Sharp Shooter

Excellence Award in the 'The Text Generation 2014' competition

Sweat runs off her brow.
She runs down the court, hearing the squeaking of rubber soles ring out through the roar of the crowd. The sound of the ball bouncing up and down is like a monotone, a constant countdown of the time that there is just not enough of anymore.
A shot hits the backboard, and her breath catches in her throat. She has come too far for this shot to go in. Has endured to many hours of tedious training, to many painful injuries. The ball is rolling around the ring, and the crowd is now as silent as a graveyard, as if a mute button has been hit. The ball rolls around the ring once more, teetering dangerously, before falling off the side. Quick as a flash, a girl clad in the Bandit's trademark daggy blue and yellow shorts leaps up impossibly high, swiping the flying object from the air. Three quick, solid passes and the ball it at the half court mark. The girls sprints to the other end of the court, and as she sees the scoreboard, she knows it will be all down to her, the three point sharp shooter in the team.
She waits at her post by the red line, ignoring the hammering of her heart, and the demands her lungs are giving her to stop. She runs around the other side of the line as a defender races towards her, and glances up to the clock. Sweat drips into her eyes, the sting like pure chlorine drops obscuring her vision. Four seconds. Is it enough time? It's too early to tell. The jolt of the pass brings her out of her thoughts. She knows what she has to do. She jumps, racing the milliseconds as her auburn curls fly off her face. The ball leaves her hands as the shrill buzzer rings through the stadium. She holds her breath again.
She needn't worry. It's a perfect shot, arced beautifully, with enough height, and not to much power. She is sure the sound of it swishing through the net is the nicest she's ever heard. She allows herself breath again, the sounds of her teammates elated screams ringing through her ears. A whistle rings out, and she faces the obese man in the stripped shirt. Despite the girls disbelief, their coach has managed to convince her that the balding man is actually a trained referee.
The smile drops off her face. His stubby arms are crossed over his bulging breast. No one can mistake the gesture. Her shot took that split second too long, and two words cross through the minds of all nine players of the Bandits. No goal.

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