My Life as a Basketball Player
Kevin I Dobson Jr
2/10/13
Descriptive and narrative My lifestyle of basketball part 1
Basketball is not a sport for everyone it takes a lot of dedication, strength, focus ,and teamwork. I have been playing basketball since I was seven years old. The love that I have for the game is indescribable, if by chance I could never play again, my soul would be a hollow lifeless shadow. From the Separating White Line I glance up at the scoreboard; the clock reads 15 seconds left in the fourth quarter. My team is down by 4 points; we have to score a three-pointer and have no time-outs left. I yell out the play for a three-pointer and a two-pointer, now the perfectly spherical ball is put in my hands. Taking a short glance to the clock I saw time was running out. The only objects I see are two tall defensive players bearing down on me. Somehow I release the ball, just in time as a defender tries to block my shot. Miraculously the ball finds its way into the hoop, with 6 seconds left and the clock stopped, the other team calls a timeout. I jog to our bench, my coach waiting on the sideline to discuss the most effective play for the situation.
Upon my arrival I realize the scowl usually on my raging coach’s face has disappeared; in its place is a huge grin. He slaps me on the hand and tells me how good the offense is looking. The many things he has instilled in his players appear to be coming together for at least four quarters. It’s about time we have suffered through six straight losses, and have barely put any points on the scoreboard all season. My coach brushes the few hairs that have kept their pigment through the strenuous season. He is a man that really yells a lot...until he asks me how you get talented then I begin to tell him the story of my origins…To be
2/10/13
Descriptive and narrative My lifestyle of basketball part 1
Basketball is not a sport for everyone it takes a lot of dedication, strength, focus ,and teamwork. I have been playing basketball since I was seven years old. The love that I have for the game is indescribable, if by chance I could never play again, my soul would be a hollow lifeless shadow. From the Separating White Line I glance up at the scoreboard; the clock reads 15 seconds left in the fourth quarter. My team is down by 4 points; we have to score a three-pointer and have no time-outs left. I yell out the play for a three-pointer and a two-pointer, now the perfectly spherical ball is put in my hands. Taking a short glance to the clock I saw time was running out. The only objects I see are two tall defensive players bearing down on me. Somehow I release the ball, just in time as a defender tries to block my shot. Miraculously the ball finds its way into the hoop, with 6 seconds left and the clock stopped, the other team calls a timeout. I jog to our bench, my coach waiting on the sideline to discuss the most effective play for the situation.
Upon my arrival I realize the scowl usually on my raging coach’s face has disappeared; in its place is a huge grin. He slaps me on the hand and tells me how good the offense is looking. The many things he has instilled in his players appear to be coming together for at least four quarters. It’s about time we have suffered through six straight losses, and have barely put any points on the scoreboard all season. My coach brushes the few hairs that have kept their pigment through the strenuous season. He is a man that really yells a lot...until he asks me how you get talented then I begin to tell him the story of my origins…To be