An Escape

There are two baselines connected to two side lines that form an 84 by 50 ft rectangle. The rectangle is covered in precisely drawn out lines on either half of the court. The second I enter this cramped space and step onto the freshly polished hardwood floor, only one thing comes to mind— by the end of the 32 minutes, the bright red numbers underneath home are more than away. Once I look up to see those first eight minutes illuminated on the clock, nothing else matters. The world comes to a pause. The only focus is the orange sphere passed from teammate to teammate. The only objective is to drop it through the ten foot rim. Whether I’m standing in the paint or at the top of the key, being on the court is the only time I don’t feel like the size 6 ball. Being thrown up court or out of bounds, the prize for the defense, or the perfect element needed for the play. The only noise I hear is the symphony of squeaking sneakers, cheers blaring from the bleachers, and the shouts from the strategic sideline. Standing on the foul line alone never scares me. Instead it is a peaceful reward. A chance to treat yourself after fighting for rebounds, loose balls, and those second chance opportunities.