Narrative+Writing

My name is Jeff Perry. I am an honors student, I have many friends, and people tell me I am a really nice guy. The most important thing in my life- basketball. I play it all the time, and I play for my school. I am the only black player on my team, which made me need to prove myself in the beginning of the season, and I did. I led them to the championship with a record, five triple doubles in the season. I am one of those people who play for the love of the game. I play to get the best feeling in the world, scoring. Our coach, Coach Gibson, tells me that I need to be serious. After all, we are three points away from winning.

The Chicago High School is playing in the basketball finals for the first time in twenty years. With 5.3 seconds left, we trail by two points. We need a three-pointer, and I, our shooting guard, have the best percentage shooting threes in school history. Making eighty-two percent of my shots for three points, my team made a plan during our time-out to give me the last shot. Time-out ended. The teams set up their positions. As planned, I ran past a screen from our small forward, and caught the inbounds pass at the three-point line.

As I jump to take my shot, I felt like a young Michael Jordan. Michael Jordan is my favorite player of all time. Here I am, Michael Jordan's position, shooting what could be the game winner like **Jordan made the game winner as a rookie in college against Georgetown.** As I reach the peak of my jump, the crowd is silent. A quick glance at the clock tells me there is one second left in the game. One second to shoot. The crowd stands up as I release the ball. Getting ready for my signature fist pump when I sink a three, I watch the ball curve slightly to the right. The ball ricochets off of the right side of the rim, and misses. The other team's players shout as they have just won. I walk back to the bench alone and replay the shot in my mind. It was all but perfect.

After school, my friends, Donald and Omar console me by my locker. They say that I am still the best three shooter that high school had ever had, and they may be right. That doesn't matter to me. If I want to be like Michael Jordan, I need to be clutch. To make shots when they matter most. A three-pointer when it is early in the game is just not as good as making game winning shot, even if it is a free throw. I acknowledge that they are speaking, but do not respond.

I do not speak during the bus ride home. I arrive home, and the first thing I do is turn on the Bulls game, a rare afternoon game is a golden opportunity to watch Jordan. I keep my textbook open so I can study during the commercials. I also study Michael Jordan. What he does with the ball, and what he does when he needs to get open. At the end of the game, I am done studying, so I watch more intently on Jordan. The Bulls are the victor in a game against the Celtics. **Michael Jordan Scored 63 points.** I am nowhere as good as him. I am useless on defense. The only shot I make is the three-pointer.

I walk outside to the hoop beside our house. I grab the basketball and position myself at the same shot I missed earlier. Imagining still being at the court, I take the shot. Swish. I grab the rebound and get to the same position again. Swish. Why could the shot I took earlier not have been like this one. I kept taking that shot, but got bored once I made all ten out of ten shots. Time to get down to business. I pretend to shoot a three after getting the inbounds pass. Then I drive to the hoop only to miss a layup. I grab the rebound and take a mid-range jump shot. That misses as well. Nothing different about today's practice. All threes, nothing else.

My dad comes home at around six. He sees me shooting. I make a three. He grabs the rebound and makes a shot in the post. We play horse, but I always lose. When he goes inside to make dinner, I decide that I need to be able to shoot everywhere. I practice post shots continually for about fifteen minutes. I only make ten. It is time for dinner, so I must wait until tomorrow for more practice.

…

I see Omar as I get off the bus to school. “Are you better now?” he asks. “I'm fine.” I reply. “Donald's in the gym shooting baskets,” he says. “Wanna meet him?” “Yeah!” I say, suddenly feeling better. Omar and I walk to the gym where Donald is practicing jump shots. As Omar joins him, I realize they are shooting differently than me. I run over and grab a basketball. I try to shoot like them, releasing the ball higher, but it is an airball. Donald walks over to me after he swishes another jump shot and explains that I am doing it incorrectly. To make the shot like they are, I need to lean forward slightly.

It feels wrong, but it goes in. It doesn't work well, but it gives me a better percentage than my other shot. The percentage, as I calculated in math class was 40%. In math class, my teacher hands me the best part of my day: my perfect test score. My day after that was bland as the gym was not open for after school shooting, and I didn't feel like shooting at home. The Bulls lost, and my afternoon was full of studying. As I go to sleep at the end of the day, I remember that I will be in the all-star game on Friday, which is tomorrow.

…

I wake up early enough to shoot baskets outside before the bus comes. I meet my dad outside because my shooting woke him up. We have about fifteen minutes for shooting until the bus arrives. I challenge him to a one-on-one game. He lets me possess the ball first. I start off dribbling to the right, then the left, then the right again. There is no getting past him. He does back up a step eventually, knowing that I rarely make jumpers. He doesn't know about my new jump shot. Noticing that he eased up, I immediately went into my shot, which surprised my dad, so he didn't contest it.

My shot goes in. My dad gets the next possession. He tries the same shot I did, but it caroms off of the rim. I grab the rebound and dribble back to the three point line to make the shot. My dad says he is really impressed, but then he seems to knock down every shot after that. Keeping score, I figure that I am winning by just one shot when the bus comes. Time for one more possession- my dad's. He tries a bunch of fancy dribbling moves, but I don't bite. He steps back for a jumper.

Having never beaten my father before, I was determined to do it now. As he jumped, I jumped too. He releases. Surprisingly, I felt my fingers hit the ball on the bottom. The ball lands way short of the basket. Without saying a word, both of us share a smile before I head to the bus.

The day felt like forever. During our last class of the day, I can hardly concentrate. The all-star game is after school in the gym. I can see the other players from other high schools arriving outside through the window. I start to daydream about it. I imagine making all of my shots and being the all-star, which is unusual for me as I am never really playing for fame. However, feeling like I cost our school the championship, I need to do something good. Or do I? **Michael Jordan was cut from his high school team, but that only fanned the flames of his desire to play.** Maybe I play the way I usually do- for fun, and not care. After all, it's not like I'm in the NBA.

I am startled by the bell signaling that school is over. I play in the all-star game normally, without putting pressure on myself. I have another triple-double. More importantly, I did what Michael Jordan would do. I am feeling happier than I have in a while. Donald and Omar congradulate me; they were just watching the game. They come home with me. When my dad gets home, we play a game of two-on-two. After the crazy week I had, my friends and I played until it was too dark to play anymore, and then they both slept over.

…

Contemplating recent events while trying to sleep, I decided that my missing the last shot was not so bad. It made me focus on improving my shooting, and I did. I think that My mistake caused me to have a better future.