Outside Shooter
OUTSIDE SHOOTER – November 2, 2024 – Burden, Kansas, USA
Ryan Conger felt left behind. The feeling always shadowed him but was most intense right after high school graduation. His was an extraordinary senior class because of how many graduates immediately left town. Out of six boys and seven girls, Ryan was the only one who stuck around. He did not have any great affinity for Burden. Like his classmates, he had visions of college and moving someplace with multiple restaurants. But those ideas did not materialize after his dad convinced him the family’s convenience store, Stop and Sip, provided a bright future.
The class of 2014 was also extraordinary because five of the six graduating boys led the basketball team to Burden’s only state championship. Few people in the community remembered the graduates’ mass exodus but they all took pride in the championship banner hanging in the gym. Ryan was the only male senior not on the championship team. He was simply too short to compete with the other five freakish athletes, who by some statistical anomaly, lived within the school district’s boundaries at the same time. Ryan stuck to more creative pursuits like Dungeons and Dragons and metal work using his backyard forge.
When the people his age disappeared, Ryan kept in peripheral touch through social media. He mostly lurked and grew jealous of how happy they looked away from Burden.
The best of the five basketball players, Kendrick Hodgekiss, visited the Stop and Sip in the summer of 2023. He held hands with his cute wife and daughter and excitedly introduced Ryan when he saw him standing behind the counter.
“We’re down here visiting my parents,” Kendrick explained.
“Where do you live now?”
“In Chicago.”
“Oh right. I remember seeing a picture of you in Chicago. Probably on Instagram. You were wearing a suit.”
Kendrick smiled. “That must have been at work. I’m at a firm trading bonds.”
“I don’t even know what that is. But I’m sure it’s more exciting than this place.”
“I miss the quiet of this place. The water tower and the wheat fields. No big worries.”
Ryan returned an unconvinced look.
“I can’t believe next year will be ten years since graduation,” Kendrick added. “We should have a reunion. Since you’re local, maybe you could organize it.”
“I doubt anyone would come.”
“I would. And I’d help recruit other people if you put a plan together.”
After Kendrick left the store, Ryan thought a lot about a ten-year reunion. It was hard enough seeing Kendrick breeze into town looking so fortunate. How could Ryan handle twelve former classmates at the same time? They would surely see him as the one loser who did not escape. His only accomplishments since high school were growing older and rounder.
A reunion would inevitably be dominated by the basketball superstars reliving their glory days. How could it not? The championship was the biggest thing ever to happen in Burden. Ryan spitefully wondered why he would put time and energy into a reunion that would leave him out once again.
And then someone named Millet Suss arrived in town in time for the beginning of the new school year. Millet took the job of high school History/P.E. teacher and basketball coach. He instantly became a local mystery and celebrity. He had lived all around the country and visited most of the world. He seemed interested in everyone and fascinated by everything, including storytelling, art, and food.
Millet met Ryan at the Stop and Sip on his second day in Burden. He admired one of the homemade goblets behind the counter and Ryan invited him to his backyard forge to see how it was made. Millet happily accepted. During the visit, Ryan demonstrated pouring metal into a figurine mold. He then showed off his collection of swords, shields, coins, rings, and door handles.
“These are amazing,” Millet said of two silver door handles meant to look like waterfalls.
“I want you to have one,” Ryan said nonchalantly.
Entranced by the handle, Millet said, “I can’t resist taking it. Thank you very much. I can tell you have a lot more persistence than most people these days. That’s the key to being good at anything. Practice long enough and you can’t help being good. After 10,000 hours you’re a master.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard the 10,000-hour theory.”
“You must have spent that much time on metal work.”
“Probably.”
“I tell my basketball players they need to spend at least 1000 hours making free throws and 3-point shots. They think I’m crazy. That much repetition sounds too old school for them.”
After his first visit to the forge, whenever Millet visited Stop and Sip, Ryan did not charge him for fountain drinks. When Millet cooked an interesting recipe or found something delicious during a regional excursion, he brought Ryan a large sample. After the school year began, Millet asked Ryan to explain his metal creations during history classes. Ryan knew he was good with his forge and kilns, but for the first time, he felt like an expert.
When Millet asked him to fix the loose metal brackets on the gym’s basketball hoops, Ryan happily agreed. As he worked on one hoop at a time during team practice, he watched players attempt endless shots from the same position on the floor. The exercise was part of Millet’s repetition philosophy.
Ryan found himself alone in the gym after practice was over. The air smelled strongly of the wax used on the wood floor. The overhead fluorescent lights hummed with expectation. Ryan picked up a basketball for the first time in at least five years and rubbed his palms over its surface. He dribbled as he strolled toward one of the baskets and stopped at the 3-point line. He eyed the hoop and thought about 1000 hours. Would it take him that long to become a 50% shooter?
Ryan threw up a shot and widely missed the hoop, net, and backboard. He shuffled to retrieve the ball and tried again. After twenty-three attempts, the ball finally banged off the rim and rolled through the basket. Ryan stared at the net and saw a secret wish from beginning to end, like glimpsing a tiny speck of light at the end of a tunnel.
“Do you think I can use the gym when the kids aren’t practicing?” Ryan asked Millet the next day.
“You need a wide-open space for a metal project?”
“Nah, I’d like to try what you said about 3-point shots. See how good I can get.”
Millet did not ask why. He simply said, “I’m happy to help. And if I know you like I think I do, that means you’ll be spending lots of time in there. I’ll see about getting you a key.”
Ryan began by spending an hour on weeknights awkwardly chucking balls at the basket. Millet offered advice on his form and emphasized how he needed to make the exact motions every time.
“The right practice is critical. You need to jump as the ball rolls off your fingertips. The position of your left hand ensures your aim is straight.”
Ryan followed the instructions. Jumping left him sweaty and worn down but he was not a quitter. His immediate goal was to prove Millet right. He spent more weekday hours and long chunks of his weekends at the gym. He was usually alone with only the echoed DOINK of a bouncing ball to break the silence. He found listening to music distracting.
He strained his body to repeat the same motion. Hundreds of shots per day. Thousands per week. By New Year’s, Ryan could make two-thirds of his attempts. That was not good enough. During the coldest nights of the year, he stayed in the gym past midnight. He pushed up to 90%, then passed 95%. By April, he was a tremendous machine, rotating around the 3-point line without a miss.
Ryan grew to love how his body felt during the shooting motion. He loved the satisfying WHOOSH of the net when the ball dropped through without touching the rim. He dreamed about his jump and finger roll. They became as natural as his heartbeat. Anyone who saw his trimmed-down body float around the 3-point line compared it to watching a dance or piano recital.
Of course, the deep reason Ryan kept practicing was not for enjoyment or exercise. It was not to confirm Millet’s theory. It was about the reunion, which had been on his mind ever since Kendrick’s visit. Even though Ryan initially dismissed it as certain humiliation, he imagined a reunion where he was not an object of pity. That was a possibility, now that he could do something with a basketball.
At first, Kendrick acted surprised when Ryan sent him a message. He had forgotten about the reunion idea, but quickly reclaimed it as his own. He and Ryan decided a gathering in late fall made the most sense and they contacted the other eleven people in their class. Momentum and excitement built slowly, but by the late summer, Kendrick convinced everyone to attend.
To rally support, Ryan arranged for a basketball game between the current high school team and the returning, state-champion alumni. He hung signs around Stop and Sip to advertise the game and Burden residents anticipated it as eagerly as Thanksgiving and Christmas. Ryan also arranged peripheral events for the reunion, including a tractor ride and late lunch catered by the best cooks in town. He enlisted the help of the high school’s student council to decorate half the gym with streamers and photos commemorating 2014.
A few alumni arrived late, but they all showed up. Ryan played host using the most outgoing possible version of his personality. He warmly greeted spouses and children and knew how far everyone traveled to get there. He also knew something important every classmate had accomplished in the last ten years.
Of the five superstar basketball players, Kendrick looked in the best playing shape. He even wore his old team shorts and jersey. The other four carried extra weight and complained about limps and not being on a court for years.
The first spectators arrived at the gym at 5 pm for the game scheduled at 6:00. That prompted a rush to clear out the food tables and decorations and do a little warming up. Ryan disappeared for a few minutes and returned wearing shorts, a T-shirt, and sneakers. As Kendrick and the others talked strategy, Ryan interrupted with a request.
“I’ve been practicing. I’m nowhere as good as you guys, but do you think I could play a little?”
Kendrick smiled good-naturedly and said, “Of course you can play. We can use the help.”
The others were quick to agree.
The short bleachers on both sides of the court continued filling up. The regular basketball season had not yet started, and the locals were eager to see some action and gauge how good the newest crop of teenagers might be. Coach Millet arrived with his team, and they began passing and shooting drills as spectators shouted encouragement.
Ryan did a little stretching and dribbling until the bleachers held at least 400 people. Then he strolled to the 3-point line and immediately transitioned into shooting mode. He had repeated the motion hundreds of thousands of times, too many times to be affected by the crowd. He took his first shot directly in front of the basket. Jump. Release. WHOOSH. He grabbed another ball, moved a few feet to the right on the 3-point line, and repeated.
No one noticed at first. After ten makes in a row, a few people on the bleachers began buzzing. When he got to 20, a dozen people called out the number after each shot. The collective shout grew louder. Ryan remained unfazed.
By 40, the entire gym screamed out the count together. The big five alumni players stopped making shots of their own and simply watched. They began retrieving balls and passing them back to Ryan. At 50, the teenage players on the other side of the court stopped their warmups to join in the count.
On the outside, Ryan showed no emotion and looked the same way he did after his first attempt. Inside, his heart swelled and fluttered in a new way. The deafening count from 50 to 100 echoed in the gym’s rafters. And then Ryan coolly strolled off the court like nothing had happened. A frenzied cheer continued as he stood next to his former classmates wearing a crooked grin. The five former stars patted him on the back and said things like, “When did you learn to shoot like that?”
When the noise died down, a referee blew a whistle and announced it was time to get the game started. He motioned for the teams to meet at midcourt. Ryan stood with the alumni, facing the younger team and Coach Millet.
Suddenly, Millet waved his arms dramatically, pointed at Ryan, and yelled, “He can’t play! He wasn’t part of the championship team!”
“Yeah, but he graduated with us,” Kendrick replied in protest.
“This was supposed to be a game against the old team as it was,” Millet replied.
Ryan pleaded with a dejected face. “C’mon Coach. I didn’t get a chance to play back then. Give me one now.”
“Yeah, what’s the big deal?” Kendrick replied.
“No, out of the question,” Millet said stubbornly. “That’s not what we agreed on. You can’t bring in some hot-shooting ringer at the last minute. My boys aren’t ready for it. I don’t want it affecting their confidence before the season.”
“Then maybe none of us will play,” Kendrick angrily replied.
“No, no. It’s fine. Play without me,” Ryan insisted. “I don’t want to ruin the whole night.”
Word spread among the crowd that Ryan would not be playing. At the tipoff, many spectators booed in protest, but Ryan watched from the sideline and tried to look gracious. The younger team won easily by outrunning their winded alumni competition. When the game was over, the common sentiment was that the outcome would have been different if Ryan was allowed to play.
Still acting as a good host, Ryan was the last person to leave the gym that night. He soaked up every second of conversation and every promise to keep in touch. He took seriously the invitations to stop by if he ever visited a city where one of his classmates lived.
After he locked the doors for the night, he sent a text message to his friend, Millet. “Perfect. Thanks Coach.”
Millet and Ryan orchestrated the entire night, including the fake outrage. An original plan called for Ryan to play with the alumni, but a few practice sessions with the teenage team proved he had no defense or ball handling skills. And he could not shoot with someone in his face. He only looked impressive when lining up wide open attempts.
But the pre-game display gave Ryan more than he dreamed. The sight and sound of the crowd as he dropped shot 100 was a memory that would stick with him forever. He would relive it during unhappy minutes stuck alone in the store. He would describe the sensation when talking about form and persistence in his new role as Millet’s assistant coach.
And he was already thinking up plans for the 20th reunion.
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