Page 41 of Kicking It with the Point Guard

“It’s the shot clock buzzer,” Oscar supplies. “Once your team gets possession of the ball, you only have thirty seconds to score. If you can’t score or at least get a shot off that touches the rim in that thirty seconds, then your team loses the ball.”

So… this will definitely not be as boring as football. At least there’s constant movement.

The teams exchange several back and forths, a mixture of cheers and boos coming from the student section.

One of the teams calls a timeout, and the players gather around the coaches.

While this is going on, the cheerleaders move in front of the student section and lead us in a cheer.

I can’t keep myself from watching Allyson. Her toned muscles stand out in her skimpy uniform, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t jealous of how athletic she really is.

She’s gorgeous when she isn’t sneering at me, and she looks genuinely happy to be cheering. A buzzer bleeps. The cheerleaders skip off the court, waving their pompoms, and the team takes the court once more.

Our team throws the ball to Cameron, and he throws his hand up once more.

Oscar informs me that he’s calling the plays. It’s his main job as point guard. He ultimately controls the pace of the game.

“If you’re a good point guard, which Cam certainly is, then the coach basically lets you run things. He knows every nuance of the game and is planning two to three plays ahead.” Oscar’s voice is filled with pride at his friend.

A cheer bursts from the crowd, and I turn to see Cam flip the ball out of the hands of the guy he’s playing defense against. He takes off, dribbling at full speed before making a flawless pass behind his back to one of his teammates who has caught up to him. His teammate dribbles into the lane. He gets blocked by a defender on the other team, so he passes the ball back out to Cameron, who is set up in the corner for a three-point shot.

He doesn’t hesitate, jumping up and executing a perfect shot. It swishes through the net, and the student section goes wild.

The other team throws the ball in, and one of our guys picks it off, tossing it to Cam, who instantly throws it to the tall guy running towards the basket. He jumps up once more, another slam dunk under his belt for this game.

If I thought it was loud before, I didn’t know anything. The stands shake as the student section stomps and yells and claps.

The rest of the half flies by, and we pull ahead by twenty points.

Everyone is whooping and hollering and cheering loudly with the cheerleaders.

Okay, I have to admit it. Basketball isn’t too bad.

Violet

Halftime comes faster than I expected. People leave their seats to use the bathroom, get concessions, or just stretch their legs and speak to people they just noticed were there.

Oscar sits beside me, his signature easy grin on his handsome face.

I see why Mia is smitten.

“I’m glad you could make it,” he says, his voice returning to normal volume since most of the student section is taking a break. “I don’t know how much of Cam’s situation you know, but his mom and dad aren’t around, and my mom can only come sometimes. I’m the only fan he has.” Then he laughs. “Well, the only fan that he really wants to be here.” He waves his hand. The other fans here clearly enjoy Cameron's efforts.

“It means a lot to him that you’re here though, even if he would never admit it.” He smiles at me and pats me on the knee, the gesture completely platonic. “I’m starving, want anything from the concession stand? Nachos? A hotdog or three? Chocolate of some sort?” he offers as he stands and stretches his long limbs, reiterating my earlier sentiment that all athletes are large.

“I wouldn’t mind a candy bar and some water… If you’re offering.”

He grins and scoots past me. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

Now that I’ve got a semi-quiet minute to myself, I lose myself in my thoughts.

“Basketball isn’t what it used to be,” my dad grumps from his favorite armchair. “These pansies can’t take a hit, and all they’re worried about is how many points they can score themselves. It’s all run and gun and three-point shooting. The art isn’t there anymore.”

I huff my agreement from my spot on the couch, lost in whatever book I was currently reading. I’ve heard this a million times before. I’m not a fan, but the sport brings a lot of joy to my dad, so I sit in here with him while he yells at the TV and complains about the youth of today. But in the end, he’s always smiling when his team wins.

“These youths need to spend some time watching the old pros play. Magic and Bird and Jordan and Bryant. Those guys made basketball into an art. They all knew what it took to win, they controlled the game. Nothing happened that they didn’t want to happen. Bird was my favorite. He was a genius with the ball.”

Dad got up from his chair and plopped down beside me, phone in hand, a video clip pulled up of Larry Bird.

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