Gemotions

The worn basketball, its leather softened by countless hours of dribbling, felt unusually heavy in Coach Miller’s hands. He sat on the edge of the bleachers, the fluorescent lights of the gym humming around him. He ran a thumb over the faded team logo, a feeling of melancholy washing over him. He remembered painting that logo, fresh out of college, eager to build a winning program. Now, facing the grim task of cutting a player, those youthful ambitions seemed distant. He sighed, the air catching in his throat, and the weight of the situation settled on his shoulders.

The empty court echoed with the ghosts of past victories and defeats. He saw Kevin's awkward, gangly frame from tryouts. He remembered a younger Kevin, all gangly limbs and boundless enthusiasm. Miller watched him struggle at first, but saw his work ethic. Now he had to tell him he wasn't good enough.

He took a deep breath and began to walk toward the locker room, the metallic scent of sweat and liniment filling his nostrils.