Page 305 of Coach
The guys surged forward, palms outstretched and slapping in center. “Mustangs on three.”
Gabe barked, “One, two, three . . .”
And the team roared, “Mustangs!”
The ball was inbounded.
Time slipped away.
Tick, tick, tick.
We passed twice, swung to the corner.
The screen came late.
Our shooter slipped, then recovered.
He let the ball fly.
Off the rim.
Rebound.
Loose ball.
Scramble.
The ref’s whistle was a spear to my heart, as he yelled, “Jump ball!”
It was our arrow. We recovered—barely.
Another chance.
Ten seconds to go. Still tied.
Gabe drove to the basket.
His shot was blocked. It flew out of bounds.
Five seconds left.
Our ball.
I called our final time-out.
The crowd’s cheers were deafening.
Adrenaline roared in my ears as I crouched before my huddled boys.
“One shot. That’s all we need. Michaels, you take the screen. Gabe cut left, dish if you have to—but make it clean.”
The whistle blew.
The ball wasinbounded.
One pass.
Another pass.
