The Bunny that got away

Ahhh, high school memories, to be more precise, high school sports memories. As I have grown older, I am constantly searching for that league, that game, that opponent, that situation which would parallel sports in high school. The search for "El Dorado" of sports is ultimately going to be fruitless and I know that, but it is exciting nonetheless. It is that drive in competition that propels me forward in games, makes me play through a slight ankle sprain when, honestly, beating a team names "Old Schoolz" in the grand scheme of sports/life is trivial. Last night it came all rushing back, for one tiny glimpse of what I have been searching for. That fleeting experience that reminded me of those games, albeit slower paced and with many, many less fit players. I have been playing for this league now for the last two years. I was contacted through the grapevine that this team required a player. I answered that call. The team was aptly known as the Rockets. We are a mishmash of old young, big and tall. Former players and first timers. A great squad with some fiery personalities, uber competitive types (guilty) and players just happy to be there. We were always good, but never quality enough to go forward. We had spark sometimes in games, but the lack of true talent reared its ugly head when crunch time came around. Nevertheless, we enjoyed playing every Monday, a chance to sweat out the alcohol from the weekend, air some of our frustrations from starting a new week and perhaps for some of us, rekindle that search for "El Dorado."
This year played out differently, we were talented and for the first time, knew our roles on the team. This knowledge translated to success and finally on the last game of the season we beat our nemesis, the terrifyingly named team "The Waves" (Cue scary music). We blended team work, hard defense and some timely luck (not to mention some terrible ref calls where by the end it was 5 on 4 in out favor) to triumph. The only problem after this game, we had to play them again in a semi final match. For the first time, we were ready.
All of us from both squads know each other well, whether it is through the numerous times we have played each other over the last two, three, four years or off the court. This game had potential. The Waves are perennial entrants into the championship match. They have a squad that is filled with deadly three point shooters, big bruisers, and slashers that for most teams in the league prove to be difficult to shut down. We are one of those team who could shut down two out of three aspects, but the unguarded aspect always haunted us. If that is not foreshadowing than I quit as a writer.
We came out flying, playing man defense. As I get older, the 2-3 defense is standard operational procedure in "old man leagues." It requires just enough effort for exertion, but saves the legs for what matter most, the offense. I fall into this quasi-laziness trap, but this we were going man. We matched up reasonably well and would shut down their three point capabilities. The strategy worked for 20 out of 30 minutes. The game was like a prize boxing fight. We came out hard, they punched back and by the end of the first half, we were up 26-24. We gave up some late/lazy threes and they overcame an 11 point deficit in the last three minutes of the half. Our game had always been to push the ball and attack. They emulated this and took it to us in those final minutes.
The second half produced more the same intensity. They began on fire and pulled remotely away with eight minutes left. We scraped and clawed (literally in some cases) back to within even with two minutes left. Sweat, and intensity were dripping all over the court and the excitement was palpable coming from the three fans in the tiny gym. Both teams committed turnovers and traded missed shots and then it came down to us. We had 45 seconds left and stalled for the final shot. Precious seconds ticked down, I was passed the ball on the left wing with 15 seconds left. The team collapsed and shifted to resist any move by me. I passed the ball immediately to my friend. 7 seconds left. From the opponents bench one player began the countdown from three even though the real time displayed 7 seconds, my friend not heeding the discrepancy from what the player was falsely shouting and the true time, barreled into the lane in the middle of the key and heaved a prayer up. The ball smashed into the backboard. OT.
Three minutes to beat them. I returned to the huddle, cautiously optimistic. We had taken their best shot in the beginning of the second half and had not wilted under the pressure, but had responded with more vigor and resourcefulness to respond with our own barrage. I felt this boded well for us in OT.
Again OT played out as the entire game had transpired. The two tired teams traded baskets then a three by the opposition. A couple of free throws and a two point basket, put the score at the Waves leading by 1 with 37 seconds left. We called time out. We circled up and looked at each other, one of us put it succinctly. Do we hold the ball until the final seconds to win or shoot at our discretion no matter the team; Our heavy breathing answered the question: we wanted to win. We diagrammed the same plan as the final seconds of the game. Three guard rotation until about 10 seconds then go for it. The ball moved around like a hot potato and the defense, tired and sweaty were not putting as much verve into their defensive position. The ball then swung to me, this time on the left side out near the wing, a step in from the three point line. 8 seconds. The right side defensive man came to hard and I blew past him towards the center. The entire defense collapsed on me like an amoeba around a foreign object. 6 seconds. With a flash I threw the ball to the left to my man a little outside of the left hand block for a wide open shot. 5 seconds. He shot it and it hit the rim, back board then teased the inside of the rim before falling out. 4 seconds. As I watched my teammate shot, time had the odd slowed effect. Not unlike when you hit a baseball through a window and you watch every painstaking second, helpless to block the inevitable, before it crashes through the window. I was in a similar frame of mind. Within the game, but out of it when my body reacted. I jumped and snatched the rebound a mere 3 feet from the rim, in front with limited opposition. Genuinely surprised that the ball came to me, I shot it like so many times before. Except this time, the outcome was not so familiar. I missed. I missed. Unreal. The ball hit the rim on the right side and spun right. Game over. All of the air escaped from my body as well as the gym.
Just as I wanted it, just as I had imagined in high school, just as I had wanted to recapture that feeling. I blew it.
Oh well, I heard there is kickball at Moore park, I am going to attempt to relive those elementary school days now.