Basketball is more than a sport-- it’s a way of life. It’s my way of expressing myself. Basketball makes me feel valued, and wanted. I grew up playing; it has shaped me into the person I am today. I just feel most comfortable playing basketball, and I never want to stop playing.  I rushed home from school; it was time for basketball tryouts.

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I walked back to the gym; my legs were sore from the running, jumping and dribbling we had done for the past hour. I was still ready to go --  nothing would stand in my way of making the team. The window showed how somber the dark night was. The wind blew the trees and everything that came in its way. The empty dark, the somber night was all one could see for miles.

I continued the laps I needed to finish because I had lost a shooting contest, and I was just getting ready. As I finished my laps, the coach called people up to tell them if they made the team or not. I felt confident; there were a lot of good players trying out, but I needed to make the team. I worked hard when I played, and I was not going to stop. I’ve been doing this my whole life and I love the sport. I finished my last lap, and then a coach called me up.

I ran up to the three coaches that were standing in front of the gym.

“We could tell you have been practicing, it was great having you in the tryouts. I love your effort; you're an amazing player,” the coach said, giving me a pat on the back. I was happy at that moment, thinking I could make the team. But I never said anything because there was a small chance I was not going to make the team because it was never a hundred percent chance. However, as I said, I felt confident.

“Because of the number of girls trying out, we can’t put everyone on the team. I am sorry to say you can’t be a member of the team this year.” I wanted to dash out of the school at that moment. I started to feel tears coming down my face and falling down to the beat-up gym floor. Seconds later, I began to sob my way into the bathroom.

In the bathroom, I saw a girl washing her face after she stopped weeping. I did not understand why she didn’t make the team. She was a great player, but maybe her defense was weak. She always made the wrong moves when it came to guarding people. All her friends made the team; I couldn't imagine what she could be going through. She must have felt miserable, and I felt sorrow for her. She was never going to have the fun games and practices with her friends like she could have hoped for.    

  I also saw a second girl in the bathroom that tried to stop her meltdown to go back into the gym so no one would know what happened. She was an awesome player, but if it came to one-on-one she would never know what to do; the tricks that she learned, everyone learned, so it’s not much help in a one-on-one situation. You could tell her face had distress all over it, and she wanted to hide it.

I washed my face and left the bathroom to see a third girl that started to tear up. She was the girl that always missed the passes I gave her, which made me look bad in front of the coaches. Maybe they thought I could not pass, and cut me off the team?

I didn’t go back to the gym, but instead, I got my coat and water; I was leaving. I put my coat on and I left the school, depressed, angry, sad, and heartbroken.

Outside, I felt like I was standing in a freezer, but I took out my phone and called my mom, still crying. My hands were shaking because of the cold, my feet were aching from the running, and I just wanted to crush, destroy, and terrorize anything I saw at that moment. I was feeling miserable, and I didn't want to go back to finish the tryouts, what's the point. I stopped crying by the time my mom arrived, and I didn’t say a word for about half of the car ride.

Finally, my mom said in a buttoned-up voice, “There is always next year. Don't worry.” But I was still mad, and those words never felt any better. I didn’t say anything back because my mom knew and there was no point in stating the obvious.

When I got home, I went to my room. I wasn’t interested in talking to someone else about it; it was just going to get worse. I said nothing to my family and told no one, but everyone knew some way or another.

In my room, I thought about why I never made the team. Was it because of the girl in the bathroom that missed my passes? My defense was weak at some points; I don’t think they wanted weak players on the team. You need to be strong at all times in the game. And I could practice on my shots; I did lose the shooting contest. But whatever the reason was I was going to work on it all: the passing, the shooting, the dribbling, and the tricks. There was always next year.