For a long time, he just lies there. A doctor comes out to look at him—Mr. Tomski has to pull all the players away. “Give us some room,” he says. “Come on, give us some room!” His voice sounds hoarse; his face is shiny with sweat. Patches of black hair are plastered damply against his forehead; the rest are sticking out. But he doesn’t care; he kneels on the floor, listening to the doctor. It’s too loud to hear.

After a while a couple of men walk out with a stretcher. They pick Breon up and lay him on the stretcher and carry him out. Everybody in the crowd stands up to cheer him—the Murchison fans, too.

Mr. Tomski follows them part of the way. He says something to Breon, who turns his head and glances back at us. He looks like he’s concentrating hard, like he’s holding something heavy and trying not to let it spill.

Breon can’t take the free throws, so Mr. Tomski has to send someone else in his place. He puts his hand on my shoulder and says, “Well, kid. Here’s your chance.” I remember to check in at the scorer’s table, and the next thing I know, I’m wandering onto the court. It’s like climbing onto the stage in the middle of a play. The ref hands me the ball; there are kids lined up along either side of the key.

Sweat keeps running into my eyes. I try to wipe it away, but my hands are sweaty, too, so I bend down and dry my fingers against my socks, which are made out of cotton and not slick nylon like the uniform. Well, there’s only one thing to do. I step up to the line and shoot.

A little short, maybe, that’s how it feels. The ball hits the front of the rim then the backboard and rolls in. I look up to check the scoreboard against the wall—tie game—and see my mom in the crowd. She and Granma are holding hands. Granma is easy to spot, a white-haired old woman in an orange sweatshirt that looks too big for her. Standing next to her, but a little way apart, is a man in a dark gray suit with a bright green tie.

My dad has come.

The first thing I think is: I wish he hadn’t. Because my dad will make me nervous, and if I’m nervous, I’ll miss.

“Come on, Ben,” Pete says. “You got this.” He’s standing behind me at the three-point line. When he’s playing, it’s like he’s got this electric current going through him that he can’t quite control—he keeps shifting his feet and tucking and untucking the uniform inside his shorts. Another thing to make me nervous, and I reach down and dry my hands again against my socks. The ref gives me the ball and I close my eyes and imagine the court behind the football field where I eat my lunch. As if I’m alone and nothing matters anyway. Then I open my eyes and bend my knees and follow through.