Basketball will always be a beast to you. So, tame it.

Ten minutes left in the fourth quarter. You’re behind by five points. For every shot your team makes, the home team matches it. You’ve fed the ball to your girls for twenty 2-point shots, hit ten 3-pointers, and you’re running for your seventh goal under the basket. If Number 24 doesn’t keep pushing up on you – get back! You scream that to daze her. It doesn’t work. She’s mauling you, now. Stick your feet. Throw the ball to Shida. Jumper, and a good one. You knew she had it in–

Did 24 just bump you? Hands in front of you, waving, you stomp to the nearest referee. “Where’s the call?” you ask him. “What call?” he asks you, and walks away. The crowd boos you.

You came into the WNBA just last year, making a name for yourself. Your signature is running your fingers near your cheek. Like water massaging your face. Because you’re just that calm under pressure. Just not for the last six weeks. Where is that fire? Somewhere near the soulmate you eloped with just before the draft. You know, the one your team doesn’t know about.

Number 24 streaks a finger down her cheek like a tear, mocking your signature. Now you want to make her cry for real. “Let it go.” “It’s okay.” Your girls say that as they pat you. “It’s not like you.” Can they see what you can’t?

You’re not used to this. The anger, the stray thoughts. Because you’ve been known for being cool since high school tryouts. Even in away games like this. You hit threes like your roommate Shida and batted away balls in flight like it was nothing. With a smile on your face. Like water, remember? Is it because of him? Your own mother doesn’t even know about him. Because you and he were rivals since high school.

You collide with 18 in the paint, who’s rooted there. She’s tripping you up while the ball is on the other side of the court. An illegal move and still no call. You’re seething. But the reason why you’re angry escapes you in each shot, block by humiliating block. “Heat check,” 24 calls from the side. Expecting you to miss the shot. Like she can question your accuracy.

He mocked your game then, and only apologized in secret. You’ve been known to cut people off quickly and forever. For less. But times change. They always do. You played more games together, got closer. Away games meant less time with mom and more with him. More stolen glances. More touches. Every postgame interview became a countdown to see him. And just like that, you’re drifting. Out of the game.

Number 24 hits your arm instead of the ball in your hands, mid-jump. Another foul. You point at her for the referees and lift your other hand in the air. No call. No answer. And she shoves you. As if it’s your fault. You’re fired up now.

You push back. Call her names you’d never dare call Shida. More of the opposing team surrounds you. Even the ones from the bench. Shida pulls you back. Then the referee. Now a flagrant is called – the worst kind of personal foul – on you and you alone.

All it takes is one flagrant to kick a player out of the game. You’re headed to the locker room, repeating that it wasn’t your fault. It was not your fault. Trust. The crowd cheers anyway.

Ten seconds left, and you can’t even see your team through the worst of it. So, you throw a chair. You scream. Then your phone pings. Texts from your mom. She’s watching the game. And one from your love. He’s angry enough for both of you. But that doesn’t move you. No. It’s the text you missed at pre-game practice. That floors you.

And as your team takes their loss together, you cry alone on the floor of a locker room stall. Because you got at text from your gynecologist. Go see an obstetrician, you paraphrase. Because you’re in mourning and grateful for the answer to the why. The death of a promising career. And celebrating the baby inside of you.

You have a choice to make. You can make this new life your life and leave all of this behind. Or you can sideline the baby with your family before they’re ready, so you can get a championship ring. Because basketball is your life … was your life.

So, make the call. Try to break it all down to coach and the girls.

On Game 2 of the Finals.

No pressure.

***

Sydney Herrington is a self-proclaimed basketball nerd who has a background in science and an interest in writing. Her first published work was the poem “The Blues” in 2013.