Page 150 of Coach
“They’refreefor a reason!” I bellowed, the words flying from my mouth before I even realized I was saying them.
Shane was up in the bleachers, just where he always sat, wearing the purple-and-gold jersey the boys had begged him to put on. It was too tight on him, the piping straining to contain his chest and arms, but he wore it like a badge of honor, like he belonged to the team, too.
I glimpsed him once when I turned after a timeout. He was stone-faced, focused, burly arms crossed; but I knew him well enough now to know what that look meant.
He was feeling it, too.
This was the first round of Regionals, and if we lost, we were done. There were no do-overs, no best of three.
One game.
Winner advances.
Loser goes home.
And right then, with 1:17 left on the clock, we were tied 52–52.
We’d beaten this same team in the regular season by 20–7. There was no reason for us to be sweating, to be panicking, to be at risk of elimination before the tourney had begun in earnest.
My clipboard was a mess of Xs and arrows and sweat stains. I drew one final play, fast and clean, while my guys huddled close and tried to catch their breath. Ryan nodded his agreement on the play.
“You’ve got this,” I said, scanning their eyes, one by one. “We practiced this a hundred times. Stick to the script, trust your teammates, and take the shot if it’s there. And for the love of Jim Naismith, do not foul!”
They nodded.
I slapped a few shoulders, clapped once, then said, “Bring it in.”
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.
