You would think, based on the fact that I’ve played varsity basketball for three years now, that I know how to score a basket.
You would be wrong.
“Zajac!” Coach screams, waving wildly at me. She’s only using my last name because she can’t remember my first name. “No more shots! Give the ball to someone else!”
It’s almost as humiliating as the air ball I lobbed up a second ago. I play shooting guard, so I’m supposed to, you know, shoot, but this is the third time I’ve taken a shot that hasn’t even touched the rim. The ball is usually so controlled in my hands, but tonight it’s like I’m chucking a giant potato through a wind tunnel.
You know how you can tell you’re in trouble?
You can tell you’re in trouble when you’re standing in a long line of girls in a basketball gym, getting ready to try out for an eighth-grade club team – an elite-level team, the kind of team you haven’t played on before, the kind of team you really want to play on – and you all of a sudden realize you’re staring straight-on, eye-level at the shoulder blades of the girl in front of you. Which means, as far as you can tell, the girl attacked to those shoulder blades is a good nine or ten inches taller than you.
And that’s right where I was.