Number 18 by Michael

Number 18 by Michael - February 2017 Scholarship Essay

When I first held a basketball, my hands were too small for it; I was just five years old, and trying to get the ball into the hoop meant having to squat and hurl it underhand with all my might. This technique did not work very well. I was too small, too weak, and the ball sometimes used to fly directly upwards, bonking me on the head as it came straight down.

Still, I loved basketball. In elementary school, I routinely went straight to the basketball court during recess to shoot some hoops. I eventually stopped throwing the ball underhand from between my knees and the ball no longer hit me on the head, but my overhand technique still needed much improvement; it was nothing like what they do on the NBA. Of course, I never aspired to play on the NBA, because I accepted that it was a dream much too far to achieve. However, I enjoyed the sport quite a lot. Whenever the weather was nice, I would come home from school, grab a basketball, and head on over to the park near my house to practice.

When junior year of high school came along, I had high hopes to join the varsity basketball team when it came time for tryouts. Try-out season was gruesome; after school, the coach made us warm up by repeatedly jog around the school campus, do hundreds of pushups and sit-ups over the course of a week, and practice short basketball drills. All that was done before the actual try-out component at the end of the day, where teams were created and we played against each other while the coach went down the list of names on his clipboard, carefully scrutinizing each and every player.

He made check marks here and x-marks there. Every time I saw him glance at me, I prayed for a check of some sort. I tried my best each and every day, restraining myself from letting my nerves get the best of me. The week flew by. I never found out what marks followed my name on his list, but by the end of the week, the coach announced that he would be posting some numbers on his door, numbers that corresponded to the kids that he would ask to come back for next week’s round two of try-outs. These numbers were randomly assigned to us, in order to give us a sense of anonymity in the case that we didn’t make the team. Mine was 18.

After Friday’s tryout, I took extra time to wash up, mentally preparing myself. I walked out of the locker room, across the hall toward the coach’s door where the rest of the prospective team members gathered to take a look the long-awaited list. Some sighed while others cheered. As the group slowly dispersed, I was able to see the list for myself. I took a deep breath, carefully scanned the list, and I saw the number 18. I think I smiled to myself at this point, but I knew that this was only the halfway point, so I was not so quick to cheer or just up in excitement. I knew I still had a long week ahead of me.

The second week of tryouts were just as exhausting as the first, but this time I had inside me some anticipation and excitement that were not there before. As each day passed, I felt that I was only closer to getting my own personalized jersey with my last name and my own number sewn onto the back. It wasn’t so easy, but after a second week of jogging, push-ups, sit-ups, drills, and practice, I could finally begin to imagine myself on the team.

After I became rather confident, you could probably tell that it was not easy for me to go up to the coach’s door on Friday of the second week and not see the number 18. It was a mixture of disbelief and disappointment. Part of me believed it was unfair, but the other part of me knew that those who did make the team deserved it just the same. It was undoubtedly tough for me to accept such a loss, but I knew that at that point, I just needed to pick myself back up and move on.

Though it took me some time, I did learn to become resilient through my failure. A few weeks passed before I picked up a basketball again, but the important thing is that I didn’t let the loss take over me. With a little time, I was able to overcome this loss. Basketball still has its special place in my heart, and I still feel the same excitement when I come home from school, pick up a basketball, and head to the park to play.