Narrative Essay On Basketball

“Shooter, shooter, she’s a shooter!!” vigorously shouted the opposing coach who wore an orange hat that clashed with his increasingly reddening face. I grinned and caught the rotating, leathery ball my teammate passed to me. Once it reached my fingers, everything became automatic. Not a single thought crossed my mind after my eyes focused on the red hook at the back of the rim. My right arm launched the ball upward, arching towards the basket. It was a movement I had practiced thousands of times. Over and over, I learned to recognize a perfect release from one that was not. They call it a “shooter’s touch”, and this shot from behind the three point line felt pure. A feeling like that doesn’t come easy and for me, developing that feeling took …show more content…
In fact, the ball didn’t even make it to the rim. After a couple days, I was able to hit the rim but I spent years learning all the things a great shooter does to make baskets. Hand in the cookie jar, hand in the cookie jar, my five-year-old brain persisted when I practiced shooting in Upward basketball. At that age, I focused more on what kind of cookie was in the jar than how my follow through looked. A season of practicing my finish allowed me to move on to the next important aspect of shooting: grip. I would strap on my junior-sized NFL receiver gloves to give me the necessary traction on the ball when I went outside to shoot in the …show more content…
Pats on the back and high-fives made me feel euphoric. I could not wait to get back on the court and continue the show. “Sotak, you’re done for this game. Get dressed for varsity.” Disappointment quickly changed into anticipation. Early in the second quarter of the varsity game, Coach Abernathy walked down the bench looking for a sub. Usually, I avoided eye contact like a chicken trying not to be selected for the slaughterhouse, but this time I looked right at him with my eyes pleading “Pick me! Pick me! I’m ready.” I began to rise from my seat just as he pointed at me to get in. I ran onto the court and heard the Cape Central coach yell “shooter.” Hearing that designation from an opponent reinforced how I felt about myself at that moment. Later that quarter, I caught the ball beyond the arch and rose up with a perfect release. It felt pure. Bam! Atiger defender crashed into me and sent me sprawling to the floor. I never saw the ball go in the basket but I knew it was good when I let it go. I couldn’t see a whole lot so I concentrated on the sounds. A tweet and a cheer reached my ears simultaneously. The whistle indicated a foul, and the cheer from JCrue told me the shot was good. The pure feeling was correct. Three point basket plus the