Personal Narrative-The 1963 State Basketball Team

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Hazy balls of sweat, plummeting towards the wooden floor, I am tired. Thirty sprints of the court, as a warm up, I look at the coach, with a ‘put me on the court’ kind of look. He takes no notice of me, turns away and continued watching the other players. The clock reads twenty minutes to go. The 1963 State Basketball team tryouts, I am the first coloured boy to be allowed to even try out, only an exception because I am tall, 6’6” to be exact, mum measured before I came. I glance at the boys out there trying out, and their rich fathers standing on the opposite side of the court yelling at the players to give it to their son. I am better than all these kids. The coach is just standing there; he makes a few substitutions, but not me. The other…show more content…
Something need to be done, some drastic move, I need the attention of the coach; I need to make the team. The train of thought circling the tracks of mind is falling off the rails, nothing is coming to mind; the competition is fiercer than the school nun. It comes to me! It is simple yet so effective; all I need to do is dunk the ball. As fierce and fiery as these fifteen year old white boys are, they can’t jump, and at best they are 6’1. The guard on the other team looks at boy on the right of him, I know he is going to pass it there, I ready myself and sneak just close enough to be within arm’s length of the boy, and sure enough, here comes the ball. Straight into my left hand the ball places itself, just like a baseball into a mitt. All that is going through my head is run jump dunk. The last I need is to screw it up. I find the coach’s eyes staring deeply into mine, as if he is trying to comprehend what just happened. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the guard; he gets back on defence quicker than I can get to the hoop. Legs in place, he is setting for a charge, as if he knows what I am trying. I need the dunk, I reach the player and jump as high as I possibly can, underneath me I see his head pass, back at the ring I gaze and as hard as I can, my arm slams the ball straight down through the circle of metal, and straight through the crisp white

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