The floor was covered in sweat. Both the Hornets and the Rockets had gone up and down the court so many times it was too hard to count. They were too tired to count anyway so it didn’t really mattered. They seemed to be absolute equals. Each time the Rockets shot, the Hornets shot back. Every time the Hornets made an amazing block, the Rockets blocked back.

The star player on the Hornets, Drake Smith, was having a great game. He had thirty-seven points in the game so far, but he was absolutely exhausted. Sweat covered every inch of his face two times over. Never in his life had he been this tired. Every step he took was its own struggle. Each one harder than the one before. Every muscle in his arms ached. He was lifting the world. It was a much smaller world but it was his. Covered with bright orange savannas and divided by long black rivers. It was a very different world but that did not matter. This world was his home.

There was only six seconds left in the game, and his team was down by one. His team had the ball under his hoop. There center whipped the ball to half court, just were he stood. He reached out and snatched the ball from the air. He spun around quick and was off. Nothing else mattered now. He was dead. Dead to everything except basketball. His ears only heard the rhythmic thumping of the ball as he flew down the court. His mouth only tasted the sweat running quickly in. His nose only smelled the glory of what was about to happen. He put all his strength into this one last jump. On this jump, the whole game rested. His eyes were locked on the rim, and he knew that if his eyes ever lost sight of his goal, he would miss.