The Game

December 12, 2008
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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