“Guinn! You need to step it up out there.” His coach’s tone was urgent.
Why? What did it matter now?
His coach grabbed his arm. “Do you have this, Guinn?”
The buzzer sounded to end the twenty-second time-out.
DeMarcus pulled his arm free of his coach’s grasp. “I’ve got this.”
He joined his teammates on the court, walking through a wall of tension thick enough to hammer. Waves’ fans had been cheering, stomping and chanting nonstop throughout the fourth quarter. DeMarcus looked up again at the crowd and the empty seat.
“Are you with us, Marc?” Marlon Burress, his teammate for the past thirteen years, looked at him with concern.
“I’m good.” Was he?
DeMarcus saw the intensity of the four other Waves on the court. He looked at his teammates and coaches on the sideline. He saw his father in the stands. He had to find a way to play past the pain, if not for his team or his father, then for his mother’s memory.
DeMarcus took his position near midcourt. The Waves’ Walter Millbank stood ready to inbound the ball. Marlon shifted closer to the basket.
The referee tossed Walter the ball. The Kings’ Carl Landry defended him, waving his arms and leaping to distract him from the play. Marlon balanced on his toes and extended his arms for the ball. Thirteen seconds on the game clock. The referee blew his whistle to signal the play.
Ignoring the Kings’ defender, Walter hurled the ball to Marlon. With the ball an arm’s length from Marlon’s fingers, the Kings’ Samuel Dalembert leaped into the lane. Turnover. The crowd screamed its disappointment.
Eleven seconds on the game clock.
Dalembert spun and charged down court. Marlon and Walter gave chase.
Ten seconds on the game clock.
DeMarcus saw Dalembert racing toward him. The action on the court slowed to a ballroom dance. The crowd’s chants of “Defense!” faded into the background.
DeMarcus’s vision narrowed to Dalembert, the ball and the game clock. From midcourt, he stepped into Dalembert’s path. His concentration remained on the ball. He smacked it from Dalembert, reclaiming possession. Waves fans roared. The arena shook.
Seven seconds on the game clock.
DeMarcus’s vision widened to include his teammates and the Kings’ defenders. With Marlon, Walter and the other Waves guarding the Kings, DeMarcus charged back up court. His goal—the net, two points and the win. He felt Dalembert closing in on him from behind.
Five seconds. Four seconds. Three seconds.
DeMarcus leaped for the basket, extending his body and his arm, stretching for the rim.
One second.
Slam!
Miami Waves, 103. Sacramento Kings, 101.
The crowd roared. Balloons and confetti rained from the rafters. The Waves’ bench cleared. The team had survived the last-minute challenge from the Kings to claim the win and the NBA championship title.
DeMarcus looked into the stands and found his father. He was cheering and waving his fists with the other Waves fans. Beside him, the seat remained empty. His mother would never cheer from the stands again.
Less than an hour later, showered and changed from his Waves uniform into a black, Italian-cut suit, DeMarcus entered the team’s media room. Reporters waited for the post-finals press conference. They lobbed questions at him before he’d taken his seat.
“What does this championship mean to you?”
“Why did you seem dazed during the fourth quarter?”
“You made the winning basket. What are you going to do now?”