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Abstract

e Little Ladder” Ladden spouted, “It’s on!”</p><p id="43aa">Greg “The Dapper Dribbler” Barnhart, already very drunk, echoed Ladden’s words with his own slurred shout. “It’s on!” Barnhart had done some fashion modeling for a Chicago department store’s annual catalog and sometimes used hair gel.</p><p id="8b5f">“Hookah power!” Hamlin roared, just before pressing “play” on the tape deck. Soon enough, AC/DC saluted the partiers for rocking.</p><p id="8f6e">Thursday’s hangovers were epic.</p><p id="6bc2">“Whoa, I got so wasted last night,” Gunnerson moaned.</p><p id="f5d3">“Uggh,” Hamlin grunted to his housemate.</p><p id="f472">A few minutes later, Gunnerson spoke up between bong hits. “Like, what’s our strategy tomorrow, man?”</p><p id="7df4">“Basically,” Hambone said, drinking from a cold can of Coke and massaging his temples, “we need to find the hot hand and stay with that guy.”</p><p id="13ac">“Right.”</p><p id="d446">“During warmups, I’m just going to tell anyone who is feeling it to take the shot.”</p><p id="e9b5">“That’s really about all you can do,” Gunnerson said. “Man, I need a nap.”</p><p id="6366">But not a single Hookah Hoopster found the hot hand Friday afternoon. Not Son the Gun, not Hambone, not the Dapper Dribbler, not the Little Ladder. Eddie “The Fast Passer” McCallicutty did manage to hit jump shots on two consecutive possessions, but the Rock Solids dominated, prevailing for a 43–25 win.</p><p id="3a2d">Because it was Friday night, the party was crowded. Between kegs, Hambone broke out champagne purchased in anticipation of celebrating the championship. It was gone in less than 10 minutes. As the party wore on, a not-so-witty quip became a go-to joke for the near-champions, their keg cups secure in one hand or the other, sometimes both: “I wasn’t feelin’ the shot. But I am feelin’ the beer!”</p><p id="b53e">Uproarious laughter ensued, repeatedly, and everyone felt awful the nex

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t morning.</p><p id="56b5"><b>Author’s note:</b> <i>This story was originally published in Inspired Writer under the title, “The 1985 Intramural Basketball Championship Game, B League.”</i></p><p id="f968"><i>Read more short fiction by this author:</i></p><div id="07d5" class="link-block"> <a href="https://readmedium.com/where-we-go-when-we-go-to-sleep-fde174c83f34"> <div> <div> <h2>Where We Go When We Go to Sleep</h2> <div><h3>Flash Fiction</h3></div> <div><p>medium.com</p></div> </div> <div> <div style="background-image: url(https://miro.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:320/1*Z__Mo82PTu4IEVVkvXpS0g.jpeg)"></div> </div> </div> </a> </div><div id="92ef" class="link-block"> <a href="https://readmedium.com/meatballs-in-private-760edb62b069"> <div> <div> <h2>Meatballs in Private</h2> <div><h3>Flash Fiction</h3></div> <div><p>medium.com</p></div> </div> <div> <div style="background-image: url(https://miro.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:320/1*A69ToBB1VGQQpVGEQPW-kA.jpeg)"></div> </div> </div> </a> </div><div id="9035" class="link-block"> <a href="https://readmedium.com/the-jersey-dream-7b919eb7a55"> <div> <div> <h2>The Jersey Dream</h2> <div><h3>A Short Story Set Here, There and Everywhere</h3></div> <div><p>medium.com</p></div> </div> <div> <div style="background-image: url(https://miro.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:320/1*Y-8702qU9-m2Fs8Tie5Zfg.jpeg)"></div> </div> </div> </a> </div></article></body>

With Time Running Out

On the court or in daily life, our choices always shape our destinies

With time running out, Sonny Gunnerson had a choice to make: Dish to a hot-handed Hank Hamlin for the short jumper to tie or take the three for the win.

Son the Gun did what came naturally: He shot. It swished. He jumped for joy and pumped a fist. The Hookah Hoopsters had won in dramatic fashion and would be playing the Rock Solids, the only undefeated team left in B League, Friday afternoon in the title game.

At the party — the Hookah Hoopsters and their groupies always partied after intramural games — Gunnerson talked incessantly about how he had been “feeling it” before launching the trey. Even though he was only 4-for-14 at that point, and Hamlin had hit three straight shots, Gunnerson just knew he couldn’t miss.

“No disrespect to Hambone,” Gunnerson gushed, “but there was no way I was gonna do anything but take that shot. Man, I could feel it!”

Hambone Hamlin, unofficial team captain, laughed and hoisted a Heineken. “To Son the Gun, playin’ hard and havin’ fun!”

Everyone laughed and whooped and basked like battle-tested champions in the hard-won glory. They drank more beer and smoked more weed. About an hour after Hamlin toasted Gunnerson, the shortest guy on the team spoke up.

“Day after tomorrow,” 5-foot-5-inch Benjy “The Little Ladder” Ladden spouted, “It’s on!”

Greg “The Dapper Dribbler” Barnhart, already very drunk, echoed Ladden’s words with his own slurred shout. “It’s on!” Barnhart had done some fashion modeling for a Chicago department store’s annual catalog and sometimes used hair gel.

“Hookah power!” Hamlin roared, just before pressing “play” on the tape deck. Soon enough, AC/DC saluted the partiers for rocking.

Thursday’s hangovers were epic.

“Whoa, I got so wasted last night,” Gunnerson moaned.

“Uggh,” Hamlin grunted to his housemate.

A few minutes later, Gunnerson spoke up between bong hits. “Like, what’s our strategy tomorrow, man?”

“Basically,” Hambone said, drinking from a cold can of Coke and massaging his temples, “we need to find the hot hand and stay with that guy.”

“Right.”

“During warmups, I’m just going to tell anyone who is feeling it to take the shot.”

“That’s really about all you can do,” Gunnerson said. “Man, I need a nap.”

But not a single Hookah Hoopster found the hot hand Friday afternoon. Not Son the Gun, not Hambone, not the Dapper Dribbler, not the Little Ladder. Eddie “The Fast Passer” McCallicutty did manage to hit jump shots on two consecutive possessions, but the Rock Solids dominated, prevailing for a 43–25 win.

Because it was Friday night, the party was crowded. Between kegs, Hambone broke out champagne purchased in anticipation of celebrating the championship. It was gone in less than 10 minutes. As the party wore on, a not-so-witty quip became a go-to joke for the near-champions, their keg cups secure in one hand or the other, sometimes both: “I wasn’t feelin’ the shot. But I am feelin’ the beer!”

Uproarious laughter ensued, repeatedly, and everyone felt awful the next morning.

Author’s note: This story was originally published in Inspired Writer under the title, “The 1985 Intramural Basketball Championship Game, B League.”