Choker

I’m about to shoot the most important free throws of my life, and I’m shaking like a man on death row. “Relax! You can do it, Mark!” calls out Coach Antonelli from the sidelines. At least, that’s what I think he says. Almost everything is drowned out by the screaming fans. We’re at the University of Connecticut’s Gampel Pavilion—a gigantic arena, seating almost ten thousand—and the roof is about to blow off the place. How did I, Mark Chamberlain, a Clifton High reserve, get in position to decide the Connecticut Class S state championship game? It’s too surreal. We were ahead 51-50 with ten seconds left, and I have to admit, I didn’t want any part of the ball. If we were playing baseball, I’d have been hiding in deep right field, out of sight. As it was, I tried to hang out under the radar in the corner of the court, behind the big guys on our team. Roosevelt High had to either get a steal or foul someone in order to catch up. Let the seniors handle the ball. I’m just a junior—and only sixteen, young for my grade! But even right fielders have to make a play sometimes. Somebody knocked the ball loose from Cedric Jones, our point guard, and it rolled to me. I had to pick it up. They fouled me with five seconds showing. What was I supposed to do, politely decline the foul? For a few seconds after the ref called the foul, I didn’t move—a deer caught in headlights. Finally, a teammate nudged me toward the free-throw line. “Two shots, man.” Chris Cummings, our superstar senior, laid his hand on my sweaty back. “They’re over the limit. No pressure.” At least one of us is relaxed, I thought. Now I’m lining up for the free throws, and this jerk from Roosevelt brushes up against me. “Don’t choke, white boy,” he whispers as he walks by. Whooa. White boy? I may not be as black as him, but I’m hardly white. I’m half black, the child of an interracial marriage. He shoots me a little grin like, I know you’re going to blow it. Am I? It’s funny—I’ve always dreamed of hitting the winning shot in a championship game, but now that I’m in position to decide the state title, it’s terrifying. I guess that saying is true: Be careful what you wish for. I wait for the ref to hand me the ball. My eyes are drawn skyward to the NCAA banners waving from the rafters—championship banners. This is it, a moment that determines champions. Please, God, let me sink these shots! Suddenly, I feel the basketball being shoved into my gut. The ref raises two fingers. In some ways I feel like one of those dudes in the movie Gladiator who piss in their pants when they’re about to enter the Roman Colosseum to do battle—the same feeling I get when math tests are handed back. But this is more important than school. This is basketball. The whole team’s counting on me. I quickly heave up the first shot, treating the ball like it’s plutonium and my Hazmat suit is at the cleaners. I just want to get rid of the ball. My shoulders jerk on the release and my arms feel like they’re bound together by athletic tape. The shot misses everything. “Air baaall! Air baaall!” chant the Roosevelt fans. Laughter erupts from the stands. I feel my face flush red. “Not even close, baby!” says the Roosevelt jerk. “You got another one like that?” It feels like every player to my left and to my right is staring at me: some snickering, some ticked off. I need to find Coach Antonelli. I spot him squatting in front of the bench, and as our eyes meet he just gives me a clenched fist that says Stay strong. But some of my teammates are praying. They look as worried as I am. Even the cheerleaders look desperate. Sheila, the hot one with the long blonde hair, is down on her knees staring hopefully at me. Cummings reaches out. “Take your time,” he says. But there’s concern in his voice this time. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the bench guys locking elbows to form a chain. Maybe they think a show of solidarity will transmit positive vibes. Hey, I’ll take whatever karma I can get. “Box out! Rebound a missed shot!” the Roosevelt coach calls out to his players. My heart feels like it’s beating out of control. The ref gently hands me the ball for my second free-throw attempt. “Don’t step over the line,” he says. I detect a trace of sympathy in his voice. To me, the line I’m about to cross is far more significant than the so-called “charity stripe.” A championship is at stake, and so is my reputation. It’s impossible to concentrate. The Roosevelt fans are screaming their lungs out and stomping their feet. My body’s shaking. I feebly try to position the ball in front of my face. Here goes. Raising the basketball over my head, I say a quick Hail Mary and let it fly again.