It hits harder than I expect.
This isn’t just the end of a season. It’s the end of an era.
And they’re all here.
Not hiding or waiting.
Here.
Section 112 isn’t just family and chaos and familiar faces, though.
A few rows over, clustered together in matching navy hoodies with the foundation logo across the front, is a small group of kids from San Diego. Maria stands in the aisle like a general, hands on hips, trying to keep them from leaning too far over the railing.
I organized it quietly a couple of weeks ago, once the GM and I locked in the retirement announcement date. Flights, hotel rooms, chaperones—it took more coordination than some road trips.
I didn’t want it publicized. I just wanted them here. Kids who’ve spent afternoons in our gym instead of somewhere worse. Kids who think basketball is a ladder instead of a lottery ticket.
One of them is holding a sign that saysTHANK YOU, COACH Oin crooked marker, the letters uneven and proud. When I catch Maria’s eye, she presses a hand to her heart and nods once. Itnearly undoes me more than the roar of twenty thousand people ever could.
The announcer reaches the final names.
“…and at captain, number twelve—Ollie Marshall!”
The sound is physical.
It rolls down from the rafters like a wave and crashes into the tunnel. For a second, I can’t hear anything else.
The lights sweep across the court. The spotlight lands at the edge of the entrance.
Cassius leans in. “Ready?”
I nod once. “Always,” I say.
My shoulder is stiff but steady. The tape holds firm when I roll it once.
I step forward, and the noise spikes.
It isn’t polite applause. It isn’t nostalgia. It’s deafening.
Phones are up everywhere. Signs lifted higher. The big screen flashes highlights—rookie year, All-Star appearances, playoff runs, the first night I played after I came out and the crowd stood instead of flinched.
I don’t let myself linger on that too long.
I jog out onto the court, and the hardwood feels exactly the same beneath my shoes as it did eleven years ago. But I’m not the same.
I don’t run because I’m chasing validation anymore. I run because I chose this, because I stayed, and because this is my house, and this is my last regular-season game in it.
I glance up once more toward Section 112.
Rafe is on his feet now, shouting something I can’t hear over the roar.
For a second, everything narrows.
The court. The crowd. The noise.
And him.
Then the whistle blows, and the game begins.
