Errrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrt, goes the buzzer, signaling an end to the arduous half. It was the paramount championship game; the undefeated Las Colinas Lady Mustangs verses their hometown rival team, the Monte Vista Toros, whom the Lady Mustangs had already beaten by twenty in another game. This was the final game for Bree, the eighth grade starting point guard. With her bushy, brown hair pulled up into a ponytail, a headband made of pre-wrap, and her face as red as a tomato, it seemed she could have just ran a marathon. Errrrrrrrrrrrt, goes the buzzer again, ending the huddle of both teams. “Come on Mustangs,” hollered Bree, energized for the upcoming half. “We can do this! It may be their home court, but this is OUR HOUSE!” She screamed over the roar of the crowd. With sweat still dripping like tears down their faces, the Lady Mustangs took their positions as defense. We’re only down by eight, thought Bree, we can do this.
The ball is swiftly moved around the court, but the Lady Mustangs counter every attack the Toros try to make. As the ball is passed to the top of the key, Bree rushes to stop her opponent. Using her light feet and amazing defense, Bree deflects the girl’s assault to get to the basket. “Screen,” bellows Sammy, a seventh grade starter for the Lady Mustangs, as a brawny, beefy girl, number eight on the Toros, crashes into Bree and shoves her to the ground. The crowd, as fast as the speed of light, is on their feet screaming, “Foul, Foul! That was a foul!” The referee just shakes his head and watches as the opposing team scores yet another basket.
With a few quick passes and faultless screens, the Lady Mustangs are able to gain back the points they had just lost. The crowd went wild with the hope of catching up to the Toros. Back on offense, the Toros smartly set up and look for gaps in the Lady Mustangs’ defense. Number 8, the brick wall, slams into Bree again and sends her, reeling for air, to the metal-like, wooden floor. Her mouth fills with blood as she accidentally bites her tongue. Bree’s vision turns crimson red in anger as she scampers back up to help out her teammates. Unfortunately, Bree is too late to help, but the girl misses the lay-up, keeping the score the same 20-29 as it was at the beginning of the half.
This time, even the coach of the Lady Mustangs was on her feet shrieking at the incomprehensible calls of the referees. The people in the stands were in an uproar. Some were screeching, “Are you blind ref? Number eight just shoved Bree to the ground!” Others just shouted profanities and booed the referees. The Mustangs were bullets from a gun as they seized the rebound of the missed lay-up. “Time out,” roared the Las Colinas coach as she gnashed her pearly, white teeth together in anger, her electric blue gum pulverized by her molars.
As soon as the girls are in a huddle, the coach starts talking low and urgently, her wavy hair bouncing around in rhythm with her voice. “Come on girls, you need to...