Free throws.

They’re the bane of my existence. The crowd’s anxiety, their disappointment (or joy, depending on which team you’re rooting for) when you miss, the unsureness of it all. It makes me cower in fear.

That’s why when the Rambo lookalike on the other team popped me, I didn’t call it. It was also the reason I was sweating like a pig.

I felt the rough leather of the ball as I dribbled exactly six times and spun the ball so I could clearly read the word Spaulding. The muscles in my legs flexed as I prepared to shoot.

Then the ball was soaring forward in a slow, steady arch. All was silent.

It bounced on the rim twice. It rolled along the edge slowly, like a lady taking a leisurely stroll in the park. It hovered on the brink of indecision. Wobbling, tilting, rocking this way and that. It was unbearable.

I hated the ball and its inability to make a decision properly, its cursed hesitation.

Then it was in. I sank to my knees in relief. The ref looked at me.

“Hey, kid? You got one more shot.”