LJ Idol Season 10, Week 8: "No Comment"
"Silence is Golden"
"C'mon man! Let's go!" TJ turned to look at Marcus as they walked back to the huddle. "We still got this!"
Of course, Marcus was always loud on the court. The difference was, right now he had to be. A twelve-point lead had dwindled to two in the last two minutes of game time, and Stewart Pavilion was rocking. Literally--as TJ looked up to the rafters, he could swear he saw the banners shaking as though a breeze had blown through.
To be fair, it was always tough to travel into their rivals' building and come away with a win. State's fans had a reputation for being loud, as well as for coming up with creative ways to get under their opponents' skins. Nowhere was this more apparent than in the annual game against Western, with whom they'd been vying for conference supremacy as long as TJ could remember.
He'd heard them all game. Taunting him with chants of "OH-ver-RA-ted" after every missed shot. Booing Jimmy, who had transferred from State last year, every time he touched the ball. Getting louder than he thought possible on every free throw.
One guy, in particular, seemed to have TJ in his crosshairs. He was standing behind their bench, hurling insults at him, coming up with combinations of curse words he didn't know were possible. Even now, as Coach diagrammed a play on his whiteboard, the guy in the yellow hoodie was making very unkind insinuations about his mother.
"Simmons!" TJ snapped his head up to look at Coach. "You got this, right? Don't wait for the shot clock to run down on us--get the ball moving." TJ nodded. "Alright, guys, we've got one timeout left and so do they. No fouls to give. Let's execute."
The huddle broke, and TJ jogged over to the far baseline. As he took his position, Jimmy walked by with a grin on his face. "Let's shut these mofos up."
On the referee's whistle, TJ sprinted toward the middle of the court, using Marcus' screen to free himself enough to receive the ball. The clock began to tick down from 40 seconds, ten seconds ahead of the shot clock. TJ dribbled across the half-court line and took a peek at the clock. When it reached 15 seconds, he took a quick jab-step to his right, then passed it across to Adams on the sideline.
The whirlwind of motion began. TJ ducked around Evans' screen, then raced to the far corner to receive the pass back from Adams. Knowing that the defense had rotated toward him, he faked the shot and passed instead to a cutting Evans, who rolled toward the basket before passing to Jimmy in the opposite corner.
As Jimmy prepared to launch the three-pointer, the crowd screamed in unison. TJ read the trajectory of the shot. That's too long. Working his way around his defender, he positioned himself on the side of the lane, away from the other players who were apparently assuming the shot would be short.
Thirty-five minutes of hard running had not sapped TJ's ability to leap, and he soared above his man to grab the rebound. Spinning away from the defenders, he dribbled back out toward mid-court, taking another peek at the clock. Ten, nine... He spun around and held the ball tight, waiting for someone from State to come over and foul him. When they finally did, the clock read 6.2.
The crowd seemed to exhale a bit as TJ tossed the ball back to the referee and strode confidently to the free throw line. Two makes here would push the lead to four, making it a two-possession game and essentially icing it. As the crowd rallied to produce even more noise and distraction, TJ smiled to himself. Let's shut these mofos up.
With the same practiced form that had given him an 85% free-throw percentage on the season, he calmly swished the first shot. Marcus and Jimmy leaned over from their stances on either side of the lane to give him a quick hi-five. The referee bounced the ball back to him, and the noise swelled even more. TJ dribbled twice, spun the ball, bent his knees, and sent the ball skyward. Swish.
The only sounds at that moment were the referee's whistle as he signaled Western's final timeout, the cheers of the few dozen Western fans in the far corner of the arena, and "Yeah, baby!" from Marcus as he jogged back toward the bench. TJ strode purposefully in the same direction. As he did so, he locked eyes with the guy in the yellow hoodie, who was stuck in the classic pose: hands on top of his head, eyes wide, mouth agape, the universal expression that said "this can't be happening" written all over him.
"Nothing to say now, huh, buddy?"
"C'mon man! Let's go!" TJ turned to look at Marcus as they walked back to the huddle. "We still got this!"
Of course, Marcus was always loud on the court. The difference was, right now he had to be. A twelve-point lead had dwindled to two in the last two minutes of game time, and Stewart Pavilion was rocking. Literally--as TJ looked up to the rafters, he could swear he saw the banners shaking as though a breeze had blown through.
To be fair, it was always tough to travel into their rivals' building and come away with a win. State's fans had a reputation for being loud, as well as for coming up with creative ways to get under their opponents' skins. Nowhere was this more apparent than in the annual game against Western, with whom they'd been vying for conference supremacy as long as TJ could remember.
He'd heard them all game. Taunting him with chants of "OH-ver-RA-ted" after every missed shot. Booing Jimmy, who had transferred from State last year, every time he touched the ball. Getting louder than he thought possible on every free throw.
One guy, in particular, seemed to have TJ in his crosshairs. He was standing behind their bench, hurling insults at him, coming up with combinations of curse words he didn't know were possible. Even now, as Coach diagrammed a play on his whiteboard, the guy in the yellow hoodie was making very unkind insinuations about his mother.
"Simmons!" TJ snapped his head up to look at Coach. "You got this, right? Don't wait for the shot clock to run down on us--get the ball moving." TJ nodded. "Alright, guys, we've got one timeout left and so do they. No fouls to give. Let's execute."
The huddle broke, and TJ jogged over to the far baseline. As he took his position, Jimmy walked by with a grin on his face. "Let's shut these mofos up."
On the referee's whistle, TJ sprinted toward the middle of the court, using Marcus' screen to free himself enough to receive the ball. The clock began to tick down from 40 seconds, ten seconds ahead of the shot clock. TJ dribbled across the half-court line and took a peek at the clock. When it reached 15 seconds, he took a quick jab-step to his right, then passed it across to Adams on the sideline.
The whirlwind of motion began. TJ ducked around Evans' screen, then raced to the far corner to receive the pass back from Adams. Knowing that the defense had rotated toward him, he faked the shot and passed instead to a cutting Evans, who rolled toward the basket before passing to Jimmy in the opposite corner.
As Jimmy prepared to launch the three-pointer, the crowd screamed in unison. TJ read the trajectory of the shot. That's too long. Working his way around his defender, he positioned himself on the side of the lane, away from the other players who were apparently assuming the shot would be short.
Thirty-five minutes of hard running had not sapped TJ's ability to leap, and he soared above his man to grab the rebound. Spinning away from the defenders, he dribbled back out toward mid-court, taking another peek at the clock. Ten, nine... He spun around and held the ball tight, waiting for someone from State to come over and foul him. When they finally did, the clock read 6.2.
The crowd seemed to exhale a bit as TJ tossed the ball back to the referee and strode confidently to the free throw line. Two makes here would push the lead to four, making it a two-possession game and essentially icing it. As the crowd rallied to produce even more noise and distraction, TJ smiled to himself. Let's shut these mofos up.
With the same practiced form that had given him an 85% free-throw percentage on the season, he calmly swished the first shot. Marcus and Jimmy leaned over from their stances on either side of the lane to give him a quick hi-five. The referee bounced the ball back to him, and the noise swelled even more. TJ dribbled twice, spun the ball, bent his knees, and sent the ball skyward. Swish.
The only sounds at that moment were the referee's whistle as he signaled Western's final timeout, the cheers of the few dozen Western fans in the far corner of the arena, and "Yeah, baby!" from Marcus as he jogged back toward the bench. TJ strode purposefully in the same direction. As he did so, he locked eyes with the guy in the yellow hoodie, who was stuck in the classic pose: hands on top of his head, eyes wide, mouth agape, the universal expression that said "this can't be happening" written all over him.
"Nothing to say now, huh, buddy?"