Jamaad threw his duffle over his shoulder and slipped his oversized headphones over his average-sized ears.

He was to be last on the bus, and that’s how he liked it. He loved being part of a team, but not for the same reason as most of his friends. Charles liked the parties it gave him access to, for Vince, the girls, and Tommy just loved to joke with the guys. They all wanted to win, sure, but for Jamaad it was a need. When you grew up like he had, it was the only way. When winning was a family affair and losing meant going to bed on an empty stomach, you lived differently. You had to.

And tonight was an empty stomach kind of night.

Jamaad was about to step onto the bus, prepared only to stew with his music in the back, when a hand landed on his shoulder.

It was Coach. He was a skinny man with a beard and large, wiry glasses. He was younger than Jamaad’s parents, but he’d coached at the middle school long enough that tradition demanded respect. Jamaad wondered if he had kids. He’d never asked.

It was clear Coach wanted a word, so Jamaad slid one side of the headphone off his ear, leaving Lupe Fiasco playing in the other.

“Yes, Coach?” he said politely.

“I would say forget it, but we both know that won’t be the case,” said Coach with a solemn nod.

“How can I, Coach? I let the whole team down.”

Coach was quiet a moment.

“You’ll get many more shots at winning the game before your basketball career is through, Maad” he said finally.

“But I turned it over, Coach. I didn’t even get a shot off,” said Jamaad, feeling the raw emotions creep up on the back of his throat.

“Well, then I guess getting a shot off next time will be progress enough,” said Coach with a smile.

He squeezed Jamaad’s shoulder and headed onto the warm bus.