The whistle echoed in the large gymnasium. The squeaking of the players' shoes are muffled by the loud, roaring cheers of the crowd. My heart is pounding fast and the anticipation is nerve-wracking. The smell of old pine can hardly distract my excitement. The clock is ticking. I sweep my hand across my sweaty forehead and look to the scoreboard. We're down 25-23 with only two minutes left. The referee hands me the ball and I pass it to our point guard. I sprint down the court to take my place as left wing and look to my teammates. My skin prickles and my fingertips itch to grab the ball and drive towards the basket. I look to our point guard and she's made it to the half court line. Her dribbling is fast, yet controlled. A defender steps up to guard her, just as she tries to v-cut the guard. As she spins, the guard is still on her and she hasn't made it anywhere. She holds up her right fist and I come flying to her side, screening the guard.
"Screen!" Another defender called as my squeaking shoes came to a halt. Our point guard made it to my position, now guarding the ball. I sprint to the free throw line where she shoots me a hard chest pass.I turn to take my shot, but a post guard is already in my face. I look to my right. Open. I pass the ball to the right post player, who stands in the short corner. She catches the ball that deflects off the waxed floor and takes a clear shot. The ball makes a perfect arch in the air as I watch her land, her arms still in a follow-through motion. Time seemed to slow as I watched the ball bounce off the rim. Before I could even move, the point guard sprints past me and leaps for the rebound. Four girls are in the air, but our taller point guard manages to take hold of it and toss it back into the basket. Two points.