Unnerved, I watch my teammate grit her teeth clutching at her knee in the middle of the court.
My fear is not for her well-being, but more because I’m her backup, and I’m already 0-4 from the three-point line for the half. The gym is shrouded in silence, but my head is loud with doubt. HC Stacy looks at me stashed on the edge of the bench. ‘Asha your in!’
Checking into the game, I glimpse at the 4 seconds left on the scoreboard relieved halftime is here. I receive the ball at half-court from the inbound and two players from the opposing team collide on me, forcing me to cover the ball. I hear HC Stacy screaming shoot the ball and then the buzzer sounds.
When we trot to the locker rooms, I see the Storyville Viper fans show signs of diminished hope from the bleachers, some gesturing disgust in my direction, probably saying the Asian girl is too short, and can’t even shoot.
HC Stacy hands me a discman with some headphones at my locker, ‘Toya Richardson,’ she said with wild eyes. ‘Just press play. It’ll get you going.’ she added weaving through a row of players.
I look at the Discman confused, trusting my coach’s tactics, I put on the headset. The voice of Toya Richardson flows into my ears, silky smooth and accompanied by the rhythmic beats of bebop jazz.
In a matter of seconds, I feel a calmness set over me.
My heartbeat goes from fast to slow, thoughts are focused, and I feel an extreme confidence I’ve never felt before.
When the second half begins, I am infused with vigor, Toya Richardson still playing in my head. I lock eyes with the star guard from the opposing team, Sydney Jones. I dribble the ball past mid-court to the beat of the drums, Toya Richardson’s voice belts out rhythmic lyrics providing me with smooth evasive moves to avoid Sydney’s swipes at the ball. Reaching the three-point line I launch a shot–swish. The net barely moves.
Sydney collects the ball inbound with her own mounted determination, and we begin a dance, she moves to the bass, of the Bass guitar, shouldering me from her body, as I’m trying to remain glued to her with a quick noted trumpet-style defense.
We go shot for shot.
In my head, Toya Richardson’s voice becomes a fan of the duel in progress, the instruments fueling our sweat and effort.
Sydney scores a two-pointer with three seconds left in the fourth quarter, putting them up by two.
With no timeouts, I scramble away from a double team catching the inbound. I plant my left high-top sneaker into the hard boards of the court… Toya Richardson’s voice explodes in my head, pushing out a boisterous long note.
My body twists, catapulting my arm forward until the ball ejects from my hand. My nail scrapes against the ball on release and I can see the vibrational sphere, soundwaves guiding the trajectory of the ball, up and out in perfect aim toward the hoop at the other end.
The buzzer sounds as the ball is in flight, becoming another instrument amongst the Quartet already playing in my head… SWISH. THE CROWD ERUPTS!
I can’t focus during HC Stacy’s locker room speech after the game, my mind is still on the music, but I feel it fading. Later, when I give the Discman back to HC Stacy with Toya Richardson’s CD locked inside, it fades more. After my shower, I can’t hear any music, In turn, the emptiness sets in and I feel my confidence waning.
Exiting the locker room, I bump shoulders with Sydney listening to music on her headphones. ‘Good game,’ she says removing her headphones from her ears. I recognize the voice coming from the device.
‘That’s Toya Richardson!’ I say with excitement, sensing my confidence returning.
‘Toya and Basketball is a deadly combination.’ she says. ‘I knew you had that rhythm though.’ she adds with a peculiar smile.
We share a high-five, no words, only eye contact. On the headphones, Toya Richardson holds a high note sealing our connection.
