In 1st grade my parents raged at my school district and for 2nd grade transferred me to Rincon Valley Christian School. My brother and sister remained in my former school district, but I got shifted. From a public to a private school, I merely knew sports. Consequently, I played basketball.
I awoke the morning of an early qualifying game enthused and edgy. I wanted to be brilliant. I wanted to control the court.
Honestly, I craved to get my ears pierced. I, second grade genius, figured performing amazingly in a game = a flawless stratagem to persuade the parents to allow pierced ears.
My resolve rising through warm-ups, my anxiety assembled. I waited, uneasy, until halfway through the first quarter my coach put me in the game. Spirit striking my body, I knew what I had to achieve: greatness.
I darted onto the court. Ready. Seconds later someone shot the ball. I dashed through everyone and got the rebound. I sprinted to the opposite side of the court, outpacing everyone, and flung the ball for a lay-up. A smile shrouded my face. Success, I thought. Until a teammate notified me we were going the other way and I had just made a basket for our opponents.
I was that kid.