Two minutes left to play.

          The sweat pours down me like I just stepped out of a shower. My jersey is soaking wet, and my feet cramp in my shoes, which have been running up and down the court all night long. The sound of the enormous crowd cheering echoes throughout my ears, yet I'm able to tune it all out and focus on the goal at hand. I grab the ball at the top of the three-point line and establish my pivot foot. I briefly glance up at the clock and see that we're down by four points. Here's my opportunity to really step up and help my team.

          My name is Declan Rashard. I play competitive basketball in university, and I'm currently the number-one ranked player in the province as a freshman. I've played the sport all my life, and have a burning passion to compete and push my skills to the highest level. Throughout high school I was a guard playing at the two spot, but also developed a post-up game later into my career. I've even signed a contract to play professionally in Germany after my sophomore year of university. I have so much to explain, but right now we need to get this win. After making our way through all the playoff teams, tonight is the big championship game.

          I dribble the ball in one hand and hold up the other in a fist, signalling for my team to run our most common offensive play called "Gonzaga." The objective of the play is to space out the left side of the court for me and my point guard T-roy to play a two-game. T-roy, who transferred from the University of McGill last year to play here on the west coast, sets a screen for me to get free from my check. The opposing coach has their best defender on me in an attempt to repress my skills, but I've been lighting him up all night with 20+ points, not to mention many of my assists and rebounds coming in the fourth quarter.

          After T-roy sets the screen, Olajukai (Kevin)—a 6'8" Chinese big man that can run the floor—has a smaller defender on him with a great height advantage. I dump the ball into him on the block. The opposing team, assuming that Kevin will make a move to score, loses focus of their checks. So I backdoor cut on the play and Kevin passes the ball right back to me—a famous move of ours that always seems to end with a score or me drawing a foul. I finger-roll the ball off the glass backboard. It bounces around the rim for a moment, even looking like it might fall out, but eventually drops through the hoop and cuts the lead to two.

          Immediately, Coach Meldrum, hands down the greatest coach I've ever played for, calls a timeout and wants to talk things over. The referee blows the whistle and we jog into a circle around the team bench. Coach Anton, the assistant coach, makes sure our bench players provide us with water and give us high-fives and encouragement. My best friend, Tony, who I actually helped get on the team (even though he doesn't play much), gives me a pat on the back, telling me to keep doing my thing.

          "Okay," Coach Meldrum says with a pen and basketball whiteboard in hand, having to slightly shout because of the thundering crowd. "We need a stop here. We're gonna go back into man-to-man defense. Our zone defense has worked tonight, but we're more successful when we stick to our own check."

          I wipe the sweat off my face, listening to his instructions.

          "Rashard," he calls me by my last name. "I want you on number twenty-two. He's their best player, so they're going to try and run an isolation play on you."

          I nod, staring him straight in the eyes. "I got you, coach." It's always nice to know he has faith in me.

          After going over our assignments once more, the referee blows the whistle again and orders the teams to return to the court. Instantly, I lock eyes with number twenty-two. I promise I'm a nice guy, but I have a mean side to my competitive nature. On the court, there are no friends. I want to stop this kid so bad. Everyone in the gym knows the ball is going to him, and it's time for me to lock his ass up. I simply want it more than he does. Out the corner of my eye, I see some scouts looking at me, and even though I'm committed in Germany, it's still nice to put on a show in front of them.

          The opposing team inbounds the ball, and just like Coach Meldrum predicted, number twenty-two signals to run an isolation play on me. One of the other team's bigs fills out of the lane by taking Kevin to the three-point line. It's just me and twenty-two. We never break eye contact the entire time. There's not a single person in the audience not standing up and cheering. This game is for all the marbles. If I can help my team win a championship as a freshman, that's really going to speak volume to my coaches in Germany.

          Twenty-two crosses over and makes a move on me. But just as he's about to beat me off the dribble, I tip the ball out of his hands and cause a turnover. The crowd screams as I dive on the ball, throwing it to our small forward, Clayton Richards, a junior playing in his third year. Getting back up, I run the court with him. We throw the ball back and forth, before I lay it in, also drawing a foul.

          "And one!" I hear Tony yell from the bench. The gym erupts with a roar of cheering, the game now all tied even, with a chance for me to give us a one-point lead at the foul line. T-roy gives me a high-five as we line up for the free throw. I can feel the pressure building in my stomach, but I don't shy away from it. It's moments like these that I yearn for. Moments where everything is on the line and I have so much to lose. All the all-time greats would tell you the exact same thing.

          There are now only twenty-six seconds left to play. After the referee bounces me the ball, I look up at the rim and take a deep breath. In the background, there are dozens of opposing fans attempting to distract or play with me psychologically. Again, I'm able to zone them all out and focus on the shot. I envision myself in the backyard again, shooting foul shots with my dad, and remind myself that this is the exact same thing, just with a bigger crowd and more to lose. I do my usual routine of dribbling the ball twice and spinning it in my right hand, before bending my knees and taking the shot, without letting myself overthink.

          The ball feels like it's in the air forever, before swishing perfectly through the hoop and giving us the one-point lead. The other team, now out of time-outs, goes into panic mode as we press them defensively full-court. They barely get the ball inbounded, as me and T-roy instantly double-team the first player to touch it. Trapping him in the corner, desperate to get the ball out of his hands, the player throws it away, this time Kevin snatching it and running out the shot clock. The game is over.

          When the buzzer goes off, our team starts jumping and cheering with excitement. All our fans in the crowd rush onto the court, like a scene out of a movie. When Tony meets me at half-court we wrap our arms around one another and hug.

          "Let's go, man!" he shouts while I pick him up like a prom date.

          "Fuck yeah!" I reply back.

          Within a matter of seconds, we're all swarmed by students and fans like a hive of angry bees. Everyone is cheering and laughing, as the opposing team walks around us in defeat, trying to make their way back to the locker room. It's simply a dazzling moment. All the smiles and laughter pump me up with a proud feeling of happiness. If only people saw how much work and practice I do behind the scenes, they could only imagine what this feeling is like for me.

          After a minute or so, the crowd begins to slightly die down, but the excitement is still here. I then see a pretty brunette girl with blue eyes walking towards me with a smile. Not going to beat around the bush, I like to stay humble, but I've got a fine-ass girlfriend.

          "I'm so proud of you!" she says, giving me a kiss, even though I'm covered in sweat.

          "Thanks, babe!" I say, giving one back. Her name is Dian, and we met here through university. She's my everything.

          Coach Meldrum, happier than I've ever seen before, guides us over to the other side of the court. It's time to present the championship and MVP trophy awards. Gradually, the excitement slowly calming down, a woman then walks out with a microphone and two men carrying the large trophies. We're all asked to line up as the referees and security guards push back any stranglers still on the court. The woman speaks into the microphone and congratulates both teams for their hard work in the tournament.

          "Wow! What a great game between the Hattonville Highlanders and the Sentinel Spartans," she says with a smile. "We'd like to thank everyone who helped take place in this year's tournament. And now we'll go over to Bob Dylan with the MVP award." She passes the microphone on to an elderly man with grey hair and a dark mustache.

          He accepts the device and stands tall with pride. "Thank you, Katrina. And this year's No Regrets tournament MVP—" He pauses, reading a slip, just like someone at the Academy Awards. "—Declan Rashard!"

          I hear a standing ovation from my teammates and coaches. The home crowd roars with applause. I'm known around the university for being the "big basketball star"—and those are certainly not my own words. I shake hands with the man and accept the golden trophy, carved out as a monument of someone taking a jump shot, with the words "Most Valuable Player" written underneath. I flash a smile and pose for a photo I'm required to take with the man, but I don't mind being under the spotlight at all.

          After a final round of applause, we're presented with the championship trophy. We cheer and pass it around, congratulating one another. This is a big night for the few senior boys on the team. Tonight was their last game ever at the university, so we need to honour it and bond with one another. When you are part of a team, that's like your family. You're part of a group of people that are willing to sacrifice and give it everything they got each day. They're your companions, and you go to war together.

          Now it's time for us to go celebrate.

          . . . . .

          After waiting nearly two hours to get in, we are finally ready to eat dinner. Coach said I had the say in which restaurant we picked, so I automatically told the boys we were going to Olive Garden. We only have one here in B.C., but it's always worth it. The unlimited breadsticks and soup are to kill for, and the pasta makes my mouth water just thinking about it. Look, if there are four things I love in life, it's these right here: my family, my girl, playing ball—and last but not least, eating food.

          Oh, yes. Ever since I was a kid, I've had a stomach the size of a horse. I was like a vulture out in the Savanna looking for extra scraps of food. From a young age, eating food that I liked gave me a sense of comfort. At birthday parties I always yearned for the pizza to arrive. At fast-food restaurants I'd have thrills of excitement. At Thanksgiving dinner I'd be the first to go for seconds. My mother always joked that if I wasn't so active and sporty all my life, I'd be the size of a beach ball!

          When the first round of breadsticks arrives, we all dive in. We were able to combine a bunch of extra tables so the team can all sit together. I take in the warmth of the bread, and how with every bite there's a perfect amount of salt to spice it up.

          "Man, that was one close game," Jeffrey says as we all munch together. Jeffrey's a second-year power forward that has a nice handle for a guy his size.

          "Yeah, but we won, and that's all that matters," Tony reminds, ripping apart a breadstick. Like I said earlier, Tony is my boy. Some people say he acts like a yes-man for me, but I love him for who he is. While having a close relationship with Coach Meldrum, I was able to get him on the team, but he barely had any playing time this year. Yet he never let it bother him. Every single game and practice he was cheering his heart out.

          "Even though we won, I still think there are lots of ways we can improve for next year," Kevin admits, sipping a glass of water. Kevin doesn't speak the best English, but he sure makes up for it on the court with his size and three-point touch.

          "I agree," I say. "But right now let's enjoy this moment." More than anything I'm enjoying the appetizers. These breadsticks are to die for!

          That's when I feel my phone start to buzz. I pull it out and see that it's my mom who wants to FaceTime.

          "Yo, everyone keep it down for a second," I order, opening the call.

          There's my mother and father sitting on the couch together. They're often in England for business trips, so sadly they didn't get to watch me play in person, but whenever they're away they stay up late and live stream the game on the university's website.

          "Well, well, if it isn't for Mr. MVP," my dad jokes, seeing he's cleaned up his shave.

          "We're so proud of you," my mother compliments with a smile.

          "Thanks, guys," I reply with a smile of my own. "What time is it for you?"

          "5:30 am," my mother informs me. "Doesn't look like we'll be going back to bed, but it's probably for the better. We have a lot to deal with today."

          "We just wanted to check in and congratulate you," my dad explains. "And hey, it looks like all those times we went out back and practiced our free throws it helped, huh? That was some clutch stuff at the end there, son."

          I laugh. "Yup, it sure did."

          "Anyway," my mom says with a yawn, looking like she wants to keep it brief and wrap things up, "we're gonna go and get some breakfast. We'll talk to you more later."

          "Alright, you guys have a good one. Love you."

          "Love you, too," they say together in unison.

          We end the call and I return my attention back to the boys.

          Eventually, my soup arrives—Pasta e Fagioli—and I feel a rush of excitement as I grab my spoon and slurp a bite. The beans and tomato have a lovely texture to them, and I find myself dipping my breadsticks into the broth. 

          While T-roy is in the bathroom we play a "harmless" prank on him by dumping excessive amounts of salt and pepper into his soda. Marcus, a tall, lanky centre, playing in his senior year, stirs around the mixture with a straw. We're all laughing like immature kids.

          By the time T-roy returns and eventually sips his drink, he makes a repulsed face that looks like he's going to puke. We all have a good laugh, even assistant Coach Anton cracking up, despite his usually serious demeanour.

          Shortly after, a waitress comes by and takes our order. I tell her I'd like a fettuccine alfredo and another round of breadsticks for the boys. Seeing that I'm the MVP, she gives, at least I perceive, a flirty look. I give a smile back, but make sure to stand my ground. Even though I have a lot of girls that I know for a fact are interested in me, I'm always going to be loyal to Dian. We've been seeing each other for three months now, and as I said earlier, she's the love of my life.

          By the time the pasta arrives, we all dig in like hungry soldiers coming home after a hard day of battle. I instantly obsess over the way the creamy sauce tastes, along with the fresh cheese grated over it. I admire the different choices of pasta around me that my teammates have ordered. Kevin's got a spaghetti with meat sauce, T-roy's ordered a rigatoni in five-cheese marinara, and Tony, like me, selected a fettuccine, but his instead on top of a creamy mushroom sauce. It's a very satisfying meal for us, especially after a hard-earned victory.

          About half an hour later, after countless rounds of endless soup and breadsticks, Coach Meldrum says that he wants to have a quick team meeting. Once we pay our bills and go outside, we form a circle around in the parking lot.

          "Well," he starts, placing his hands in his pockets. "I guess I just want to thank you guys for another incredible season. It's been an honour coaching and getting to know all of you. And to the seniors here tonight, we wish you nothing but the best in whatever journey you wish to pursue next. Thank you."

          We all give each other more hugs and props.

          That's when Coach Meldrum says he wants to have a word with me. We walk over to the edge of the parking lot, alone from the others.

          "I'm really proud of you, Rashard," he says, calling me by my last name like always. "You stepped up tonight and showed leadership down the end stretches of the game."

          "Thanks, coach," I say, always maintaining eye contact and respect. Even though I already have a father figure, I've always looked at him as a role model. When you have a strong relationship with your coach, it makes the game so much easier and enjoyable.

          "You know, when your coaches in Germany hear about this, you're gonna be in their good books. I didn't win a university championship until my third year, and here you're doing it as a freshman in front of these massive, hyped crowds. You're very talented, Declan. Don't ever forget it."

          I nod. "Again, thank you. I've been studying a lot of European film these days. It seems they play the game a little differently over there, but I'm confident that I'll be able to adjust to their play style."

          Coach agrees and says, "I don't have any worries about that. With your fast speed and basketball IQ, it shouldn't be too difficult."

          I believe him when he tells me these things, probably because coach played professionally overseas himself back in the day. Standing at 6'7", along with one of the purest jump shots you'll ever see, it's no wonder he was able to do damage over there.

          "But hey," he says. "Don't forget, you still have one more year playing for me."

          I laugh. "Yeah, and I wanna go back-to-back. How would that be to win two university titles?"

          He smiles. "Well, we'll just have to wait and see."

          After shaking hands and telling me to have a good summer before my sophomore year, we go our ways, and head back into the crowd of the team. Tony and Jeffrey are running around the parking lot with the team trophy and get yelled at by assistant Coach Anton to slow down. We're all just hanging out and having fun together. We love each other, both on and off the court, and always have our backs. As I said earlier, a team is like a family, and these right here are my brothers.

          Man, I have a good life.