I'll start with the feet.
You're supposed to be standing with your feet a hip's width apart. Your right foot, slightly in front of the other. Crouch on the balls of your feet, not your toes, your heels just barely brushing the ground.
Moving up to your legs and thighs. Bring your buttock down a little, feel the flex in your calves and lower thigh. Yes...
Now, pull in your abdominal muscles, summon the vast amount of power they have.
Arms should be bent in, your right hand under the basketball, cupping it and supporting it like an egg. The left hand should be balancing the ball. Right elbow in, palm clearly not touching the bottom of the ball. Your eye barely can see over it, the basket a clear, open halo of opportunity that screams at you.
Recoil every muscle just a centimeter further, and then let them go. Release your legs, pulling all the power to the center of the ball. Lift your arms into the air; your left hand should still be balancing. Arms fully outstretched, release the ball and follow through, finding that you have yet to hit the ground again after jumping.
The ball soars through the air, unstoppable in it's sure flight. A rim is still screaming for the ball, but when they rendezvous all that is heard is a whisper between the two. Swish.
A perfect shot. Thank goodness, too, because if it weren't for you, your team would have lost the state championships and you would have been the loser at your school for giving into the pressure in the last half second of the game, no defense on you as you were shooting a free throw.
Or maybe this didn't happen to you, it happened to me, and instead of the net whispering praise to you the ball yelled at me for throwing it off track and letting it fly through the air and hit the court; not even coming close to the net.
The locker room smelt of deodorant, sweat, and perfume.
Girls were everywhere, in their undergarments as they cooled down from an exhaustively exiting night of basketball. I walked in and almost immediately turned as my best friend-- on the other side of the room-- screamed my name and ran at me, without her jeans on. Instinct told me she would follow me out if I went for refuge in the hallway... not smart, though, we would surely both be embarrassed.
We briefly hugged and I ducked away to my locker, telling her how sadly I performed when everyone needed me most and how now I would be the laughingstock of the school. She was determined to show me that I had friends that loved me enough to know I wasn't perfect, I couldn't do everything and anything right. I knew that if I tried hard enough, I could do most of it. She left me to dress out.
When I finish a basketball game, I do three things.
One, I wash my face. All the sweat mixes with makeup already smeared from wear and tear of the previous day, plus the abuse from running around like a maniac with other maniacs throwing a brown sphere bigger than your head.
Two, I undress and dry off. Leaving my jersey with the others, I locate the towel in my locker and wipe off any sweat I find to be unappetizing in the eyes of me, myself, and I, making sure that I am as dried as a raisin when I'm done. This towel goes in a bag to be washed at home.
Three, I redress in comfy clothing. This can vary from the school's attire to my pajama pants and a T-shirt. Tonight, I have very baggy sweatpants from school, a t-shirt, and a light jacket. Simple enough, I think I look nice in this stuff.
All extra procedures that I have added on this year consist of going, with my bestie, to the concession stand and buying candy and coffee to eat while watching the last game of the night. We pig out on sweet things like Sour Patch Kids or Airheads.
Arriving back in the gym, I'm surprised to see no one there. Me and my best friend, in a dark gym, with hot coffee in our hands. Creepy. Something tells me that while we were in the locker room, an entirety of things happened in here, as well. And during whatever chaos had reined, we were forgotten.
The first thing I try to do is turn around to the almost safe haven of the locker room, but I'm stopped by the thought that there's someone watching me. I drop my school bags on the ground, then my purse. Still holding my coffee, I turn slowly and creep towards the light switch. The idea was that if someone was here, and they attacked me, I could expose them to the hot coffee, splattering it all over them, hopefully giving both my friend and I time to run far enough away for temporary protection.
I reach the light switch with nothing short of easy. I think that I might be acting stupid, that we just spent longer in the locker room than usual, that when the light turned on there would be a basketball under each goal, bleachers disassembled and floor swept. Doubts that only janitors were in the building filled me for a moment.
My stupid, stupid mind. Of course something went wrong. We were only in the locker room for ten minutes. My face was still hot from the game.
The lights sprouted on, and my eyes had to adjust to the abruptness of the change. I let a small gasp escape me as I took in what I was witnessing.
