By Whitney Osburn
He sits on the floor lacing up his high
Top shoes that will protect his small ankles
Gathering himself stands up and stretches
He grabs a leather round ball off the rack
Gripping the small seams with all five fingers
He walks to the free throw line, takes a breathe
The soft leather and laces of the round ball
In the palm of his hand, his arm at a
Forty degree angle, his arms lift up,
A release from his fingertips, the ball
Slowly slipping from his sweaty palms,
Back spinning, from his hands to the hoop; swoosh.
A loud buzzer goes off like a million
Bees buzzing around a single flower
The team huddles in front of their long bench
Five tall players wearing white uniforms
Walk into the middle of the large court
A ref blows his black whistle and tosses
The ball in the air, the other team gets
It passing it up for a two point shot
Quickly the home team gets behind by ten
The coach yells from the bench “time out, time out”
Huddling together to work a plan
To come back, but it no longer works
The other team ahead by even more
The home team starting to get very sore
Sweat dripping down the middle of the back
Hearts start to break, eyes begin to water.
The clock is running out, the seconds gone
It’s too late, it’s over, the game is lost.
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