By, Emma D
October 22, 2003
LA 2
There are 42
seconds left on the clock. I bite my
lip as my leg stiffens from the nervous pressure that first starts in the tip
of my fingers and spreads throughout my whole body. The endless crowd starts to
cheer. The soft voice of Ashley cries,
“Come on, go for it!”
Joe shouts, “Emma, don’t sweat!”
32 seconds remain
on the clock. I sweat and start to
choke, the voices of the start pulling me back and forth, non-stop.
26 seconds remain
on the clock. I hear two voices from
the rows of bleachers. I look around,
searching for the masked voices. The
mystery soon ends as I find that Bandit and Coach, the true spirits of this
team are screaming, “You can do it,
Emma!” like a broken record.
I am ready
now.
8 seconds remain on the clock, which is dieing to run out. I stand straight, lock my legs together, close my eyes, and let the ball escape from my hands. I open my eyes, which are blinded by the light, after my two seconds of darkness. I wipe my eyes clear, and see that the ball is tearing through the hoop. I walk over the jungle-crowd as the screeching buzzer goes off, and take a bow as the cats crowd on my bed, flicking wishers and purring at me while the morning sets on my face.
***