Six Seconds Left

“What if you could have a do-over? I’m allowed, I think, to offer a few of those. Yes, maybe. I could give one to you. You can win the game and that I would like to see.”

By David Hopkins

On May 30, 1988, on a Sunday afternoon, Dale Howard dribbled out the clock. The entire arena groaned. Coach raised his hands to pantomime, “What the hell are you doing?” Dale was confused. He looked at the scoreboard.

They were tied.

In the fog of the final minute, he thought they were ahead by one point. Didn’t Joe make both free throws in the last possession? For a moment, Dale was mad at Joe. If only Joe had made both the free throws—but no, this was Dale’s fault. Dale Howard did nothing with the ball, and looked like an idiot. He could’ve penetrated for a mid-range jumper. He could’ve passed the ball to Mark, the team’s best shooter, who was wide open. Instead, Dale Howard dribbled out the clock, forcing his team into overtime where they lost the fourth game and the playoff series.

He didn’t know it at the time, but that season was their best chance for the championship. The next season, key players would be traded. Their promising rookie would be banned from the Association for drug use. The management would set a precedent for bad draft picks and poor planning, tanking the team for the next decade. Dale would leave the Association without having won a championship. He would be known as one of the greatest players to never make the all-star team, and he would always be remembered as the player who dribbled the ball with six seconds left on the clock when he could’ve taken the shot.

In the following years, the press loved asking him about that last possession. It was the only thing they were interested in. Dale, always patient, would explain he made a mistake. He’d tilt his head and shrug his shoulders in an exaggerated fashion to indicate the comical severity of his error. He thought his team was up by one point. He thought Joe had made both free throws. The game had been so close, with so many lead changes. Sometimes players get into a zone, experience tunnel vision, and their mind plays tricks on them.

Fans were a little kinder. They would ask for his autograph or to pose in a photo, then after a minute of conversation they would inevitably venture to those final six seconds. They inquired with such sincerity as if they were the first person to get the real story.

The story never changed. On May 30, 1988, Dale Howard had a chance to win the game, and he didn’t.

Now 49-years-old, he was no longer a lanky point guard. He gained the weight he probably was always meant to have, had he not given his body to pro sports. He was married, had two grown daughters, and one grandson. He lived in the city where he played for most of his career, the city where he lost the game. The money he made as a basketball player was good, but it didn’t last. Players had to pick up other jobs—as high school or college coaches, as front office staff or “player development” specialists for a faithful franchise, as sports commentators. Some found work in European leagues. Many left the game altogether, putting down the ball and settling into a cubicle. Some started their own businesses.

Dale Howard owned a sports bar. He mostly worked in the back room, handling payroll and making orders. His managers took care of the daily duties. Occasionally Dale would emerge from the back, walk around and ask people how their meal was. He made a modest income, as he prepared for retirement.

Dale was surprised by how much he enjoyed having a “real job.” Being a professional basketball player was a dream come true, and it was also incredibly stressful, filled with egos and emotions. The schedule was exhausting, and it took a toll on him. Physically, he had been preparing his whole young life for the Association. But mentally, he had been overwhelmed. It takes a special sort of sociopath to be great and to survive for two decades. And it wasn’t in him.

He wasn’t famous enough to be immediately recognizable, so it allowed him a certain degree of anonymity. Although, at least once a month, some basketball fan would spot him and, of course, that meant every month he had to explain the final six seconds.

Today, Dale was taking inventory behind the bar, talking with Katie who worked the afternoon shift. She was telling Dale about her plans to buy a new phone when she stopped mid-sentence. He looked up from notepad to see what was got her attention. Katie’s mouth hung wide open, shocked and embarrassed.

“Oh Dale, I’m so sorry.”

All the televisions were tuned to the cable sports network. They were airing a show segment called “Top 25 Biggest Sports Blunders.” There he was, a younger more confused Dale Howard, dribbling the ball as the clock ran down. Dale had never seen the footage. He didn’t actively avoid it. He just never had a good reason to hunt down the archived game film. He remembered it well enough or so he thought. The time moved much faster than he remembered. Dale also never saw the reaction of the crowd. As he walked off the court at the end of regulation and his coach explained what happened, the camera panned to fans groaning and looking at him like he was an absolute fool. One woman had her arms crossed and was shaking her head.

Everyone in the bar was looking at Dale. One guy in the back raised his beer, sympathetically.

“Excuse me.” Dale left the bar and sat in his office. A moment of quiet, then he shoved everything off his desk. He grabbed a glass of water and threw it against the wall. It shattered. The silence returned. Dale took deep breaths to try calming down. He held his hands in front of him. They were shaking. Breathe. He walked across the room to grab a broom and dustpan, and swept the broken glass.

Before leaving for the night, Dale called his wife. She was already asleep, but he wanted her to know he’d be home later than normal.

“What’s wrong?” She tried to wake up, but her voice was tired and slurred.

“Nothing, love. I’m going for a walk. I need to clear my head.”

“Be careful.”

Dale laughed. “No one is going to mess with me.”

“I love you. Don’t stay out too late.”

“I won’t. Love you too.”

He left his Chevy truck and walked to the end of the parking lot. A sidewalk led to a small park a quarter mile away. He reached the park and sat on one of the benches. He sat and listened to the sounds of cars on the street, beyond the line of trees, the crickets humming, and leaves rustling from a soft breeze.

Then, the world tilted. He felt nauseous, drunk. The stars went from pinpoints to stretching into glowing arcs across the black sky. A nearby streetlight hummed loudly. Dale was disoriented, a twisting and vibrating throughout his entire body. With a snap, everything returned to normal—normal with the exception of a tiny man standing in front of him.

The tiny man was no taller than three feet. His body was normally proportioned with the exception of his round belly. His facial features were grossly enlarged. His eyes bulged and were darker than the surrounding night. He had buckteeth, large hairy ears, and a nose that extended a hand’s width from his rough face. He wore a dark gray jumpsuit and a ballcap featuring the retro-logo of Dale’s old team. This strange little man smelled like peaches.

Dale was terrified of this stranger, but he managed a simple question. “Who are you?”

“My name? A good question, a good start to a conversation. My name is Ticteri Tannier. And as you might guess,” he held his hand, level with the top of his head to indicate his size, “I was never any good at basketball. Not at all.”

This stranger talked with an awkward, nervous cadence—unsure and fumbling through his sentences.

“But what are you?” Dale asked.

“Another good question! Yes, wait, no, I imagine you’ve never seen one of my kind. We are a rarity, ever so rare. Ever so rare. But to simplify the answer. I am, good sir, a big fan.”

“A fan?”

“The biggest.” He bowed to show his appreciation. “I have seen every recreational, high school, college, and professional game you’ve ever played. I have seen every practice game—scrimmage, yes? Any time you have picked up a ball, regulation or otherwise, I’ve taken look just to make sure I wasn’t missing anything.”

“How—” Dale could not believe he was having this conversation with a… gnome? Elf? Dwarf? Whatever this thing was. “How is that even possible?”

“Yes, yes, I’ve been confused with gnomes. A common mistake, but I am a nisse. A nisse. How is it possible? How are you possible? We’ve been around much, much longer. Year after year after year after year, we get bored. Three thousand years is a long time to be, be anything. In the past, we would start battles, wars, skirmishes among your people for entertainment. But, but the weapons got bigger, and you made it less fun. However—” Tic’s eyes became larger. In that, they literally grew larger all around. “—we discovered your sports. Far more entertaining, easier to watch without having to avoid the bullets and bombs, and prolific. Prolific!”

Tic pressed his hands together to confide a personal joy. “I have always been a fan of basketball. One on one, three on three, five on five. It is a joy to watch. The drama!”

Tic made a pathetic attempt at jumping, but one foot stayed planted on the ground.

“Normally, we stay out of sight. Out of sight, out of mind. However, I am concerned, deeply concerned, because you stopped playing.”

“I’m a little too old to be playing basketball.”

“Nonsense! I saw an 80-year-old man throw a toy ball through a plastic hoop. It, was, tremendous. Nothing but net and the floor. You. You stopped all together, stopped.”

“I guess,” Dale rubbed his baldhead. “I didn’t love the game as much as some.”

Tic took a step back, a little shocked. “Does this have to do with the 30th of your May on your 1988, the game that day? You were waiting, when you should have been doing.”

Dale laughed. Every fan, it seems, real or fantastic, comes back to that game. “It wasn’t that game. I think—”

“What if you could have a do-over? I’m allowed, I think, to offer a few of those. Yes, maybe. I could give one to you. You can win the game and that I would like to see.”

Dale looked around. What was happening? He hadn’t noticed before, but everything was silent and had been for a while. The sounds of cars on the street, beyond the line of trees, was completely gone. No crickets. No rustling leaves. The world had stopped.

“Tic.” Dale said his name and Tic smiled to hear it. “You can send me back?”

“It only costs a do-over.”

Dale thought for a second. He had negotiated with agents and managers before. He knew there was a hidden cost. Something was missing. In all likelihood, none of this was real. At best, it was a dream. At worst, he was having a stroke and this is what every retired basketball player sees before he dies… a tiny white man making strange offers.

“How much does the do-over cost?”

“Good! Question! You are good. Most do-overs cost a do-over. However, in this instance, it’s my do-over to give and I am giving it to you, in exchange for some entertainment. You win the game, and the do-over is done. My favorite basketball player is victorious. Ta. Dah.”

Tic reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a dead mouse. Dale jumped back.

“This, Dale Howard, is a do-over. Take it.”

Dale held his hand out to Tic. Tic placed the dead mouse in the open palm. The world tilted like it had done before.

An ocean of noise rushed in and vanquished the silence. It was the noise of a crowd. Dale Howard was young again, inside the arena, wearing his jersey and shorts. He was dribbling the ball. Six seconds was left on the clock. For a second, he was confused—and then found himself again. He needed to take the shot. He took two quick steps to the left, and pulled up for a jump shot. The shot felt good leaving his fingers, but he missed. An opponent grabbed the rebound, held on, and the buzzer sounded. They were going into overtime.

The world tilted again.

Dale was back in his original spot on the court, only a few feet over, still dribbling. Six seconds remained. He took two quick steps to the left again. Another shot. He missed again. The ball bounced off the front rim. The buzzer sounded, and the world tilted again.

Another shot, another miss, and a return to his starting point with the ball—then world tilted again, knocking him back six seconds. Dale Howard took the shot over and over again, ten times, a hundred times, a thousand times. Each time he missed, the buzzer sounded and he started the six seconds over. He had never been so inept. The ball missed in every way imaginable, an air ball, front rim, back rim, in and out, and over the backboard. He tried taking one step, three steps, same result. He shot the ball wildly from where he stood. Over and over. Nothing.

Dale decided to pass the ball to Mark, a nice clean bounce pass. Mark fumbled with the ball; the buzzer sounded, and the world tilted. Dale passed again. An opponent came out of nowhere and stole the pass. The world tilted. Mark caught the pass and missed the shot. The world tilted.

Dale passed it to every player on his team. No one was able to score. He even tried passing it to players who couldn’t conceivably catch the pass due to the opponent’s coverage. The buzzer would sound, and everything would reset.

Driving to the basket, he hoped for an open lane or maybe a foul call. He crashed into an opponent, but the call was against Dale every time. He tried and he tried, but he could not find a clear path to the basket. He tried penetrating from different angles, but could not get there before the buzzer ended the game.

In his desperation, Dale attempted to score on his own basket. He ran into the stands. He ran to the locker room. He knocked over a five gallon water cooler onto the court, which created a delay while the mess was cleaned up. His coach screamed at him, and sent him to the bench. No matter his action, no matter how absurd, when the buzzer sounded and game ended, everything returned to six seconds left.

I can’t tell you with any certainty how long Dale Howard spent reliving those final six seconds. But however long you think it might have been, it was longer than that. Entire life times passed while Dale tried to score. Each time, he would fail, the buzzer would end the game, and his entire existence would restart. He always had the same amount of stamina at the beginning of each six seconds. He never tired physically, and mentally he was as focused as before, if not moreso. He forgot the name of his wife, the names of his two daughters and his one grandson. His entire world narrowed with laser-like precision on this one objective. He had to score, but he couldn’t. Again, and again, and again.

And again.

Dale put the ball down on the court, and shouted the one name he remembered, “Ticteri Tannier!” More than anything, he needed to escape and return home. The buzzer sounded, and the world tilted.

Dale knew Tic had to be watching this game. He had to be somewhere. During the next six seconds, he looked into the arena. Where would his biggest fan be? He checked the courtside seats. One seat was empty. The final seconds of a close and crucial playoff game, why would this seat be empty? Dale needed time, so he threw the ball out of bounds. The crowd was livid. The coach was yelling, but Dale ignored them all and walked over to the empty seat. He reached toward the emptiness and found a nisse. It wasn’t that Ticteri Tannier reappeared. More like, Tic had always been there, visible, and grabbing for him made that fact apparent. Tic smiled in surprise at being discovered.

Dale pleaded with Tic. “Tell me why I can’t make the shot!”

“Some do-overs lead us to places that can’t be done over.” Tic looked down at his shoes. “This might be one of those places. It just might”

“So, I’m stuck here forever?” Dale could hear his teammates yelling at him. They were about to inbound the ball.

“That might be so. That might be no. It’s tricky. You may have to get creative.”

Dale had an idea. “Let Joe do over the free throws.”

“I cannot, cannot do that,” Tic stated.

“It’s my do-over now,” Dale reasoned, remembering their initial conversation. “It’s my do-over to give.”

“Yes…” Tic couldn’t argue with that.

“I want to give my do-over to Joe, so he can make the free throws.”

Dale looked into his hands. The dead mouse, the do-over, materialized. Dale ran to Joe, and shoved the dead mouse in his hand.

“Do over your free throws!” Dale shouted.

Joe looked at his hand, horrified by the dead mouse. “Have you lost your mind?!” The world tilted, but this time before any buzzer sounded.

Dale was near the basket, while Joe stood at the free throw line. Joe looked at Dale, confused.

“Take your free throws!”

Joe made the first one, and Dale felt such relief. Surely, this was the answer.

The referee handed the ball to Joe for his second shot. Joe dribbled once, twice, held the ball in both hands, and looked up at the basketball. He brought the ball up over his head, shooting arm perfectly perpendicular to the floor, and his other hand holding the ball in place. With a hoist and a snap of his wrist, he launched the ball into the air, a beautiful arc.

Joe missed the second shot. The ball hit off the back rim and bounced high into the air. Dale jumped and reached for the rebound. He and an opponent both grabbed the ball, and wrestled for it. A whistle blew. The ref put both thumbs up, calling for a jump ball. His opponent, the person also vying for the jump ball, was the other team’s center. He was eight inches taller than Dale and extremely athletic. It was almost comical. There was no way Dale could win this jump ball. He had to time his jump perfectly. The ref held the ball and tossed it into the air. An electricity surged within Dale that he had never known before. He leaped high, and his fingers barely grazed the airborne ball. At his fingertips, he was able to ever so slightly propel the ball behind him to one of his teammates. It was impossible; it was amazing. The arena erupted in cheers. Dale’s team had the final possession, and it was a tie game. No time outs remained.

Joe held onto the ball as the clock ran down. Dale called for the shot. Joe passed it to him. Two seconds left on the clock, Dale squared up to the basket, a defender rushed towards him with arms outstretched. Dale faded away and took the shot. The roar from the fans started tentatively as the shot looked certain. And once the ball went through the hoop, the roar exploded in volume and intensity. Everything around Dale magnified. The court, the arena, everything expanded.

They were up by one point, and the buzzer sounded. They won. His teammates rushed to Dale, hugging him, patting him on the back and on the head.

Dale looked around for Ticteri Tannier. Tic’s empty seat was filled by another fan.

Dale assumed once the game was won he would magically return to his own time, but that must have been the hidden cost. Do-overs don’t work like that. The history must be relived. Within a few hours, his remaining memory of the future and of Tic shriveled into nothing. This present was the present, to be relived.

Dale’s team did not win the championship as he had assumed. The Eastern conference team played magnificently. Dale was right though. That season was their best chance for a championship. Key players would be traded. Their promising rookie would be banned for drug use. The management would set a precedent for bad draft picks and poor planning, tanking the team. The next season, Dale did play better than his career average. He was selected for the all-star team, once and only once, but it was enough.

During the last game of his last season, out of the corner of his eye, Dale thought he saw a tiny man with a round belly sitting courtside. Dale turned, distracted, and saw that the seat was empty. He detected the faint smell of peaches.

Dale faced towards the basket and took his shot.