Howdy,
#NaNoWriMo (550) — Day 13
(Unedited, or only slightly)
Continued …
Down low in the paint hardly represented Jake’s strong point on the court — size and the brutish strength that could come with it not being one of his noticeable athletic attributes; potentially, Jake didn’t possess any noticeable athletic attributes: not physically, for sure — but he could still help. If he timed it right. His sneak attack.
Jake entertained no illusions that he’d lead any real team in blocked shots, but he knew from experience even a small guy like himself could slap an ill-advised, loose dribble away from a big man on block making a move to score. Maybe disrupt enough to cause a turnover or even get a steal himself. If he were scrappy.
Jake was scrappy.
When it came to sports, to basketball, no doubt about it, Jake was scrappy, willing to put his nose in, hovering tight on the action.
Which opened up another option down low against the Monsters in the Middle.
The Hack Attack.
From where he stood, Jake wasn’t against hacking. He’d hack if he had to, as last result, sure, because he hated giving up the foul. For himself or his team. Or the possibility the offended defended big guy particularly didn’t like it and had thoughts of coming after him, an easy target for blowing off frustration.
The steal, an opportunistic play, didn’t often present itself on cue or come off cleanly as always hoped. By all reaching defenders all the time; defenders always reaching, ever-reaching defenders. Ready to snatch a bouncing orange hope, if any window or slight-crack of enticement. Or snatch at, more likely.
The hack, though, was easy. Not requiring any hope, usually not even holding out for any. Just holding. Hacking and holding, to keep the ball down, below ten feet and the basket. Not allowing for any miraculous And-1 plays.
Reaching, raking, and wrapping.
The hack could be accomplished, yes, most anytime. Stealthily drop into a double coverage and, if no unforeseen sliver smiles its opportunity, rake reaching arms down on the ball … and arms of a big to knock the ball away before the shot gets started.
There weren’t any extra defenders to float around in their game of three-on-three, but Jake left his man, Marcus, to double team CJ. If it didn’t end up a clean play, it’d be a foul. Jake could do that.
He’d make ‘em earn it. Two shots at the foul line. No freebies.
Basketball offered enough to the big, tall players; Jake figured he didn’t have to give the bruisers, or even the tall, skinny guys, anything without making them earn it. If he could help it. If he had the fouls to give, Jake enjoyed blitzing the painted from time to time to help his big man with his aggressive best to avoid his team giving up an easy two points. Opposing ogres could earn it at the line. One fifteen-foot shot at a time, Jake figured.
And CJ had missed his free throw when making teams.
So that’s what Jake did; quickly and with purpose, he crashed on CJ, sandwiching him with Mike. Without worrying too much about jumping — not putting much stock in success up top — Jake swiped at the ball first, but CJ held it tight and swung it high, starting to shoot.
Jake hacked.
He brought his right hand down hard on CJ’s forearm and held the crook of CJ’s elbow and upper arm with both hands.
He probably he’d on too long.
To be continued …
—Billy
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