Part 2:

I sat on the bench as the game began mouthing, "Please don't put me in, please don't put me in Coach Smith."  I wasn't sure how I was going to do this.  The crowd only measured about fifty, but it might as well been a thousand.  My stomach growled for more of my red Gatorade that my mom had purchased at the concession stand.  It stained my upper lip a gross red color.  Maybe it would intimidate the other players...

"DOSTER, you're in," came a voice.  My heart began to pound.  This was my time to shine.  In a flash I pictured the stereotypical picture of me shooting the winning shot followed by my team lifting me up on their shoulders in exultation.  This would never happen, but it was just enough to get me on that old basketball court.  I ran into the huddle in the middle of the court acting like I was supposed to be there.  I again looked up to find my dad clapping and whistling some cheers...my biggest fan.  My sweet mom looked at me with a worried expression as if to say, "Don't get hurt!"  

I put my arm over one of my teammates to generate some kind of team effort.  This was my team, and I wanted to be all they wanted me to be.  We made a few plans that I didn't understand then the game was underway. Somehow I got the ball in my little hands five seconds later and looked around for HELP.  I didn't really know how to dribble which was a problem when a bigger girl made her appearance over my small frame grappling for the ball. 
"Go away!" I mouthed.  She could have blown me over with her breath.  I would triumph over that!  

I forgot the torrent of butterflies in my stomach in that instant.  My nerves were vapors all around me.  I could feel the power surging through my body.  This may not be the WNBA, but gosh darn-it I was here to play some basketball.  

I passed the ball in one fluid moment and looked for my place on the court.  I ran to my block and put my arms in the air in a way I thought looked threatening as if to say, "Fear me!"  Unfortunately, I'm pretty sure the only thing the other players feared was stepping all over me.  You see I was a rampant fouler.  I could foul a player like no one else.  I had good reason to be nervous--I had a record on that court that was a viable excuse for fear.  My mind flash back to the Monday nights my dad spent outside with my brothers and I shooting around the good ole' basketball my older brother, Ben, had received for Christmas. We practiced the "goose-neck" form for what seemed like minutes.  Dad had tried out for the UNC-Chapel Hill basketball team in the early eighties and had imparted his love for this American sport at a young age.

"Hands up, Bethany," I heard from the stands.  I snapped out of the daydream.  It was time to dominate.