If I were famous, I think this is what it would feel like. Blinding lights, an endless row of people asking for pictures, questions from men with name tags proudly proclaiming the news organization they work for, and lots of cheering. Lots of cheering. Never having a silent moment to yourself, constantly being recognized by people because your picture was in the paper. Indeed, I think we were famous, even if only for a short time and even if only in a small corner of Nebraska. For a few short days, we owned the world.
At least, that’s how it felt. How much can high school athletes really influence the world unless under the spell of some delusion? Perhaps we were delusional, crazy, confused, unrealistic even, but to us, our goal was attainable, and on the edge of being grasped.
At the beginning of my Senior year, our basketball team decided we were going to compete in the State tournament at the end of the season. Not only were we going to compete, but we were going to win. It didn’t matter that our program hadn’t even gone to State in eleven years. There was no question. It was not simply a goal, but a requirement. No possible alternative outcomes.
Like most teams destined to win the State Championship, we made up pre-game rituals that could never be broken. We had to make the last basket we shot during warm ups. We had to “knock on wood” anytime someone said something sarcastic about us loosing. We uttered bets to know one in particular, saying, “If I make this shot we’re going to state!” We would inevitably miss, and someone else would repeat the mantra until we finally made the shot. And, most importantly, before each and every game we would always chant, “ST-ate! ST-ate! ST-ate!”
By the time we reached our final district game, our team had gained credibility. We had won most of our games early in the season, games we weren’t predicted to win. Our superstition had paid off. Even though we had a good chance of competing beyond districts, our district finals game was probably the hardest game we played all season. If we lost, we were done. Our chance of victory crushed before we were given a chance to prove ourselves. If we won, we got a chance to play in the State tournament—a chance to realize our dream.
We fought for that win, we clawed and slid and dove for it. The district finals game remained close until the end, no matter how hard we tried to pad our lead. We all held our breath for what seemed like an eternity. We were ahead with a few seconds remaining. It felt like hours. The clock slowly counted down to zero, and the moment the buzzer went off, our team erupted. We were going to State!
“ST-ate! ST-ate! ST-ate!” We continued our chant for three more days. After a close win in the first round of State and a double overtime victory in the second, we secured our spot in the State Championship Game. Our victory was inevitable, and we could almost taste it.
We ran onto the arena floor, cheered on by a sea of blue that had overflowed from the student section into almost the entire first half of the arena. Hundreds of cameras flashed, thousands of people screamed. But we were calm. Each player understood their role, and was able to perform it without hesitation. This was the game that we had grown up idolizing. We had watched it on TV, seen other high school teams experience the thrill of victory and the crush of defeat. This game was the most important we had ever played. It was ours for just four quarters, and we had to make it last.
“This is the biggest sandbox you will ever get to play in. It’s the game you love,” our coach had told us during our pre-game pep-talk. “You don’t get to do this again. So, PLAY!” We embraced that concept whole-heartedly. This was OUR court, OUR game, and, most importantly, OUR team. The opponents never stood a chance.
We battled the entire game, both teams trading baskets until the final buzzer. We were down, with only seconds to go when the defense made a mistake. They had double-teamed our point-guard, the team’s leading scorer. They forgot, however, that she also lead the team in assists. She saw an opening, and passed the ball for a wide-open layup. We scored! The other team had a chance for a last-second shot, but it didn’t matter. We already knew that we had won.
There were many teams we beat that we shouldn’t have that season. Usually, the other players were more athletic, taller, stronger, or had the home-court advantage. Our willpower alone is what drove us to win. Left to our own devices and the sum of each player’s athletic ability, we wouldn’t have even come close to a State title. But together, we equalled more than the sum of our parts. We were a team, through and through. We couldn’t be stopped because the other team was not playing against the five people physically on the court, but against all 14 of us. Each girl fully accepted a different role that worked in harmony with the girl next to her, allowing us to drive each other whether we were on the bench, injured, or playing in the game.
We were ranked last in the State tournament, predicted to loose the first game. No one thought to scout us, learn our plays, get in our heads. We were an already-determined easy win. Afterwords, the newspapers called it a “storybook ending,” a “Cinderella story.” To us though, we had simply achieved what we always knew we would. We never questioned it. It was who we were, who we were meant to be, who we will always be: State Champs!
