As a growing seventh grader, Scott was of average height and stood even with his classmates. His interests were varied as he bounced from peer group to peer group. One day he could be found ankle deep in a stream looking for crawdads and the next hunting for golf balls on a dog-leg par four at the country club. He knew little about music, but did know he despised his dad's country music. He had yet to adopt a favorite genre, as the tunes of choice in seventh grade had not yet hooked him. Time would take care of his love for music.
Like with most young people, sports represented an opportunity to release the enthusiasm and dreams of youth. In grade school he played every sport he could find. Now in junior high, the coaches seemed more intense and demanding in every sport. He loved them all but chose long distance running and basketball. He witnessed a sense of freedom with every stride he took on the cross country course. At times he lost himself in the race, oblivious to runners at his side. Running represented an interest but fell short of passion. That was reserved for basketball.
From an early age, Scott loved the action and excitement of basketball. Up and down the floor the older players would go, leaving behind strips of burned rubber from their Nike shoes. His dad mounted a hoop on the garage for him and his older brother. The hoop and this sacred slab of concrete became his refuge, as he launched thousands of hopeful jump shots toward the red rim. Creating the last seconds of games he would someday compete it, he seemed to make the shots when it counted.
His buddies periodically stopped by to chat and would toss up a few shots. Urging him to run around with them, Scott always passed. There would be time for that tomorrow, he thought. Tomorrow arrived with the sound of his synthetic leather ball on the hard surface. "Down by 1 in overtime, the Tigers clear the side for it's star, Scott Thompson. Thompson dribbles to the beat of the bass drum pounding away from the pep band. With 5 seconds he jukes his defender and drives to the lane. Slicing between two defenders, his contorted body slides to the rim as he lays the ball off the backboard as the buzzer sounds..." Phil pumps his fists in his own private arena, imagining that he has won the state title with a buzzer beater in front of a state wide audience. He smiles as he realizes he's won the title for his team more than 20 times that week already.
His trance is broken by his mom yelling from the house. A friend is on the phone, she informs him. A bunch of his buddies are gathering at a nearby house for a session of Playstation. "Tell them no thanks," he informs his mom, "I've got to win it just one more time."
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