Everybody was up on their feet screaming. Not just all of us in the box but everybody in the entire arena. More than nineteen thousand fans were yelling at the top of their lungs, clapping and stomping their feet.
The score was tied at 113, and there were seventeen seconds left in overtime!
“This is incredible!” Kia screamed. “Have you ever seen a game like this before?”
“Has there ever been a game like this before?” I yelled back.
The time-out ended and the two teams came out of their respective huddles. It was Boston’s ball. Although I wasn’t in the Boston huddle and obviously didn’t know exactly what play they were going to run, I did know what it would involve. Bring it in, be safe, hold the ball until just before the game clock expired and then put up a shot. If they made it, there wouldn’t be enough time for the Raptors to get off a play. Either the Celtics would win or they’d have to go to another overtime period.
“Want another dog?” Greg asked.
“What?”
“Another hot dog?” He was holding one in each hand.
“I think I’ve had enough to eat,” I said. “How many hot dogs have you eaten?”
“I lost track after four,” he said. “And that’s not to mention the pizza and nachos. But what the heck? It is free.”
The guys had been eating a lot. Not that I hadn’t had my share—two hot dogs, two slices of pizza, and I was working on my third Coke— but I was an amateur compared to some of these guys. For some of them it seemed like eating was far more important than actually watching the basketball game. I didn’t come here to eat—even if it was free.
I would rather have been down by the court instead of up here in the box. Not that I wasn’t grateful—the owners giving up their private box for us was pretty special—but it still wasn’t nearly as good as being courtside or even up in the cheap seats at the top. Up there everybody was a true fan, and nobody came because of the food. It was all about the basketball.
Speaking of which—it was about to begin again. The shot clock was turned off because there only were seventeen seconds left in the game.
The ball came in to the point guard, and the crowd started screaming even louder!
The guard did what was expected. He took the ball up to the top while the other four players headed off into the corners to draw their men away.
He dribbled as the clock ticked down.
Suddenly, off to the side, Wayne left his man and they put a double team on the guard. The guard hadn’t seen it coming and was trapped! He tried to find the way out, but they had him so he couldn’t get off a pass and— The ref blew his whistle. He called a foul!
The whole audience groaned and then started screaming!
“That was such a lame call!” Greg yelled through a mouthful of hot dog—little pieces spraying out of his mouth.
“The ref saved him! We had him trapped, we had the steal!” I screamed.
Their guard came to the line.
“What’s his free-throw percentage?” Greg asked.
“In the eighties,” Kia said.
“Try the nineties,” I corrected.
“So basically he doesn’t miss,” Greg said.
“He misses fewer than ten shots out of every hundred free throws he takes,” I explained.
“He’s one of the best free-throw shooters in the NBA.”
“And he’s six for seven tonight,” Lailah added.
“And he was perfect from the line last game, making all eleven of his shots.”
Everybody looked at her, wondering how she knew that.
“It’s in the guide,” she said, holding it up for us to see. “I love stats.”
“Oh…sure.”
“So basically we’ve lost,” Greg said.
“Not necessarily. He’ll make his shots and we’ll still have three point four seconds to get it down for a shot,” Kia said. “Right after he shoots, we’ll call a time-out and—”
“We don’t have any time-outs left,” I said. “We used our last one a minute ago.”
“We don’t even have a twenty-second one?” she asked.
“Nope.”
“So…?” Greg asked.
“When he makes the second shot, the clock stops and we have three point four seconds to get it inbounds, all the way downcourt and score.”
“That could work to our advantage,” Greg said.
“How do you figure that?” I asked.
“The shot will have to be a really long one, way beyond the three-point line. So if we make it we win.”
There was some logic to what he was saying. I shrugged.
The fans behind the net started to scream and stomp their feet and frantically waved the little blowups to try to distract the shooter. They were wasting their time and effort. The ball went up and straight in—nothing but net. They were up by one.
“I don’t think he’s going to miss,” I said, more to myself than anybody else.
“Everybody misses sometimes,” Kia said.
“I doubt this is going to be one of those times.”
He stood at the line, holding the ball in his hands, spinning it slightly, staring at the net.
Behind him the fans were all out of their seats, waving and screaming and trying everything they could to distract him. He was so focused he probably didn’t even notice them.
Actually it probably would be better for us if he did make the basket. If he missed, they’d still be ahead. And they might get the rebound or even scramble it up long enough so we didn’t have time to get the ball upcourt and get in a shot. If he scored they were up by two, but we had an inbounds and could at least throw up something and hope for a miracle. But it didn’t matter what I hoped for or how the fans were trying to distract him, because he was going to make the shot.
He bent at the knees and put up the shot.
Perfect rotation, nice and easy like it was practically hanging in the air, right into the cylinder and—it rimmed out!
The ball went up and bodies crashed together as everybody scrambled for the ball and the ref blew his whistle—somebody was fouled. It was an over-the-back foul on the Celtics! Wayne Dawkins had been fouled just as the clock expired. Both teams were in the penalty, which meant two free throws for us. He’d have to shoot at the line by himself because the game was technically over.
They walked up the court and all the screaming and yelling suddenly stopped. The whole arena was hushed as the referee handed the ball to Wayne for his first shot. He took a breath, bent his knees and took the first shot. It looked good off the release and before I could hold my breath, the ball sailed through the net. Tie game.
Everyone in the arena was on their feet, standing so silently that you could hear a pin drop. The referee handed Wayne the ball again for his last shot—the shot that could win the game! He bounced the ball twice, and the sound echoed throughout the arena.
I leaned out the open window of the suite as far as I could. It was almost like watching the whole thing in slow motion. The ball sailed up into the air, slowly rotating so I could make out the seams. It seemed like everybody in the whole place was holding their breath. It looked like it was heading into the net…no, it was high… it hit the backboard and bounced off the rim and then the backboard and rolled around the rim…and then dropped into the net!
Raptors win, Raptors win, Raptors win!