Page 9 of Isolation

The crowd erupted. I allowed a quick look at Danica. She was on her feet, clapping with a wide smile.

The next possession, they double-teamed me as soon as I touched the ball.Respect. It was about fucking time. I pushed it to the open man, who drained the three.Easy assist.

“That’s what happens when you trust the system!” Coach yelled from the sideline, but I wasn’t playing for the system. I was playing for myself, my family, and a career that should’ve been mine all along.

I was up eight points, two assists, and three rebounds by the end of the quarter. They weren’t mind-blowing numbers, but solid. The kind of numbers that made coaches notice and fans whisper.

The opportunity rarely dropped in your lap. Sometimes, you had to create it. You had to recognize your willingness to play by any means necessary when the universe was testing your resolve.

As I took a seat during the quarter break, I caught myself scanning the bench, and I felt a twinge of something, not guilt but more like an acknowledgment of the necessary sacrifice.

“They need you locked in. Keep this energy,” Coach said, squeezing my shoulder.

I wiped sweat from my brow and nodded. It was natural for me to be locked in, and you had to be constantly on the outside looking in, calculating your next move. The difference was that I was finally on the inside—where I would stay no matter what it took.

The buzzer sounded, signaling the end of the break. I adjusted my shorts after I stood and rolled my shoulders back. My defender was across the court waiting for me. His expression was more cautious now. He’d learned. They all learned. Mateo Bryant was not to be overlooked. Not anymore. I took a deep breath and stepped back onto the court. My calm exterior masked the storm and hunger on the inside. I was certain this was the beginning of what I deserved.

The game slowed during a media timeout, and I found myself at the end of a bench with a towel draped over my shoulders with sweat trickling down my spine. The buzz of everything around me faded as my mind returned to the moment that led me here.

I workedon my jumper while everyone else had cleared out. The locker room was empty when I entered, except for a shower someone had left running.

At my locker, I punched in my combination, Danica’s birthdate, and opened the door. A note on yellow paper read “Don’t waste your shot.”

What the fuck? I looked around at the empty locker room half expecting someone to jump out, but no one did. The note wasn’t signed. Still, somehow, I knew who it was from. Someone who offered to help, and I’d told him no at first, but after two years on the bench watching someone else live my dream... I took the note and tucked it into my wallet, a reminder of what was at stake.

“Wake the fuck up, Bryant. Timeout is ending. Are you good?”

“Yeah.” I rose and shook my legs. Still, part of me was stuck in that memory of the locker room, wondering what came next.

The ball was inbounded to Tray, who brought it up court with his usual swagger. I set a screen for him at the top of the key then rolled hard to the basket. The defender hedged, trying to stop the drive. I spun off the contact, finding space where there shouldn’t be any.

Tray saw it and hit me with a no-look pass that threaded between two defenders. I caught it and finished through contact, drawing a foul. The crowd erupted. I flexed just once, allowing the emotion to show for a split second before locking it back down. I stepped to the free throw line, finding my rhythm, and my mind split again.

Overlooked had been the story of my life in basketball. In high school, scouts focused on the flashy players with highlight reel dunks and huge social media following. In college, Coaches praised my basketball IQ and fundamentals, but still benched me for the five-star recruits they needed to keep happy. Even my torn ACL should have only been a temporary setback, but it became a black mark on my record.

I heard a scout call me damaged goods. Then the miracle second chance came with the semi-pro team that needed bodies—not a star role, not being in rotation, just a practice player who occasionally received a few garbage minutes, a job to make the real players better.

I’d watched DeAndre Pearson shine for two years, getting the praise and contract extensions while I worked and waited. Getting up at 5:00 a.m. to train before practice. I studied films, looking for ways to improve, all for three minutes of play time every once in a blue moon.

Danica would rub my shoulders. “Your time will come.”

I made the free throw and jogged back on defense with narrowed focus. There was a new edge to my game, controlled recklessness. I played like a man with nothing to lose because what else could they take from me? I crowded my man ondefense, bodying him, allowing him to feel me on every move. When he drove, I timed my step perfectly, stripping the ball and pushing it up the court myself with no hesitation, no pass. I took it all the way, rising for a dunk that was more a statement than points. It was a message to everyone about what they’d been missing.

The crowd was chanting something and was behind me now. After two years, I was suddenly their hero. Everyone had a breaking point, and the note was mine. That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about the time wasted and my son asking why Daddy never played in the games he watched. Danica put her PR career at the firm on hold to support mine, only for me to fade into basketball obscurity.

Don’t waste your shot.

What kind of man would that make me? I paced until 2:00 a.m., drinking whiskey to drown the voices in my head, the voices telling me this was my only opportunity. I never responded, never agreed to anything, or asked how it would happen, but I hadn’t stopped it either.

A hard foul brought me crashing back to the present. I was on the ground, looking up at the bright lights with a throbbing shoulder from hitting the hardwood. The defender stood over me with a halfhearted apology and extended hand. I ignored it and pushed myself up.

“Shake it off,” Coach said from the sideline.

I could take a hit. That was my secret weapon. I buried the pain so deep it fueled me instead of breaking me.

As the game wore on, I settled into the rhythm. My body moved with a fluidity I hadn’t felt in years. It was like the basketball gods rewarded me, guiding my passes and blessing my shots. I was playing the game of my life.Every bucket, every stellar move, and defensive stop came with the same question in the back of my mind.Did I earn this moment or steal it?

I looked at Danica during another timeout. She was talking to a woman next to her, another player’s wife. She looked troubled and glanced at her phone. Was it about DeAndre? My pulse quickened, but I stayed neutral and focused on this opportunity.

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