Virginia Hutto

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Virginia Hutto

My Greatest Lethal Weapon

Out of all my four years of high school, I can say I was pretty successful athletically. Not to brag or anything, but I have won tennis sectionals quite a few times and have spent most of my years on the sidelines showing off my tumbling skills, which have unfortunately faded away. Above all, I have dominated in powder puff football. It is no surprise that I like to branch out and try something new. My freshman year, I had gotten tired of winning so much in tennis and had lost interest in cheerleading, so I was ready to try something new. A few girls in my grade played basketball and convinced me to bring my athleticism talents to the court, so I did. 

Our team consisted of five freshmen, one sophomore, one junior and four seniors. We had eleven total players, four of them were known as the “scrub squad.” I was the leader of the “scrubs.” The only time I ever made it on the court was when we were winning by a lot, losing by a lot, or when there were thirty seconds left in the fourth quarter. I always felt like the coach underestimated me until the biggest game of the season. 

  Towards the end of the season, we were playing our biggest rival, Faith. This game determined our standing in the area for postseason play. I knew this game would be pretty close, and I was excited to have, yet again, a front-row seat right on the bench. The fourth quarter came, and our lead was slowly fading away. I knew the game was heading south; our team had lost hope, but I had not. I had this gut feeling that I could turn the game around. I had been working on my three-point shot all season, and I knew I was ready to take my skills to the court. The team was down two points with 19.7 seconds left on the clock, and our star player fouled out. The coach called a timeout and scanned the bench in desperation looking for someone to replace her. We locked eyes. I could tell she knew I was our only hope. I stood up from the bench and whispered, “Put me in, Coach.” 

 She reluctantly sent me out on the court. I could feel the adrenaline flourishing through my body. The other team had the ball, and my first goal was to steal it back. The ref blew the whistle, and the game was back in play. Faith’s shooting guard shot the ball and missed by a long shot; I knew this was my opportunity to get the ball. I ran up and jumped a few feet off the ground and rebounded the ball. I knew time was of the essence, so I traveled as fast as I could down the court. I catapulted the ball in the air making no contact with the basket at all. Fortunately, our post rebounded the airball and passed it right back to me. I looked at the clock and saw I had two seconds to win the game. I took a few steps back behind the three-point line. I decided to use my most lethal weapon: the granny shot. I bent down and cranked the ball back between my legs and chunked it up into the air. I had released the ball at the most perfect angle. I closed my eyes and waited to hear the swoosh, and I did. Our whole school charged the court as I ran around in circles dabbing — the one thing I regret from that game. 

Surprisingly enough, the girls’ basketball team was in its prime that year. I am still convinced that we were good because of the scrub squad. We may have not brought much to the table skillwise, but the camaraderie we brought made the team unified. 

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