Good rhythm.
Front rim.
Miss.
Long scramble.
Bodies on the floor.
Whistle with 0.8.
Foul on the floor.
Not enough.
That was it.
They inbounded.
We had to foul again.
Free throws.
Margin too wide.
Clock too dead.
Final buzzer.
The sound that came after didn’t feel loud.
It felt final.
And standing there under all that white light, lungs burning, sweat cooling, season gone by three points and a handful of possessions, I looked up one last time and found Stella still there.
Still my north.
Even in the loss.
The handshake line is the usual brand of organized cruelty.
Good game.
Hell of a season.
Respect.
All of it said while the blood is still hot and your body hasn’t caught up to the fact that there is no next possession coming to save anything.
Barnes grabbed my wrist for half a second when we crossed.
“Cold, Vale,” he said. “Respect.”
I nodded once.
Couldn’t quite speak yet.
Their point guard patted my shoulder and muttered, “You almost had it.”
