Meanwhile, the clock keeps ticking. Some of the crowd start chanting out the time, counting down to zero. Eight, seven, six. And I run to the corner just to get out of the way and drift along the three-point line. Murchison sends two players at Pete, who splits the defense but ends up at the free throw line with Keith standing right in front of him. Five, four. Pete has picked up his dribble. Three. He sees me on the wing. At least, he sees a kid in a Hornets jersey and passes me the ball. Daniel sets a back screen and Pete cuts to the rim and claps his hands. He wants the ball back, the lane is clear, but I’m too slow so he slides along the baseline into the corner. Two. “Pass,” he says. “Pass.” Pete’s open now, but it’s all happening too fast. “One,” the kids on the bleachers shout, stamping their feet. Time is running out and instead of passing, I do what Sam told me to do. I shoot.

As soon as the ball leaves my hands, I know it’s going in. Sixteen-footer from the wing—it’s the same shot Michael Jordan took to win his first championship, as a freshman at North Carolina. (Mom sometimes lets me look at highlights on YouTube.) He gets the pass, he steps into the open space, he shoots. It’s like he’s not even thinking about it. My legs feel strong, I leave my arm out on the follow-through; the line is true. The horn sounds and at the same time the ball hits the back of the rim and bounces out . . . and rolls harmlessly away on the ground.

I guess I must have had too much adrenaline. The shot was two inches long, and the Murchison kids run on to the court to celebrate. Game over. We’ve lost.

Pete is still standing in the corner, as if he’s waiting for the ball. “Why didn’t you pass?” he says to me. “I told you to pass.”

“What?”

I feel pretty close to tears and can see Mr. Tomski walking across the court. Daniel Krasnick is sitting down under the basket, too tired to stand.

“I told you to pass,” Pete says. His face looks like a little kid’s when he doesn’t get his way; it’s all scrumpled up. Maybe he’s crying, too.

“I’m sorry,” I tell him, and Pete picks up the ball. I don’t know what he’s going to do, but suddenly he throws it at me. He’s standing about five feet away and the ball hits me in the stomach, knocking the wind out, but I catch it anyway, hugging the ball and doubling over.

“Hey,” Mr. Tomski breaks in. “Let’s cut that out.”

“I told him to pass. We could have won.”

Even though everybody’s crowding onto the court, it still feels lonely. The Murchison fans have drifted toward the other side of the gym by the exit, where the girls who sold tickets are now selling T-shirts. Most of the kids from our school are heading home, but Mabley finds Pete and gives him a hug from behind. He kind of shrugs and pushes her away.