Hi. Let me introduce myself. I'm everything wrong with the sport.

What? Don't look at me like that. Haven't you heard? I grew up in the city and used my athletic skills to get a break. And that break came from a scholarship to the school I'm with now. You know, the arrogant, pompous, preppy, school full of *them*. *They* don't deserve a team with our talent. And especially people *like me* should not go to a school *like that*. As if getting a top-class education and plying my trade on the national stage is somehow making me a sellout.

Apparently it does. Really. Just ask the people who worked together to find my private email address. Ask the ones who posted my private cell phone number to fan groups so I could hear the words all day. Every day. Dozens of messages. People wishing for me to fail, hoping I choke on the big stage... and those are the ones I can repeat. Campus security had to check in on my younger sister after a few of those messages.

The nationals was my chance at redemption. The championships were when I stood tall. Memories of last year still remain. I know what it's like to be in that dogpile of players who achieve their lifelong dream. I've raised that trophy high. I've felt that euphoria -- it's addictive. This year, we had a chance to do it again. That's the kind of history making you undeniable.

But something happened along the way... we played a team that was up to the challenge. Hey, it's the championships, this happens. It was a back-and-forth game, and it came down to the last shot. And as luck would have it, that shot, the one that would have flipped the game result and allowed us to continue through to history, left my fingertips.

And... well, it didn't go in.

Look, I've made and missed game-winners before, but this one hurt, because it was my last game for the school that gave me a chance to escape poverty. I do want to thank my coach and teammates who consoled me... and yeah, the alums sent hundreds of messages thanking me for my service, keep your chin up, blah blah.

But THEY were out in full force. Hundreds of emails. Hundreds of text messages. Hundreds of voicemails. People drunk in their glory. Rivals and wannabe rivals upping their attack 100 percent. All of them, taking pleasure in my failure. All of them, telling me I deserved it. Some of them using hateful speech, others saying I sold out my heritage so I can go... well, you know. All directed at me.

So that's me. I'm 21 years old. And as you can see, I'm what's wrong with the sport.

---

[Author's Notes: slightly based on an amalgam of actual events. Word count: 463. No celebrities were harmed in the making of this story.]