The ball bounced under his hand, creating the sweet thump sound on the concrete as the hollow shell slammed against it. A smirk crossed his face, and imagining opponents he swerved around them and jumped to dunk the ball. The net closed on the ball and spit it back out to the outside court below. He landed on the ground, his shoes slamming against the concrete, and scraped some sweat off his forehead. There was silence in the park at night, something he enjoyed, along with the cool breeze that accompanied the smell of fresh pine and wood. It was always nice that the basketball court was next to the large tree scattered park.
He took a huge whiff of the air and snatched the ball up before it stopped bouncing. He loved the feeling of the bumps against his hands, the lined trenches on his palm, the power in his hand. The boy began bouncing the ball against the concrete again, stepping away from the basket to the three point mark. The court had grown worn over the years, so the white paint that marked the lines on the court began to wear and chip off. Even so, he knew the court better than most people, so it wasn't too hard to figure out where it was. Putting the ball into both hands he leaned back a little, lifting his arms, and threw the ball straight into the basket. He smirked again. Nothing but net. He'd heard the term a while back from one of his old friends, but we reluctant to ever say it out loud.
Running over under the basket he grabbed the ball again, hearing the thud of his hand, and went even farther away from the basket. It wasn't his forte to actually make shots far away from the basket; in fact he was the complete opposite. He was a dunker. The closer he was the better. But over the years he'd learned that just being a one trick pony wasn't going to get him very far in the world of sports. So he took it into his own hands to train and train until he could do everything that would be required on the court. However he wasn't fairing very well with shots even a foot back from the three point line.
He'd decided to train harder. He tossed the ball again, this time watching with anger as it bounced off the rim and onto the ground. "Damn it." He muttered, catching the ball in mid air and dribbling across the ground. Right before he shot the ball again, not too far from the basket, his phone began to ring. The ball went towards the net, hitting the backboard and flying off back towards him. "Son of a," He hissed, reaching into his pocket and pulled out the slim black phone. The caller ID was his mother, and he knew what to expect from her. Sliding the 'talk' selection on the screen he slowly put the phone to his ear. "Yes...?" He said quietly, knowing very well by the eerie silence on the other end he'd been out a little too late.
There was a loud sigh at the other end, and he himself sighed out of relief. Must be Amy. "Listen Dexy, I know you're out training or whatever for the team, but this is just ridiculous." It was his sister, and luckily for him she wasn't as scary as his mother. But that didn't mean she wouldn't scold him, despite their three year age difference. "It is ten p.m. Even if you train and train, not having sleep isn't going to help. So I'll say this once. Get home you dumb-"
"Language." He said, cutting her off. "And what did I tell you about calling me 'Dexy'," He mocked her girly tone, even moving his hand a little, regardless of the fact she wasn't around to see. "My name is Dexter. So please, use it correctly." The young girl on the other end sighed again, and told him just to hurry home before their mother got home. He agreed and hung up on her, wondering why his mother didn't have her phone. She must've just forgotten it again. Placing the phone back in his pocket he threw the ball once more, swishing the string around the net, and grinning wildly.
Dexter had been playing basketball for awhile, and even if he hadn't been, his physical stature was enough just to have people believe he had. Sure his skills were great, but being over six feet was also a great plus too, right along with his abnormal athletic build. Tucking the ball under his arm he headed out of the small court concealed by a chain link fence and headed down the sidewalk towards home. He'd been accepted into the Ackerman High basketball club in a heartbeat when he was a freshman, and by that night he was already partway through his sophomore year still being the second ace on the team.
As much as he loved basketball, he couldn't stand the team for too long. Not only were all the players concentrated on having nothing but fun, but his coach would always pull him out of the game if she thought he was even remotely hurt. Sure most of the time she was right, but he wanted to play, he wanted to feel the power the basketball gave at his fingertips. But alas, his coach would never allow something like that if he was at his physical limit.
The year before his team had gone to the game before the final championships, only to lose miserably when the team they faced tripled their score. It was a devastating loss, but for some reason everyone seemed to be a little more determined for the next year's games, longing to win. Dexter had been a little different though. Instead of wanting to win, he wanted to crush. He wanted to dominate the competition without having to worry about when they scored a point. That was something that was a little out of his league though, but no matter how many times someone told him otherwise, he just wouldn't listen.
Which led to his obsession of training all day long. But with the threat of his mother returning home for the night was enough for him to get a move on. He came to a crosswalk when he began dribbling the ball again, keeping it within his limits of reach. Pushing the button with his free hand he watched and waited as the cars drove past him at the green light. Pulling his hand up from the ball he pressed it back down again, only to just hit air. Crap! If I lost that I'm going to be screwed! Swiveling around he saw a short figure standing there with the ball in their hand. Immediately he scowled at them.
"Sorry," They said in a quiet voice, outstretching their arm to give him back the ball. "You were about to lose control. I wouldn't want you to lose this ball by a car driving over it." Their voice was so stale, so calm. His expression softened, and he took the ball back. Was I really about to lose control? And if I was, how could this little kid tell. "The walk sign is on." He looked back up to the street, seeing that the figure was in fact right. He nodded and ran across the street, wondering what had just happened.
Had he really just been given advice in something as simple as dribbling a basketball by a midget? Well, not exactly midget, but they weren't very tall, perhaps somewhere around five foot and a couple of inches, but still. Maybe they just saw something I couldn't have seen... He tried to make sense of it. He felt like he had control, it seemed like he had control, but for some reason they had changed his mind. I just need to get some sleep. He thought reaching the other side and slamming his hand to his forehead. Yeah...there's no way they were right. They must've been messing with me or something. He jogged the rest of the way home.
YOU ARE READING
FadeAway
Teen Fiction"This year the teams are stronger, the players are better, and we're still the same. If we want to have even a remote chance of getting to the finals this year, then we need to make sure we are constantly training. And, as sad as it is, we need to r...
