Overtime Thriller

Finally, it was the fourth quarter and I was allowed to go back in the game. We were playing the Fairfield Falcons, and the game had been a dogfight the whole way.

  
It was the fourth game of my junior basketball season, and I was splitting time between the varsity and JV. Consequently, I was only allotted two quarters a night on the JV. On this particular night, I was playing the second and fourth quarters.

My specialty on that team was defense and rebounding. Our coach had saved me, along with Dave Zeltwanger, our other defensive stopper, for the end of the game and we were ready to go.

Two minutes into the fourth quarter, Dave picked up his fourth foul. This was hardly a surprise as the referees had been terrible all game. I had been playing with three fouls since the first quarter. As Dave was sent to the bench, I moved over to guard their star player. I did my best, but he was good and the game was tied when I was whistled for my fourth foul with just over two and a half minutes left.

Knowing it was now or never, our coach sent Dave back into the game. Together, we shut down Fairfield and we were up two with thirty seconds to go.

And then the refs bailed them out. Two straight bad calls put the Falcons on the free throw line, and just like that they were ahead by two points.

We pushed the ball up the court, and our point guard found Dave open under the basket for the tying layup!

The clock ticked down as they brought the ball up for what would be the last shot. As the point guard turned his back, I went for the steal. He never saw me coming as I cleanly picked his pocket and took off for the basket. I laid the ball in, and then I heard the whistle.  

Carrying. The officials had given the Falcons yet other chance. With only two seconds left on the 
clock, their half-court shot fell short and we were headed into overtime.

The incredibly unfair officiating had given us a fire and we came out ready to go. I hit Dave with a long pass on a fast break to start the extra period, and we were in business. Continuing to find the open players, we built a six point lead.

As often happens in basketball, the Falcons picked this exact moment to heat up. It seemed as if every shot they threw up went in, and just like that it was again tied with fifteen second left.

Our point guard slowly brought the ball up the floor, setting up our carefully designed play. Our goal was to get the ball to our best shooter, and let him take the last shot. Fairfield knew this would happen, however, and he was covered.

Seeing everyone was covered, I flashed to the middle of the lane. With no one else open, our point guard fired me the ball. I took one dribble, pump faked, pivoted, and put up my shot.

I am not a scorer. I started every game my senior year, and only managed to average four points per game. I was under strict instructions not to shoot from beyond 15 feet, and for good reason. But on this night, the ball was in my hands.

I had misjudged exactly where I was on the court. Thinking I was closer to the middle of the lane, my shot was off. Instead, I was extremely close to the basket, and my shot hit the bottom of the rim.

How could I have missed such a bunny?! I was filled with thoughts of embarrassment and anger over missing the game winning shot, especially at such close range.

And then, as if guided by an unseen hand, the ball spun up over the top of the rim and in! Fairfield rushed to inbound the ball, but it was too late. The buzzer sounded as my teammates stormed onto the floor. We had won!

Not only was it great to win a game against all odds, my play that night got me noticed. I kept working hard, and when one of our varsity starters got hurt later in the year, it was me that got the nod to start.