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The Game
Hands swishing like windshield wipers
move to block the opponents view
trying to steal the ball
in hopes of scoring more points.
Will they foul me as I shoot? The player follows as I
Sprint down the court, their shoes
Slamming a time bomb in my head, telling me
I only have second until they will block me.
Waiting for the coach to come talk to us at a time out,
Surrounded by hot, sticky, sweaty bodies,
We breathe deeply in an attempt to catch our breath
the stale air of our tight circle, prohibiting thus.
“You got her?” I ask my teammate quickly
And point to a lone opponent in the corner of the court
Where she poses an offensive threat
that keeps our team on their toes.
The timer sounds, an angry bee.
We rush to the locker room
Hearing cheers from our fans
Then in the locker room
a contented silence fills the air
followed by the sound of coaches shoes.
Energetically he comes into the room
Congratulating the team.
We yell team in unison and
Jog back onto the court,
high-fiving as the third quarter begins.
I wipe my shoe with my hands
And lunge toward the ball-
Skin-red marks-a whistle blows!
I look toward my coach and apologize for my mistake.
Knowingly, he waves it off.
~
~
~
Later, when the final buzzer has sounded
In the muggy air of the used gym,
We commend the sorry-faced, worn-out team
Smack…shake…good game.
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