Sweat trails outline my face as they glisten and reflect the caged lights high above me.
My side pangs where the tall lanky one gave me a razor blade elbow to the rib.
I look ahead of me. I see one, two, familiar faces. One one either side of the painted area where blood is spilled, missed shots are cleaned up, and legacies are created. Both of them are crouched low. Anticipating the trajectory of the shot.
I see five unfamiliar figures. Four of which are clothed in white. One is shorter than all of us, dressed in a striped shirt and a bald head, whistle ready to peirce the air.
The ball is placed in my trembling palms. I look. At my J's, at the metal ring 10 ft off the ground, at the light brown, leather sphere in my uneasy hands.
Boom.
One pound.
Boom.
Another.
My dominate hand is on the top of the ball, as my weak hand offers guidance. Knees bent, I raise the ball to my shoulder, keeping in perfect line.
I continue in one motion, the ball travels past my sweat-lined cheek, above my head. My guide hand breaks from the journey as the dominate finishes the task.
Up.
Up.
Up.
Almost to the point of full extension, my wrist begins to flick down, creating the perfect backspin on the ball.
The ball takes flight as it leaves my fingertips, spinning so the black sharp lines are no longer visible. It glides across the air for what seems like hours.
Then.
Swoosh.
The most beautiful sound known to man.
