The Mad One
An imaginative composed by Kaveesh (Year 12 Advanced English, MacKillop Catholic College)
The ball left his hands. Gently caressing the finger tips of the defender as it launched over him. His sweat ingrained deep into the grooves on the ball almost as if it was a part of him.
He had done it before, hundreds, no, thousands of times, and each repetition carved with precision, each shot refined until it became instinct.
His eyes locked on to the ball, unblinking, ceaseless, like nothing in the world exists. Not the crowd, the voices, not even the breath in his lungs.
Just the ball.
It cuts through the air, his vision sharpens and narrows. Every detail burns into him, the rotation, the arc, the way it carves through the darkness like a fabulous roman candle.
SWISH.
“BANGG TIE GAME!” the commentator’s voice rippled through the arena.
The crowd didn’t just erupt, it exploded. Sound spread in waves, a roaring collision of disbelief shook in the rafters. People were on their feet, hands in the air, voices breaking as they screamed in the moment.
His eyes, you could see, the flame that had been quietly glowing since he was a child, now as bright as dogstars against the quiet night sky. All the hard work, pushing through the pain, every drop of sweat, every scream of muscle and bone, he burned through it all to get here.
He was laying on the hardwood court, hands by his sides, sweat running down his body. For a moment, everything faded the noise, the cameras, the rush of fame that had consumed him.
And in that silence, He reminisced. The lonely nights in the rain, pounding the ball, against rugged cracked concrete, its rhythm syncing to the turbulent thud of his heartbeat.
THUD
THUD.
THUD.
No crowd. No lights. Just him.
The hoop, worn down, the frayed nylon net grasping for its life, clinging on to the edge of the rim, the backboard rusted and scarred, bearing silent witness to this obsession.
They called him obsessed, mad, even. The one who stayed back when the lights died, when the world moved on, the one that chased something no one would see.
The mad ones. The ones who burn. He had burned.
Burned through the exhaustion, burned through the doubt, burned through the voices that told him to stop, to rest, be ‘normal’.
But, normal never got you here.
He remembered his father’s voice, distant, tired.
“It’s just a game son.”
But it was never just a game for him. It was every missed dinner, every party, every moment traded away for one more shot, one more inch closer to perfection.
It was the rain soaking through his clothes when he refused to leave the court. The sting in his hands as his skin split and turned into calluses. The nights where exhaustion dragged him to nearly collapse but he kept going.
A sharp whistle pierced through the chaos.
[ TIMEOUT ]
Hands grabbed him, teammates were shouting, the coach was barking instructions, but he barely noticed any of it. His chest heaving, grasping for air, as he dragged himself into the locker room.
He stumbled to his locker, fingers fumbling against the metal handle. It creaked open. Something caught his eye. A folded piece of paper. Out of place. Old.
Worn at the edges, the paper was soft. He carefully unfolded it, he just stared at it for a moment.
Then he began to read.
Date: 24th Jan 2008
To me,
I don’t know where you are right now. or if you still play. I hope you do.
I hope you didn’t stop just because it got hard, or someone told you to be normal. I don’t think I want to be normal.
I just love this. Even when it hurts. Even when I’m tired.
Sometimes I feel like I’m not good enough. But I think we are. So if it ever gets hard just don’t stop, okay Because I won’t.
I read this poem today, it said
“Do not go gentle into that good night” i think it's about not giving up, so you can’t give up.
And just remember
“It always seems impossible until its done”
Each word hit harder than the last. It was simple, almost childish, but painfully honest. His grip tightened, the paper crumbling in his hands.
For so long, he thought the fire inside him came from pressure. From the expectations. From trying to prove something to everyone else. But this was different. This was where it started. He didn’t do it for them.
For him.
“I’m still here” he muttered under his breath.
The noise rushed back as he stepped on to the court.
[ 0.5 secs ]
“One more bucket, let’s get it,” he exclaimed.
He was standing in the corner, feet planted firmly in the ground, teammate inbounded the ball, he caught it, the defender was on his hip.
He faded away.
At that moment all the hard work, the training, the suffering, the pain flashed across his mind.
Release.
The ball arced over defender’s hands, streaking through the air like a spark.
SWISH.
The buzzer screamed. The crowd erupted as they were chanting his name.
“MP, MP, MP !!!”
But he stood still, because it wasn’t about them, It never was. It was for that kid, alone in the rain, dreaming.
