“THREE!”

The throng howls as the most venerated player, Scott Pohle, fires for a three-pointer at the left end of the court. Huge chants of “DEFENSE!”, “P-SOUTH!”, and “HOLY POHLE!” engulf the stadium as the team bounds and rebounds to the hopes of winning the game. After the bell clang, half-time came around the corner, and the players egress to hear from their head. When the players get back from the lockers after the first play, I come to hearten the Scott and his brother, Kevin, to get them bounding to success. After the bound to success, the sound of the horde gulped up the entire stadium. All this, yet before I ever able to cheer them on during their games, it was Scott who first discovered me as a pariah.

It was during the second trimester of Eighth grade was when Scott first witnessed this pariah otherwise known as me. This recluse was smack-dab in the middle of a surrounding multitude in the bubblegum pink hall of the Eighth graders. Groans and cries made by the recluse engulfed the hall, and Pohle, driven by inquisitiveness, ambled into the mob to see what the matter was. He soon made it out: a minuscule, gaunt boy whimpering on the carpet surface. Pohle watched with intrigue and awe and couldn’t help speculating who that bony figure was. After the skeletal figure was taken by two fine young women, he was never to see Scott Pohle ever again; or so he thought.
By the time we all were sucked into the cyclone of the high school years, Scott and Kevin were reintroduced to me via the Freshmen History class. Over time, Scott soon remembered the emaciated outcast who got slammed in the 8th grade lobby. Even though I still had the communication and social skills of someone half my age, they seemed to have that kind of childlike ambiance to him, like I did. Their hugs and humor had given me new friends, whom now greet me with “TYLER!” after my greeting of “POHLE!” The bear hugs and hangings around the shoulder were a sure sign they acknowledged me for who I was, unlike some other cowards who couldn’t perceive beyond the eyes. They could observe the interiors of other people and not presume things about them. That kind of acknowledgment also leads to giving confidence to people who thrash about with anything vital. What’s more, after numerous times of Scott saying that he and his girlfriend broke up, they continuously unearth ways to make the relationship still continue in effort.
Although they were magnificent sportsmen, I never had the opportunity to see them at any of their games. That was until sophomore year’s doors had opened and I was able to see the superb games of the varsity team. Soon Scott Pohle became Holy Pohle, and the chants of “THREE!” and “HOLY POHLE!” ingested the basketball scene. The Varsity Pom-Poms composed praise to the team in a basketball dance that ended with the roar of THREE! While the Pohle twins were worshipped as high school basketball Gods.
The legends continue to live on as they keep jumping to it and discharging more three-pointers than any other player in the universe. They are the real high school heroes whom I am positive will become eminent and excellent pro athletes. They still continue to bless South High with their love, comedy, and sportsmanship, as well as their legends as stars and their willpower by no means to relinquish. They are, by all means, Gods beyond high school impartiality.