The blue and yellow electronic scoreboard displays “Home: 76, Guests: 62.”

“Let’s go James! Let’s go James!” the crowd shouts, made up of my friends and family and Venice High School students. I’d be enjoying this moment if my stomach wasn’t turning. Maybe Coaches’ sprints would’ve helped. 

The clock winds down as I dribble the ball out near mid-court. I take in the small gym, the smell of corn dogs, and the blue and yellow jerseys—high school for the last time. 

As the buzzer sounds, I hug the ball in my arm and then hand it off to the referee. My friends, teammates, and even fans flood around me like I’m a building in a raging hurricane. Jimmy and Sam pour a bucket of freezing water on me, while a young fan asks, “Can I have a picture?” I’m Michael Jordan getting out of a Charter Bus in the 1980’s. 

A reporter wearing an ESPN badge approaches me and asks, “How does it feel to be the first disabled basketball player getting Division One offers?”

I hold the interview microphone with my only arm. “I worked super hard,” I say in the calmest voice I can. I earned all of it.

I walk into the locker rooms with my head high and my confidence making me what seems like five inches taller. I put on my Duke hat and hold out my jersey to take one more highschool picture with my teammates. Pulling out of the parking lot twenty minutes later, my classmates and fans are crowded on the gym floor. Even though it’s pitch black out, I’m more illuminated than an LED Light. At home, when I get out of the shower, I click on Instagram: 16 @’s, 1124 new followers, and three new posts. The SportsCenter post already has over 200,000 likes, comments discussing my “perseverance” and “uniqueness.” 

***

At Piccadilly Park, I sit at the top of the green slide on the play structure. With a smile that wrinkles my cheeks, I slide down to the bottom. A kid is crawling in the tanbark. “Monster!” he screams and runs away. 

***

I walk into the practice facility that could be mistaken for a medieval church. It’s so fancy that I struggle to get through the heavy door. Inside, I expect a crowd. But, the two courts are filled with 14 other players who look too buff to be in college. No one greets me and I’m like a side character in someone else's story. The closest I get to attention are stares at my missing arm. The number one player in the class of 2021 approaches me with an expression that says what’s on his mind: You’re obviously just here so Duke looks more politically correct. 

Hello to you as well, I guess. 

The coach struts onto the blue-and-white hardwood floor with a clipboard tucked to his body. “Welcome to Duke’s 2021-2022 basketball season. I organized the rotation already. It’s hanging on the board.” He points.

We all rush over to the blue-and-white padded wall and read off the little paper. My eyes trace it until I find my name at the bottom. “James Hamilton, 0 minutes per game.” What? I’m supposed to be the star!

“Coach! Why do I have no minutes?” 

“This roster is one of the most talented we’ve had in years. You’re a great player but we have plenty of options,” Coach says as he sneaks a glance at my stub.

I want to say I’ll make sure to prove him wrong, that I’ve been playing basketball since I was in kindergarten. The last time I lost a one-on-one was before I could read. I’ve been the leading scorer for every team I’ve ever played on.

Instead, I storm out of the gym and into the blue-carpeted locker room. I pull my phone out of my bag and call my trainer. 

“Dad, they’re giving me no minutes!” my voice cracks. “I worked this hard to make the team and traveled this far just to warm the bench?!”

Dad is silent for a minute, and I know he’s going to try to encourage me. That’s what Dad does. Whenever I’m doing well, he has nothing to say, but when life hurts, he tells me things like, “This is only temporary.”

“I remember when you were in first grade. I drove you forty minutes to get to practice. You started off as the least played player, but you proved them wrong and led them to the state championship.”

“But that was second grade. I’m in the best division one college.”

***

Squeak, squeak, squeak — Justin and my shoes scrape the gym floor. The big analog clock reads 10:54 p.m., and the windows display darkness only lit by a few street lights. From the locker room, the vacuum hums as the janitor pushes it over the blue carpet. 

I haven’t missed a shot in six minutes, and I’ve barely taken my eyes off the hoop. Even though my calves are cramping with each jump, I keep shooting.

“Wow you haven’t missed in a while. Where are you from?” Justin asks, panting, his face shiny with sweat.

“I’m from L.A, but not the rich side. Where are you from?”

“Arizona. The weather here is crazy bro.”

“So are the coaches. Coach John is stupid for giving us no minutes. Us being in the gym the latest explains it all,” I rant.

“We’ll show them who deserves to play,” Justin assures. “I’ve seen you all over Social Media. What happened to your arm?”

“I was born with it,” I say. “You’re a knockdown three point shooter. Does Coach know?” I ask.

“Of course, he knows, dude, but apparently college ball is different, and the coaches don’t let us shoot from deep,” Justin says while shaking his head.

“I bet if you work hard enough to knock down even more, he’ll give you the green light.”

“That’s why I’m here of course,” Justin mumbles, sweat dripping from his chin. “Why are you here so late?”

“Late night therapy. I still can’t believe I went from the five star point guard to the bench warmer,” I say trying to hide my anger.

“You guys got to go, I have to mop,” the janitor says from the dark side of the gym.

“Yup. Okay.”

As we step into the freezing dark air, we’re met by the large stone buildings on campus illuminated in blue lights. Justin takes out his paper map displaying the dorms. It shows that we’re about half a mile away from our buildings. The bus station lights are off. We take fast steps, fog in the air everytime we breathe. 

“How do you work so hard? Ya know, it just seems like you’re disadvantaged in so many ways,” Justin questions. “No offense, I just mean...I don’t know. I just meant, how did you start with such a negative and get all the way to the top? Seems kinda impossible.” 

“I’m not at the top.”

“You’re at Duke. It’s kinda the best in college basketball.”

“There’s lots of kids like me with disabilities who can’t chase their dreams. I just wanna show the world disabled people are just as good,” I answer with truth. ”How come you’re so determined?”

“The day before my mom passed, I promised her I wouldn’t be like my dad,” Justin said, sending a wrinkle between his eyebrows.

“Oh, sorry to hear that.”

We split up on the stone road, heading to our dorms on opposite sides of the walkway. Just half a year ago I was strolling down the chatter-filled quad of my high school, surrounded by friends I thought I’d have forever. Now, I’m walking down the empty sidewalk next to the gray old dorms, surrounded by the sputtering sound of a broken streetlight.

***

I lace my blue shoes up and take the court. “Everyone in!” Coach yells.

“The season starts in two weeks. We won’t be making changes to the rotation unless someone plays like prime Lebron James,” Coach says firmly.

My brain pops a lightbulb. I’ll prove myself and break that rule.

The media are at every practice, including this scrimmage. All the cameras are pointed at us, and all the big sports companies are labels on spectator’s shirts. 

I know if I play well enough, the media will be on my side. I watch furiously on the sideline for thirty minutes, as Pablo scores fifteen points on 100% shooting from all sides of the court.

I’m not substituted into the game until thirty minutes in. But I’m used to it. Right when I put my foot to the hardwood, I make sure to be going 100. I step straight up to Pablo Hernandez’s face to let him know. My muscles go numb from adrenaline as I sprint up and down the hardwood. He grips the ball, and before he can put it to the floor and accelerate to the other side of the court, I swipe it. Before he can blink, the ball is falling through the net and I’m hanging on the rim with my one arm.

“Good Defense, Onesie!” Coach screams. 

The name would’ve hurt if I haven’t been called cyborg, cripple, and many other labels my whole life.

The next play, Pablo runs down the court and dunks on Justin, sending him falling to the floor. “You got put on a poster, Justin. That’s weak!” Coach says, throwing his hands up and grunting.

I reach down, grab Justin’s hand, and pull him to his feet. “Don’t worry about it,” I say.

Pablo runs at me, ball in one hand, rises up three feet off the floor, and puts the ball into the basket. But, my hand gets in the way and sends the ball flying back to halfcourt. 

“You just earned yourself some minutes, Onesie!” Coach says.

I run the ball down the court and throw a bullet pass to Justin in the corner. “Knock it down, J!” Coach yells.

The ball flies through the air and ends up hitting the hardwood floor without touching the hoop.

“Tyrese! Sub in for Justin!” Coach says, shaking his head and swatting his arm at my only friend at Duke.

***

I slip my feet into my Adidas slides with coach’s words running through the creases in my brain. “Justin and James, meet me in my office,” Coach says from across the gym.

“Justin! We’re getting minutes!” I tell him.

We walk into the dim office like little kids walking into a Nike store.

“James, you’re getting minutes in our first game on Monday, congratulations,” Coach says with a straight face.

Justin smiles and shakes my hand. 

“Justin, you’re cut.”

Justin stares with both eyebrows raised. “Coach, it was just one bad practice, give him a break, please!” I say.

“Sorry, we have too many players anyway,” Coach says. We plead with him, but he replies, “You gotta go. I got a meeting with the director.” He shoos us out.

I walk out of the office with my head down, even though I received the news I’ve been working hard for. 

Jusin walks with his head high. 

“Justin, you're taking this too lightly. Do you realize you won’t ever play school ball again?” I say worried.

“Yeah, but I’m at Duke. I’ll just focus on academics,” he says. 

***

The park bench faces many of my elementary school classmates who have already been picked for a recess dodgeball team. 

“Jonathan, you have the last pick,” a kid says.

“Do I have to take James? You can take him for free. He probably can’t even throw a dodgeball.”

“Mrs. Jain said we can’t exclude anyone.”

“ Fine, James you’re sitting out if you’re on my team”

***

“Justin, hit it!” I scream into my mic.

“Greenlight!” Justin shouts as the ball travels through the net and adds three points to the virtual scoreboard.

My hand navigates the Xbox adaptive controller, moving my character around the court.

“Wow, you’re actually making shots and getting play time!” I say sarcastically.

“Shut up, dude, you’re player actually has a left hand,” Justin snaps back.

“Your face scan is all messed up. Why is your lip inside your nose?” I ask, laughing.

“Why is your jump shot so ugly? You should use jump shot 38,” Justin recommends through voice chat.

“You should try the MyCareer gamemode after what just happened to your basketball career,” I say, suppressing the chuckle climbing up my throat.

“I actually do play it. My player is a 92 overall on the Boston Celtics. Not to brag, but my 

dude won two MVPs in a row,” Justin says with pride.

“My player is just like me. He’s a college kid trying to make the NBA with the world against him,” I say.

“How can you struggle to make the league? It’s a videogame,” Justin says while laughing.

“I have no idea. My player is struggling to find an agent,” I answer.

***

“Why don’t you try to wait in line by yourself to get food? I’ll be right back,” Mom says.

“Sure!” I face the cashier. “Can I get a burger with a side of fries and Sprite please?” I say with my most respectful voice.

“Of course, that will be $10.28,” the cashier responds. 

I swipe the credit card. I walk around glancing at the table to look for my mom. I lift the heavy tray with my one arm. It starts shaking because I can’t hold so much weight for that long. Whoosh! I drop the whole tray on a young man. “Sorry!” I say as quickly as I can.

The man glares at me for two seconds and walks away.

***

The ball gets tipped off and Pablo dribbles the ball up court. It’s our first game against North Carolina. The arena is filled with people I’ve seen around campus, and this crowd is humongous compared to my high school arena. I sit on the bench with my warm up shirt on waiting nervously for my opportunity. The first half passes in a blur,and we’re up by fifteen points without my shoes touching the court. 

“That was 20 minutes of great basketball. Keep it up, we’re only halfway there,” Coach says to everyone. I sit on the bench, barely staying awake as our team is up by 30 points with five minutes left. 

“James, it’s your time!” 

I step up to the scorers table and the crowd wakes up. Many camera flashes go off and the people chant my nickname. “Onesie! Onesie! Onesie!”

 I step in and tell Pablo to go to the bench. I pick the ball up and start dribbling down the tan court with a blue D in the middle. I’m running down the same hardwood floor as many NBA stars did. I blow by my defender and rise up with my head above the rim. “Dong,” the rim shakes as the ball goes through the hoop. I land with my mouth wide open, surprised that I could do anything like what I just did. The ground shakes from the crowd jumping and going wild as I run down the court to play defense. My teammate rips the ball out of an opponent’s hand and passes it to me. I run at full speed with a defender right next to me the whole time. “Skrrttt,” his shoes lose traction and he ends up in a splits position on the floor. “OHHH,” the scoreboard flickers from the loud screams of fans and all my teammates have their hands on their heads. “Swish,” the net floats as I drain it from deep. “Injury timeout!” the ref yells as I see the player who I just dropped to the floor holding his leg. The crowd looks like a wave in the pacific ocean from all the blue shirted fans jumping up and down.

***

“Thank you fans for coming to tonight’s game. Get tickets online or at the student store…” The sound of the large arena speakers fade out as I walk with my team and Justin through the dimly lit tunnel toward the locker room. 

“You had all the fans on your side, Dude,” Justin says in a loud, excited voice. 

“Yeah, but I feel like they like me for the wrong reasons. How did the Onesie nickname even get out there?” I ask.

“I don’t know, but you’re making a name for yourself, Bro. It seems like the crowd boosted your performance big time. If I were you—” 

”Hi James,” A man with jeans and a purple jacket with a yellow Los Angeles logo interrupts him. “I’m Mark Jones from the Los Angeles Lakers,” the man says with a clipboard in his hand. 

“Hi Mark,” I reply, wondering if he's the real GM of the Lakers. I’m thinking about how it’s crazy how he can get so many stars onto one team, but I don’t say the words out loud.

“You played great today, actually so good that you earned a practice opportunity with our team.” He hands me his business card. “Call me.”

When his footsteps fade, Justin and I stare at each other for a second. “No way I’m good enough to compete with Lebron.” I shake my head.

Justin laughs and says, “Who cares? At least you can put ‘Los Angeles Lakers point guard’ in your Instagram bio for a day!”