4.7 seconds remain. Tied score. Villanova shoots. The ball arcs–swish. The team hugs, collapses beneath confetti showers. At home, my dad shouts, startling our dog. She can no longer walk; soon, we’ll put her down. Across town, my grandfather watches, days after my grandmother’s funeral. Within the year, he’ll die, too. In a bar, I hold my sister’s hand. We needed a celebration; we sing with the crowd. Turns out, the team practiced the winning play regularly. In times of hopelessness, I rewatch the shot. At the buzzer, I smile–or cry. I rise, remembering greatness in the everyday.
Erica M. Dolson teaches in the English Program and directs the Creative Writing Minor at Elizabethtown (Pa.) College. She loves her dog and the beach.