1-on-1

When my brother and I play 1-on-1, we go at it like’s there’s a lot more on the line than an hour of pride.

With the ball, he backs me down, leading with his shoulder, at full speed; on defense, I plant my feet and stick out my chest to absorb the contact. When I take a jump shot, he flies at me to box out, sticking his hips into mine to make sure I can’t get around him. When my shot misses, I shove him in the small of his back just as he leaps for the rebound, hoping the impact will make him mishandle the ball.

Then there are the forearm push-offs on drives; the elbows on post-ups; and the occasional, (mostly) accidental knees to the groin on runners in the lane. Add the 95-degree heat during summer and it’s easy to see how 1-on-1 between us is a battle of endurance and strength as much as basketball skill.

Last summer, we played a three-game series (games to six, by ones, gotta win by two). Before overtime of do-or-die Game 3 began, I could barely walk to the bench for a towel to wipe the sweat from my arms and face.

It came down to this: I had the ball with an 8–7 lead and a chance to win. I dribbled into the lane, spun on my pivot foot twice, reached around his torso and put up a one-handed shot. It hit the back of the rim, then the backboard, then fell through the net. Game over.

My momentum carried me toward the bench, where my water bottle was. With my last gasp of awareness, I grabbed it. My legs gave out and I sat down, then lay down, on my back. In that moment, I doubt I could have stood and run if a lion, drool dripping down his mane, had charged at me around dinnertime.

When I pushed myself into a sitting position and gathered my wits, I realized: The instant I saw my shot fall through the net, something inside me had switched off. The faucet of energy closed. The keep-going battery died.

But what if, I wondered, my shot had hit the rim and bounced out, into my brother’s waiting arms? I would still be in the lead by one, needing another stop. Somehow, I would have limped back into the lane, crouched down on D, and stuck out my chest.

If you enjoyed this story — and even if you didn’t — you should check out my book, Ticketless: How Sneaking Into The Super Bowl And Everything Else (Almost) Held My Life Together.