“Heroes get remembered, but legends never die.”
The Sandlot
There are stories that stick with you because they meant something.
And then there are stories that stick because you’ve told them so many times they’ve been lacquered into myth by repetition and nostalgia.
This is one of those.
It happened in the golden age of teenage delusion—high school.
Specifically, the St. Joseph Academy intramural 3-on-3 league, which was less about basketball and more about unearned confidence and creative team names. My friends Jacob, Daniel (who everyone called D.D.), and I didn’t exactly specialize in winning. We specialized in chaos.
Our team names were our main contribution to the league. One year we went by I Don’t Know Who, which caused such havoc at the scorer’s table that we considered it a moral victory before tip-off.
But sophomore year, we had a new name—one that captured both our insignificance and our optimism: The Mighty Fleas.
And somehow, that name turned out to be prophetic.
Because that was the year we were scheduled to play The Twin Towers.
Now, a quick word about the intramural league. It existed for the rest of us—the non-varsity, the fine-but-not-that-fine athletes. It was supposed to be a safe haven—a place where you could miss a layup and still be respected as a human being.
Which is why it felt vaguely unjust—biblically so—that The Twin Towers were even in the league. They were actual varsity players. Six-foot-something, built like they’d been raised in a Gatorade lab. Their presence was like dropping a shark into a koi pond.
And they weren’t just tall—they were good. Too good. They’d been steamrolling everyone that season, leaving a trail of humbled mortals and broken confidence behind them. They played with the kind of arrogance you only get from knowing gravity itself is on your side.
So when our matchup appeared on the schedule, the result wasn’t in question. We were background characters in their highlight reel.
And as if that wasn’t enough, D.D. got stuck in some after-school thing—detention, choir, saving orphans—who knows. This was the ’90s; he couldn’t text to say why. He just didn’t show.
So there we were: two Fleas against three Towers.
If math is destiny, ours was bleak.
We decided to forfeit. We were halfway to the locker room when the Towers—ever the gentlemen—laughed and said, “Come on, it’ll be over quick anyway.”
They were mocking us. Everyone was. The handful of kids hanging around the gym were already snickering, eager to witness the human equivalent of a bug zapper in action.
But something in us twitched—stubborn pride, maybe, or the dumb hope of youth. We shrugged, looked at each other, and walked back onto the court.
And that’s how the miracle began.
We scored the first point by accident. The second on purpose. By the fourth, people started looking up from their homework. At 10-0, there were whispers. By 12-0, those whispers had turned into a crowd.
Every shot we made was met with disbelief—the kind you see when a magician pulls a rabbit out of a cafeteria tray. The Towers were confused. Then they were mad. Then they started actually trying.
But momentum is a funny thing—it makes even the impossible feel inevitable.
Then, as all good stories go, the comeback began. They scored. Then again. 12-6. 15-12. The gym tightened. You could feel the weight of every missed shot, every gasp from the stands, every squeak of rubber on the hardwood.
And then—it was 19-19.
Jacob had the ball, driving toward the basket like a man possessed (or concussed—it’s hard to tell). All three Towers collapsed on him.
He looked left, then right, then—miracle of miracles—passed.
The ball found my hands.
I didn’t think. Didn’t blink. Just shot.
Swish.
For a moment, there was silence. Then the place erupted.
The same kids who’d been laughing at us minutes earlier stormed the court like we’d just won state.
I swear I saw Mr. Pool, our English teacher and reluctant referee, pump his fist like he’d just graded a perfect essay.
Jacob and I screamed. We chest-bumped like idiots. We were two kids who had just beaten three future orthodontists, and it felt like winning the NBA Finals.
The next day, Mr. Pool stood before the class and declared, “Gentlemen, what I witnessed yesterday was the greatest sporting event of my life.”
He’d seen actual Olympic events on television. But sure, we’d take it.
The victory didn’t change our lives. No scouts called. No highlight reels were made. But that’s not the point.
The point is that for one ridiculous, perfect afternoon, The Mighty Fleas defied math, physics, and probability—and gave the whole school something to cheer for.
We were legends. Briefly.
And honestly, that’s the best kind.
