A Basketballer's Dream

A Basketballer’s Dream

Pulling up at the top of the keyway, a minute to go in the last quarter, time seems to warp and slow down. Suddenly I am aware of every minute detail with crystal clarity – the harsh ragged breathing of my opponent an echo of my own, the voices of the crowd a distant roar.

I feel a bead of sweat lose the ongoing fight with gravity and slide down the curve of my nose to my lips. The taste is salty and bitter, a perfect match to the scent that surrounds the court. Running my tongue around the inside of my mouth, the flavour is soon replaced by the now familiar tang of blood, a souvenir from an earlier defensive play.

My singlet clings to my body, the stylised blue number 7 surrounded by a vibrant gold that is now a shade darker than pre-tipoff, courtesy of perspiration. The ball springs up to meet my hand, synthetic rubber rolling across my palm, the slightest of pressure from my fingertips directing it without any conscious effort on my part.

Crosser, I decide. Simple but effective. Leaning to the right, I watch with satisfaction as my opponent mirrors my move, shifting her weight as she does. I seize the opportunity, pushing the ball down decisively, both hearing and feeling that most familiar of thuds as basketball meets wood. I bend low, my weary muscles screaming in protest as I start to angle left, every tendon and fibre crying for rest.

Then suddenly, time snaps back to normal, like a child breaking the surface of a pool and finding they can move freely again. I accelerate hard, the pain in my legs blocked out by pure adrenaline and determination. Blowing past my defender before she can adjust, I drive hard for the basket. Picking up my dribble and securing the ball in my hands, I take on step, then another, exploding upwards for the hoop. Releasing the ball at the peak of my jump, I flick my wrist without thinking, the instinctive movement a product of hours of training. I watch as the orb sails towards the backboard. It hits softly, just enough to correct the direction of flight back down towards the ring. A sharp “swish” noise follows almost instantly, bringing a tired smile to my face.

It’s the sound basketballer’s dreams are made of.