“Timeout! Timeout!” my dad yelled with five seconds left in the fourth quarter of the basketball game. My team, the Stingers, who wore yellow, were down by 1 going into the timeout. My dad wrote down the play, which wasn’t much of a play, it was to give the ball to me. The other team was in a two-three zone, so our team had no problem passing the ball into play. There was no time to rest, no time to walk, no time to jog.
As soon as the ball hit my fingertips I pushed it out in front of me to the ground. I was sprinting as fast as a cheetah, no, more like a cheetah on steroids. Woosh! I soar down the court. My heart knew I would score, but my brain doubted it. As the battle inside my body went on, I met the first defender.
Crossover!