This game was stunning. It had the fierce yet sportswomanlike competition reminiscent of roller derby. It had the practiced power and grace of beach volleyball. And the polished precision of speed billiards.
We may have lost 34-2, but the score doesn't tell the entire story. I'm going to do that.
Warm-Ups
At this point I knew we were going to need a miracle. The opponent's running layups looked effortless. Meanwhile, on our end, I had to remind three girls to dribble with only one hand. At least five of my seven players looked more horrified than I imagine Paul Walker did as his Porsche careened into smithereens. (Too soon? I don't want to come off as tactless, but you're lying if you haven't chuckled to yourself about that tragicomic irony.)
Tip-off
"S, you're jumping."
"Huh?"
"You're jumping. Step into the circle with that obscenely tall middle school (?) athlete."
*Shakes head vigorously
"S, let's go."
*Continues shaking head as she walks in slow motion next to Candace goddamn Parker's younger sister. Looks back at me with wide, petrified eyes.
We don't win the jump.
1st Quarter
Our one play–a high pick followed by a backdoor cut by a wing–was called for nearly every time down by my point guard. My point guard has incredible agility and core strength as a result of gymnastics, but the fact that she didn't pick up a basketball until very recently perhaps contributed to her nine first-quarter turnovers–all of them coming from steals.
"D! Don't dribble right in front of them!"
"What does 'dribble' stand for?!"
Now you may be wondering why I chose the girl who had never played basketball before to bring the ball up the court. My answer? Because none of them has played basketball before, you asshole.
2nd Quarter
This was when the tears started flowing. I didn't even see them coming. It was like weather in Oregon–a sunny day suddenly dissolving into glum showers.
My captain caught the bug first.
"Mister," Captain said. "Mister they're smacking us in the face on purpose, and the refs are just laughing at us."
"Okay, I don't know if–"
Boom! Tears. One minute she was speaking like a human being, the next she was breaking down like my car. I didn't really know how to react.
And then later in the quarter, my youngest player got called for a foul she definitely committed. She started balling (but the wrong kind of balling) so I had to replace her. Those expulsions of emotions happened so fast that I was partially stunned into stupefaction.
(After the game, I told my sister about this and she said, "Well maybe you shouldn't have been the girls coach. You clearly don't understand girls and what they're going through." I have never been more angry at her, or more in agreement.)
Halftime
"Mister, mister, I have to use the bathroom," said all eight of my players.
"Okay you have two minutes. Go."
Five minutes later
"Hello, Ms. Referee? Can you do me a huge favor and go into the girls locker room to tell my team that there are only 25 seconds left of halftime? They have a shaky grasp of time. Thanks so much."
Third Quarter
More tears. Less scoring on the opponent's end. Still no scoring on our end.
Fourth Quarter
"Okay ladies, our new goal is to outscore them this quarter. We will score more points than they will in the next however many damn minutes they give us in middle school basketball."
Now I'm not going to say that my little pre-quarter goal-setting did anything to fuel my players (perhaps the other coach told hers to ease up), but for whatever reason we came out with a fire in our eyes.
On defense, we flew around at perhaps the speed of a really fast toddler. We moved our feet in a concerted slow motion, but we did move them, instead of resorting to clotheslining the relentlessly and impressively driving opponent.
And then it happened.
During one of the many (hilarious) scrums for a loose ball, C. emerged from the pile with possession. She took one dribble inside the three-point line and pulled up, or better yet hoisted, or better yet chucked. The ball traveled slowly through the air, hanging at its apex with the poised possibility of a third date at Olive Garden.
My heart stopped. This was our fourth attempted shot, and we'd had two of those hit the rim. There were only three minutes left of regulation–if we were going to score, that ball suspended high above the court had to tickle the twine.
The ball didn't do any tickling, but it banged off the backboard and stretched the net in the most pleasing bank-shot I've ever witnessed.
The crowd exploded. I'm not exaggerating when I say that every fan, regardless of who they were rooting for, was screaming and hurraying and stomping their feet for my girls' first bucket of the season.
It was utter ecstasy.
I think I may have fist-pumped, which I'm ashamed of but the moment overwhelmed me.
And even though we got pounded, we matched them in that fourth quarter, two points to two points.