Roarers' bench looked like a war zone.
Five players collapsed onto their seats, chugging sports drinks like lifelines. Their jerseys were soaked, chests heaving.
Coach Crawford didn't grab a clipboard.
He didn't say much at all.
Just one sentence, raw and raspy:
"Two and a half. Hold the line."
This was it. These five would close the game.
And they understood.
Not an order. A covenant.
No one answered. No one could.
Five men just nodded—barely.
One brutal fourth quarter of switching, pressing, rotating, sprinting had hollowed them out.
Muscles trembling, lungs on fire.
They were playing on fumes and sheer willpower now.
Time-in. The war resumed.
Boulders ball. Down by one.
No panic. No rush.
Just calculated passes, probing the defense like surgeons finding a weak pulse.
Roarers were fading—feet heavier, closeouts lost their bite, switches slower, contests a step late.
And finally, it cracked.
Left corner. Wide open shooter.
