...also, shattered dreams.
Oh, what could have been...a million little things.
Jason shuffled through the doorway and scanned the room for the only thing that meant enough to the seventeen-year old for him to face the location of his short life's cruelest battle. After a moment, his eyes fixed upon the leather sphere, the weapon, the artillery, the bullet, the dagger that might as well have been still lodged in Jason's heart.
Just get my basketball and get out of here, he thought, a small feeling of solace after a night of humiliation. Exactly four hours earlier, Jason sat excited, his legs bouncing up and down waiting for the introductions of him and his teammates. He'd waited all year to play his cross-town rivals, a team that beat them last year. Now, unlike last time, the game would be played in his gym, at Jason's house.
Time for revenge.
Exactly two hours ago, the buzzer sounded as Jason and a thousand others watched Jason's lucky basketball sail through the air as time expired, only the game of Jason's dreams turned out to be a nightmare. After the shot, Jason put on a brave face, congratulated the other team while consoling his teammates, friends, fellow soldiers. The upbeat mood was part act, part sincere. As far back as he could remember, Jason followed the admonition of his father, "A true champion is neither a sore winner or loser. If you can't be both, don't even bother playing."
Jason and his team left the court, showered, dressed, laughed at lame jokes (the jokes were always better after a win...), and left with everyone else. He walked home, living only three doors down from the school. It wasn't until he started his already-ignored homework that he remembered the basketball.
Better go get it, he thought.
He'd walked the walk hundreds, even thousands of times, to and from school, to and from practice. Tonight as he walked Jason replayed the game over and over in his mind, focusing mostly on the last ten seconds. Had the shot he took with 7.4 seconds left gone in, they win the game. Had he or any of his teammates rebounded the ball, they win the game. Neither happened and the other team's worst shooter got lucky at the other end. It stung. It will sting for a while.
Jason picked up the ball, the leather sheen once covering the no longer new ball already starting to wear. He twisted it in his hands, once, twice, three times. He bounded the ball, once, twice, three times. He looked at the other end of the court where it all came down to a million little things, the slightest pressure as it left his hands, jumping increasingly higher as he jumped...so many things.
He thought about walking to the exact spot where he took the shot and trying one more time to see if this time, the ball would go in.
He then changed his mind.
Nah, he thought. There'll be time to practice that shot again later. He had a paper to write...better get home.
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