ÃÂMY PLACEÃÂMy place can vary in looks. It can have a slippery cracked floor with a few black imperfect circles. Those circles are old pieces of gum that look as if they are part of the floor now due to the constant stepping over them. My place can look like an immense placed filled with seats for people, with a floor so shiny, it resembles a mirror, the floor perfectly waxed, but in the end I still feel the same. My place is a basketball court.
When I was younger, I never cared about anything related to basketball, but unfortunately for me at the time, all my friends did. I would go with my friends to the park and just sit in the sidelines watching my friends play a sport they loved so much. After a few days of just observing, I felt left out, but more than that, all the kids looked so happy, and they would tell stories about every game, this was their version of N.B.A.
In the summer, before my freshman year in high school, I decided to go to the park early everyday and practice, especially since I never got picked to play. Everyday IÃÂd be in the at nine in the morning, in ninety degree weather, sweating like Shaquille OÃÂneal taking clutch free throws to tie the game in the fourth quarter with no time left. I shot one thousand shots a day and then my friends would come I would go back to being a fan; I didnÃÂt want anyone to know what I was doing.
Then after almost two months of practicing every morning, my day came. Everyone was playing full court games and one team needed a player, so they called me and I jumped up off the sideline with...