewhere with it. I’m not sure if he believed me, but every day it was the same. Three, two, one. Swish. He couldn’t miss. 

“And noww your starting lineup.” The announcer's voice on the television was so enthusiastic it was impossible to tell he was over-emphasizing on purpose. “From Gonzaga University, your starting point guard number 22, Toonnyyy Zellleeerrrsss!!!” 

I remember when he made it onto March Madness. His parents invited dam near the entire block over. He was the same. At least to me, his blonde hair bouncing on his head as he dribbled up the court, the focus, the love of the game, it always seemed so intimate to me. He really loved it, you could really tell. 

I watched nearly every game of his. Well, in his rookie season, over time the thrill of seeing my neighbor bouncing his ball until 9pm lost its novelty. I still watched the playoffs though, and quite a few regular season games as well. I even went to a few games live. Tony sent my family tickets a few times. Travel fair, a rental car, hotel accommodations, seats in the third row and a reminder to ask again anytime we wanted to see a game. He still made me nervous. I barely said a word when he came and talked to us after the game. You couldn’t say he forgot. 

“Time out Utah.” The game was down to the last couple minutes, referred to as ‘crunch time’ by sports junkies. “Oh, we have a game here tonight Carl’.” 

“You got something right Doug. It all boils down to this, game five of the NBA finals.” 

“Defense, defense. Defense, defense.” The chanting of the crowd was deafening. 

Coach Rick drew up the play on his little clipboard. A bunch of X’s and O’s connected between arrows and ending with James Westman off the inbound. They were all sweating profusely, focused and staring at him as he talked it over. 

One thing Coach always said about his players, is that they really care. You don’t get to that level unless you love the game. This is all they’ve done their entire lives, their entire world, their passion. It all boils down to moments like this for them. They’re a bunch of kids at the park dreaming, except it’s happening for real. Nothing about the intensity is fake, no acting for television, these guys really want it as much as their fans. 

“Starks to impound.” 

“Let’s see what Coach Rick has drawn up for us tonight. It all comes down to this Doug.” The ref handed the out-of-bounds player the ball and blew his whistle. 

“Shot clock at eight, we’ll see what happens.” 

“Westman on the wing, he stops dribbles, stops. Up-fakes, backstep. Turns.” 

“Bang! Bang! Jazz up by two.” 

“This is when the stars take over Doug. This is where the lights shine brightest.” 

Tony was on the bench; he’d been in the league for years and his minutes decreased. Age really takes a toll on athletes, that and white men really can’t jump. Still, he looked so handsome in his tracksuit whenever the camera flashed his way, and fit. Not like the local singles my age I chat with on online from time-to-time when boredom and curiosity get the better of me. The default setting for age is set at 18-28. If only I was 28, not like I really care anymore. Like I say at family reunions, Whiskers is the only man I need, he fits perfectly in my blanky, a guy who truly suits my lifestyle.   

Westman ripped it, as much as I’d like to see Tony hit that shot, I was just happy the good guys were winning. 

Then the next possession, they weren’t. Roberts hit a big three, worth approximately all of his 18-million-dollar salary. Knicks by one, under a minute remaining. We had one more timeout left and Coach Rick immediately took it. 

“Tony.” Coach called to Zellers on the bench as he saw a three-ball rip through the net, taking their lead away. “Get up, we need you out there.” 

He wanted shooters, and Tony was lights out on open looks. He drew up another play, again for Westman, he needed spacing. Defense goes out the window in these moments. 

“So be ready if he can’t get free off the pin-down. We know they’re gonna double him.” 

“Looks like Rick has some shooting off the bench, it’ll be interesting to see what play he drew up. My money’s on Westman for the win. 

“This is when the superstars become the greats.” 

“This is probably their final possession Carl, better be a good one.” 

When the T.V. timeout ended and Tony was one of the players jogging onto the court I was ecstatic. Ecstatic and scared. This was for all the marbles, it all came down to this. I kept thinking about if he got the ball, and if he missed. I couldn’t get it out of my head, I was right there with him on the edge of my seat. 

I already had some condolences and encouragement I’d relay to his parents when I saw them next. Something along the lines of “He already won it all just making it to the NBA, I watched him dribble that ball outside every single day. We’re all so proud around here.” I even had some wild, youthful daydream of him returning to live with his folks. Maybe he’d start talking to me. Like multi-million-dollar athletes ever came home, like he’d really even remember a gal like me. 

They stepped out onto the court. 

“This is likely the last shot of the night for the Jazz Carl.” 

“Oh, absolutely Doug. This could be the last shot of the season.” 

“They’ll advance the ball to halfcourt and inbound. These guys have never seen the lights as bright as they are right now.” 

“Here we go, Doug.” 

“They get it in to Westman on the wing.” 

“Lots of clock left, looks like he’s going into 'iso' for the win.” 

“They double him.” 

“That’s the smart move Doug, get it out of his hands.” 

“He kicks it out. Clocks running down” 

From the bench Coach Rick dug his nails into his arm as he watched in anticipation. This was a contract year for him, and with the salary management had on the court, winning was everything. They trapped him, Westman out to Mitchel, they swung it around. Coach’s arm almost started bleeding from his own death grip. Zellers in the corner. The house, the wife, the boat, the kids, all flashing in his eyes. Five seconds, four seconds. 

Three, two, one. Swish. I saw the ball go in as the red light flashed. 

His teammates rushed onto the court before the game had officially concluded. He was raised up, the crowd was cheering, streamers and confetti floated to the floor. 

I couldn’t be happier for him, that kid from across the street taking his last shot at 9pm. Bounce, bounce—swish. I knew this was just a routine for him, I wonder if he remembers me. I still think about him more than normal, it’s like that Sheryl Crow song from the 2000’s ‘The First Cut is the Deepest’. I wonder if people would think I’m pathetic? Sad? Creepy? I mean he was my first crush and he’s always on T.V., is it normal? I don’t really think of him like I use to, but still, I feel something when I see him on TNT at 7. I wonder if he ever thinks of me. Maybe he just never said anything, like I did. Maybe he was too busy. I’m really happy for him anyways, he’s a family friend beyond any lingering crush from my adolescence. 

I watched the trophies come out, MVP to Westman of course. I watched as his teammates passed around their golden ‘Chip’, cheering. I made a mental note to order a championship hat all the guys were wearing, NBA Champions 2021: Utah Jazz. I’ll look cool the next time I go out for groceries, the kids like that stuff. Tony took a turn, held up the trophy and kissed it. I guess the guy just couldn’t miss.