I like you, but I’m not quite sure if I should and because of that, I hesitate.

Pump faking around the perimeter of your circumference, knowing I’m going to take a shot, but still unsure if I’ll make it.

So I don’t take it, I pass to someone else that’s open, someone that’s more equipped to make the shot, but they aren’t meant for you, it’s not their shot to take, and I’m starting to recognize it.

But still I dribble around the defense, looking for an opening, but again, I pull up and try to set up an offense.

The clock is ticking, just mere moments left before the crowds disappear, the confetti begins to fall and the lights dim inside the gym, but regardless, I remain there, guess you can call it practice.

We all are aiming for the same thing, the ring, the banners, the parades, but not everyone can receive it, not everyone is built to withstand the pressure, not everyone can say they have a champions DNA.

But people will try to sign you to their roster, when you deserve to be a team of two, me and you, you and me, however we decide to call it, instead we just watch each other from a distance, wondering if this is my time, if this is my moment.

Is this the shot I’m supposed to take.

But truthfully you never know,

And you won’t know if you don’t take the chance, if your open and pass up the shot you’re meant to take.

So as I stand by the logo dribbling, knowing this is the one, knowing that you’re where I’m supposed to be, I pull up, and I let the ball roll off my fingertips, watching as it floats thru the air, waiting for the sound that says I made it.

But I guess we will never know, but truthfully you miss 100% of the shots you don’t take…

3 thoughts on “A Shooter’s Story

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