Youth || Joshler

1: Tyler Doesn't Like Math

The sound of loud cheering and the scuffs and screeches of shoes on the polished gymnasium floor were all to be heard that Tuesday afternoon, in the middle of Cincinnati High's first home game for it's boy's basketball team.

Tyler jogged down the court, ball dribbling loosely between the ground and his right hand, the point guard of the opposing team staring him down as he made way effortlessly toward their net. The expectant group of boys on the other side of the court caught the attention of the other teams defense. Their arms reached up, open for a pass but they struggled to find a good angle behind the wall of bodies. It was a facade, however; they knew, and Tyler knew that he could make the shot from where he was.

The other team seemed to underestimate him, and for a split second he addressed this with insecurity; for he was lanky compared to the opposing players, built like gods, and with his distressed hair and a sweat covered face, Tyler was sure that he looked just like any other weak Cincinnati town boy. These players were from upstate, where appearance seemed to be a much bigger factor in the success rate of a sports team. But Tyler - skinny, soft and freckled Tyler, of all people - was about to prove them wrong.

If he just jumped and tried his best to hit the backboard, he could do it from roughly four meters away. It was on a difficult angle, but defence was now realizing their mistake as Tyler sized up the net. He rolled his heels up for the shot, the players charging toward him with surprise in their eyes-

He jumped, the ball striking through the air, and in one swift motion plummeting toward the backboard. Just above the net, but not quite right where Tyler had wanted it to go. Just this last shot and the game would be his- the countdown toward the end of the game had already started. Thirty seconds left.

Ten seconds to watch the ball roll off the rim of the net, landing into the waiting hands of one of Tyler's teammates as he caught the rebound.

Five seconds for defence to ride the other teammate's asses, ditching lanky, pathetic Tyler, who in their eyes had just missed the most important shot. Another five for Tyler to find the right angle. Closer to the net, maybe three meters away, he tried not to smirk as it would catch attention.

It took six seconds for the ball to land in Tyler's hands, being passed to him from one of the other boys. In the remaining four seconds, he timer almost on time with his racing heartbeat, Tyler leaped forward and- yes! - slam dunked the ball into the net just a split second before the loud bell rang to signal the end of the game.

Louder cheers surfaced overtop the already loud crowd, and Tyler grinned as he let go of the rim of the net and fell back to the ground, ball dribbling away, long but forgotten. He'd scored the winning point. The other team grumbled, staring at him, eyes deep and unforgiving.

He was greeted with cheers by his teammates, a few slaps on the back and even his friend Brendon slinging his arm over Tyler's shoulder. They were both sweaty and exhausted but neither of them seemed to notice, the exhilaration of winning overpowering both factors.

"Nice shot, Ty," praised Brendon as they walked to the change rooms together. He was downing a bottle of Gatorade like it was beer at a party full of girls.

"Thanks," replied the brunette with that small, unsuspecting voice of his as they walked through the boy's change room doors. The moment he set foot in, he was greeted with cheers and whistling from the other boys who were crowded around the room.

The coach, Mr. Healy, was there, too. "Nice game, Joseph," he commented, which was the best you could get out of a guy like him. He was in his late thirties, curly dark locks parading his face. He looked like he couldn't have been any more than twenty-five, although the deep-set bags under his eyes said different.