MIKE
"Weller! Weller! What the hell was that?!"
Coach Vance’s roar echoed over the noise of the crowd, but it sounded muffled, like I was listening to it from underwater.
I stood on the sidelines of the Vanderbilt arena, resting my hands on my knees, chest heaving, sweat dripping from my jaw onto the polished hardwood court. On the massive overhead Jumbotron, the score flashed in bright red digital numbers. We were down by twelve in the middle of the third quarter against State.
And it was entirely my fault.
"Hey. Man, get your head in the game," Chad muttered, jogging over to the bench and handing me a sports drink. "You're throwing wild passes. You missed three wide-open layups, and you almost got called for a technical foul five minutes ago. What the hell is going on with you
