Greetings, writers—
I want to tell you a story that, plot-wise, isn’t much of one; nevertheless I’ve teared up every time I’ve recounted it. It happened on Senior Night at a high school basketball game.
I don’t have a senior in high school; I don’t even have a kid who plays basketball. But Tuesday night found us at the Cleveland gym anyway, watching girls we’ve known since they were kindergartners playing on the JV team. And the game, which we won easily, was so fun that we decided to stay for varsity.
It was the last home game of the regular season. Before it began, the 12th graders and their families got called onto the court, where they were handed bouquets of flowers while a very dedicated and longtime school employee (“no one actually knows what her job is,” my 10th-grader whispered) praised their sportsmanship and revealed their college plans. One of the seniors had torn her ACL and had not played her final season; she stood between her parents, holding her roses, wiping her eyes.
Then the game began, and it was rough. The scores were low, but the other team had twice the points. For two hard-fought quarters, our team was totally losing. We sat drinking our seltzers next to the pep band, feeling super bummed. I wasn’t sure why I cared so much—I’d never seen these players before, and I’d never see them again; I barely even understand the rules of basketball—but, you know, “root, root, root for the home team,” plus mirror neurons, plus Senior Night, etc. Whatever: I was in.
And then we (how funny to gravitate to that pronoun—I wasn’t doing anything) started to narrow the point gap. And then we were a couple of points ahead. And then we started to win.
The girls were fast, aggressive, and seemingly oblivious to pain or fatigue. By the fourth quarter, we were up by so much that we thought we might see some of the JV girls we know get to play.
But instead we saw the injured senior suiting up. There were whispers all around us. Is she going in? Are they going to let her play? Yes. Yes, they were. The buzzer sounded, and she walked onto the floor.
The crowded cheered like crazy for this girl. Meanwhile I was trembling with nerves. What if she hurt herself? What if she fucked up? This was her last home game ever. What happened in the next few moments felt insanely important—to her, to her team, even to me, a middle-aged lady who basically wandered in off the street.
Play began. Our team had the ball. There was some dribbling, maybe a pass or two. The injured player, let’s call her X, was close to the sideline. (If I say she was between the corner and the wing, does that mean anything? I looked up “parts of a basketball court” on google, lol). Anyway, X was outside the three-point line. And pretty soon someone passed her the ball. Did she dribble the ball once or twice? Did she move from her position at all? I don’t know. All I can remember is that she got possession, she took the shot, and the ball made a beautiful arc into the air. And then—oh, I want to draw this moment out forever—it dropped down into the basket, passing through the net like there was never, in any imaginable universe, a possibility that it could have gone anywhere else.
I was on my feet and screaming. So was everyone in the whole gym. The eight-year-olds in front of us jumped up and down and smashed their little chests together. I had two thoughts simultaneously: I get why people become sports fans, and I understand how people might witness a miracle and start to believe in God.
By now X was already back on the bench. She was wiping her eyes. She’d been on the court for six seconds at most, and she’d just done the most perfect, beautiful thing anyone could have hoped for. Three points. Nothing but net.
What I felt was joy. Not for myself, but joy on her behalf—pure and uncomplicated and awed. She’ll never forget that night, that feeling. And now that I’ve written it down, neither will I.
Today, give your character one perfect moment. Maybe even a giant hit of joy. (I know, it’s harder than giving them problems. And the word joy sounds so corny. But just try.)
Happy writing—
Emily
What a powerful story, Emily! Thank you for sharing. I love hearing about a high school athlete's triumph over adversity and the whole crowd on their feet for her, especially since my boys are both now away at college and my days of cheering them on at cross country meets are behind me!