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Pellie’s eyes get big in his face, so he looks like a little kid.
“W-what?” he stammers.
“You heard me. Throw me that ball, or I’ll break every finger you’ve got.”
Pellie gulps.
He takes his position behind the line.
Everybody is set up, the ref still has the ball. I’m walking over all slow and casual, standing upright, like I’m barely gonna play.
The whistle blows. Teeth bared and eyes terrified, Pellie chucks me the ball. The moment it touches my hands, I drop down into cheetah stance and take off like a fucking rocket.
I blow past the point guards before they can even blink.
Five seconds left. Four…
I can hear the coach screaming and waving his arms on the sidelines, red with fury that I disobeyed him. It only makes me chuckle. That’s what he gets for trying to hold me back.
I’m going coast to coast like Danny Ainge in his ‘81 game. I’m flying down the court in six strides with these long legs that were meant for nothing better than this.
The Wolverines don’t know what to do. You’re not supposed to take the game into your own hands. Not with four seconds left. Not in the state championships.
I don’t slow down for a second—I can’t lose my momentum.
I should go right. It’s my dominant hand, and that’s where the center is standing, a big dumb oaf, the slowest dude on the team.
But there’s Bell standing to the left of the hoop. The motherfucker who shoved me and slashed my arms to bits like a bitchy little kitten, and then took my legs out from under me.
He’s gonna pay for that.
I charge him like a bull.
If he held his ground, I’d have to go around him. But he doesn’t plant his feet. He’s lost his nerve, lost his focus. His feet stumble back.
I bend my knees and spring upward into a Herculean jump, higher than any I’ve taken before. Fueled by adrenaline and spite, I go right over that 6’7 mother fucker. I vault him like a hurdle, my legs going over his shoulders and my crotch right over his face. He falls backward onto his ass.
You know what “posterized” means?
Think of every poster you ever saw, featuring Jordan or Kobe making the most beautiful dunks of their life.
For every epic, timeless poster, there’s some idiot trying to guard that all-time great, their hands up and their face scrunched with dismay while the god of basketball sails right over them.
I posterize Johnson Bell with my balls in his face.
It’s so beautiful I could cry.
Roaring like a lion, I slam the ball down in the hoop in a loud, aggressive, spectacular dunk of death.
As the ball bounces against the ground, the buzzer shrills.
I can barely hear it beneath the collective scream of the crowd. Every person in the gym has leapt to their feet, pumping their fists and howling.
My whole team swarms me, whooping and slapping me on the back. I look down at Bell sprawled out on the boards and I say, “When they give me the ring, I’ll carve your name inside it to remember the guy who licked my balls while I won the game-winner.”
Bell leaps to his feet, flinging himself at me with both fists swinging. My teammates shove him back while I laugh in his face.
I’m high on triumph. It’s running through my veins, more intoxicating than any drug.
