6:27 PM. 3 more minutes for the warden to blow the whistle
to announce the end of play for the day. We have been on the court from just
after 4 PM that afternoon. Even after two and half hours of play the score was
only 87:83. We were 83. It was one of those hot and humid afternoons when the
ball missed the basket more often than it usually did. Was it the scorching sun
that burnt our scalps or was it the rain of sweat that slipped the ball off our
hands? Or was it just the length of the game that made us all arch backwards
and sling at the board? The coach would have certainly screamed his lungs out
at every one of us for the entire duration of the game.
3 minutes to go. 5 more to win the game. Three of my team have
already given up. Hands on the hips and hands on the knees are tell-tale signs
of having accepted defeat.
They looked drained as well. But they also had that
undertone of confidence that suggested that they expected to win the game. They
are going to defend. That is what they are going to do. That is if we tried to
score. But they are only half expecting it.
It was a non-descript afternoon. We will play against the
same team again tomorrow afternoon. The coach is not around to judge, scream
and yell. No one will remember this game in a week’s time. Did it really matter that we win this game?
A steady trickle of sweat blinded the eye. The back of the
throat tasted of iron as the lungs gasped for air. The head felt dizzy and
light.
3 minutes to go. 5 more to win the game.
