Scholastic Award Winner: Give it a Shot

Give it a Shot

Gold Key in Personal Essay & Memoir

By Adrian
Grade 9

The alarm blared, jolting me awake. I fumbled to silence it, my heart already racing. Today wasn’t just another day in seventh grade; it was the day. Instead of a regular lunch break, I was going to pick up basketball, and become one of those kids. Basketball was at the core of every cool hangout and every conversation, so I figured, why not give it a shot today? Little did I know how this would lead to a series of transformative events.

Lunch periods were always alive with chatter, and today was no different. I strutted onto the court with my worn-out sneakers and my shiny, newly purchased Wilson basketball. “This is it,” I thought. “Today’s the day I join the ranks of the cool.”

My friends were already on the court, shooting hoops and chatting away. My heart pounded as I walked over, clutching my ball, trying to sound casual. “Hey guys! Mind if I join in?”

Sebastian looked at me skeptically, his eyes dropping to my feet. “Sure, come on over,” he said, smirking. “Nice kicks, by the way. Did you borrow those from your grandpa?”

I felt my cheeks flush as the others snickered. Henry chimed in, “Yeah, those sneakers have seen better days. You planning on actually playing in those?” “They’re just a little scratched,” I mumbled, trying to brush off their comments. But inside, I was already regretting not asking my parents for new shoes.

I stepped onto the court, their eyes boring into me like laser beams. I tried to channel the moves I had watched countless times on YouTube. But soon, disaster struck. My dribbles were more like awkward slaps, my footwork was clumsy at best, and my shots ricocheted off the rim like they were allergic to it.

“Nice shot, bro,” Henry called out as I missed another basket, the ball sailing into the nearby bushes.

“Oh man, did you see that airball?” Max exclaimed, wiping tears from his eyes.

I tried to laugh it off. “Just warming up!” I said, though my confidence was quickly evaporating.

On my next attempt, I managed to trip over my own feet and fall flat on my face, the ball bouncing away mockingly. The laughter reached a new peak, and I wished the ground would just swallow me whole.

“Do you need training wheels for those sneakers?” Sebastian quipped, barely able to keep a straight face.

The jabs kept coming, each more creative and cutting than the last. Despite the embarrassment of that first day, I found myself drawn back to the court. From that day forward, I stayed after school, practicing in the gym until my arms were like jelly. I devoured every YouTube tutorial I could find, and I kept showing up, lunch period after lunch period, hoping to improve.

Days turned into weeks, and slowly but surely, I started to find my rhythm. My shots began to land, and my dribbling was less chaotic. The transformation was gradual but unmistakable. What started as a bid for popularity had evolved into something more personal. I genuinely enjoyed the game, relishing the swish of a perfect shot more than any admiring glances from my peers.

One afternoon, as I practiced threes, I heard familiar voices behind me. Max, Henry, and Sebastian had shown up, probably expecting another round of amusement.

“Hey, the loser actually improved,” Sebastian said, surprise coloring his voice.

“Yeah, I saw you make that last shot,” Henry admitted. “You’ve come a long way.”

I grinned, satisfied. “Thanks,” I replied.

Then, one day at lunch, I approached the court, confidently clutching my ball. “Hey, can I join?” I asked.

Sebastian exchanged looks with the others. “Uh, look, Adrian… it’s just, we already have teams set up,” he said awkwardly.

Henry chimed in, “Yeah, maybe next time, alright?”

I nodded, but the sting of rejection gnawed at me. “Sure, next time,” I muttered, walking away. Just as I was leaving, I saw Trevor, one of the guys who made the team last year, approach the court.

“Bro, let me join in.” Trevor said casually.

“Yeah, of course!” Sebastian said, grinning. “We could use someone with your skills.”

Watching Trevor seamlessly integrate into the game while I walked away stung more than I cared to admit. I spent the rest of the lunch period shooting by myself on a different court , each lonely bounce echoing my disappointment.

Then, as fall gave way to winter, came the announcement for basketball tryouts. This was the moment I had been working toward. Despite my nerves, I signed up, ready to put everything on the line.

The tryouts were grueling. The coaches had us dribbling, shooting, and running scrimmages. Someone elbowed me in the eye. The gym was a whirlwind of activity, each player putting their best foot forward. I pushed myself harder than ever, determined to show what I had learned.

By the end of the first day, I was exhausted but contented with my effort. Coach Martinez and Coach Benson pulled us aside for a pep talk.

“You all did great today,” Coach Benson said, clapping his hands. “We saw a lot of heart and hustle out there.”

The tryouts continued throughout the week, each day as arduous as the previous.

Coach Martinez, on the last day, said, “We know it’s been tough, but keep it up. We’ll post the results next week, so make sure to check the board.”

I spent the weekend bouncing between hope and anxiety. Monday finally arrived, and the anticipation was almost unbearable. My heart raced as I approached the bulletin board in the gym. The results were up. I scanned the list, looking for my name. My eyes darted from one name to another, but mine wasn’t there. A lump formed in my throat, and it felt like the ground had been pulled out from under me.

As I stood there, Coach Benson walked over, noticing my crestfallen expression. “Hey, Adrian,” he said, putting a hand on my shoulder. “Can we talk for a second?”

I nodded, following him to a quieter corner of the gym. Coach Martinez joined us as well.

“Adrian, I want you to know we saw a lot of improvement from you,” Coach Benson started. “You’ve definitely come a long way since the beginning of the year.”

Coach Martinez gave a small smile. “You have a lot of potential, and it’s clear you’ve been working really hard.”

“But, unfortunately,” Coach Benson continued, “we had to make some tough decisions. Right now, we need players who have a bit more experience. It was a really tough call.”

I swallowed hard, fighting back the disappointment. “I understand,” I said quietly.

“We hope you keep practicing and come back next year. We’d love to see what you can do with even more time to hone your skills.”

“Thanks, Coach,” I replied, managing a small smile through the mix of emotions.

I tried to process everything. My friends joined me, their expressions a mix of sympathy and encouragement.

“You’ll get it next time,” Henry said, trying to lift my spirits.

Sebastian nodded, clapping me on the back. “Yeah, you worked really hard. Don’t let this bring you down.”

Max added, “And hey, we can always use another player in our pickup games.”

I nodded, “Thanks, guys.”

As I leaned against the wall, I realized how far I had come. My initial desire of joining the popular kids had turned into true love for the sport. The rejection from my peers had fueled a determination that I had never felt before. My friends’ ridicule taught me resilience, and their later encouragement reminded me that small victories matter. I learned the value of perseverance and the importance of enjoying the journey rather than just the destination. 

From that point on, basketball became a regular part of my life. Playing alone during lunch, after school, and on weekends allowed me to push my limits in a space free from judgment. Despite mistakes and missed shots, the joy of improvement kept me going. I love the sound of dribbles bouncing off the floor, each three-pointer that splashes into the basket and the lucky between-the-legs layup. There’s no guarantee I’ll make the team next year, but that’s okay. As the school year came to an end, I realized this wasn’t just a phase—basketball means a lot to me, and I’m determined to give it my all next year.