Howdy,
#NaNoWriMo (550) — Day 17
(Unedited, or only slightly)
Continued …
Jake Jones, catching a case of short man’s disease possibly, had said it, called CJ out. Now, guard me.
From his triple threat, Jake held no intention of passing, or shooting from that spot on the floor, out on the wing.
He had a big man, CJ, out of position. Trying to guard a smaller player too far from the basket.
Sixth grade Jake wasn’t going to be beating anyone to the rim for a slam of course, though it was on his mind how awesome that would be. Slamming on CJ’s head down below, as Jake held the rim for a beat and a swing over the top of his — past tense — “defender.”
Nonetheless Jake knew he’d be taking CJ off the dribble.
Even if he didn’t get all the way to the rim for a layup, Jake aimed to get a good shot. Close. And open. With CJ off-balance, chasing him.
Michelle called for the ball back.
Mike said, “Take him.”
Jake thought, I’m going to; I’m going to take him. And, maybe Mike’s not so bad; he understands.
The confidence thoughts, pure confidence, new to him, surprised Jake. He liked the sound in his thinking and the way it made him feel, ready to go. Jake looked down on cockiness when he saw it, but this was new to him — confidence boosting what he decided to do. He’d worry about balancing confidence, tiptoeing cockiness, later.
That moment, the one he was in, with all his perception and purpose, Jake Jones sensed was for crushing CJ on the court.
With his dribble protected, Jake backed up, further yet from the basket. CJ followed, approaching all the way to the three-point line. Deep for sixth graders. Jake baited him further, toying to see if he could get CJ to encroach across the designated arc.
Jake surged in confidence: dribbling, he could dribble, a thing he was best at in all the world. His world. He’d take CJ with it.
CJ, the power forward-type player defending him, kept coming, after Jake. His pride pushing him too far from his territory around the basket.
Jake transformed his blocky, strategic dribbling to a rhythmic dance: a balance in a bounce of the ball and a bounce of himself, first back again, then across, ball right hand to left hand, his body juking hard with its direction, CJ swaying, Jake leaning into the left side dribble, committing to drive to the hoop, no, behind-the-back dribble to the right, before CJ had even caught up, stop, CJ recovering, head fake, crossover switch back to the left hand, two dribbles, lane for left hand layup, Jake preparing to shield shot with his body, in the air, CJ knocks Jake flying into padded wall under the basket area, hard foul.
Not a hack, a hard foul. Flagrant.
Laying cornered into the wood floor and stiffly-padded wall, Jake heard, “We’re even.”
“Bush,” Jake replied lying on the floor. Spinning up to sitting, he leaned against the matting and pulled his feet in, knees to chest, breathing, regathering.
“What?”
“That was bush league, man. Bush league.”
“A hack.” CJ smiled. “You hacked me. I hacked you.” Mike reached a hand down to pull up Jake. “Like I said, we’re even.”
Jake pulled against Mike and stood. “That wasn’t a hack.”
“No?”
“No. I was in the air and you plowed me with a body block, or a tackle.”
“I didn’t tackle you.”
“You sent me into the wall!”
“Yeah, sorry about the hack.”
To be continued …
—Billy
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