Basketball in the skies

Katie Harling-Challis

I thwack the ball down into the hard, black ground, the asphalt crumbling microscopically. That sound, hollow and deep, but tinged with the high-pitched ringing of taught fibres thrown unexpectedly against hard surfaces. Steady beats, rising pace, swap hands, clap hands, palms stinging, ringing their own sounds. Feet shuffle, side step, back step, swirl under my invincible invisible opponent. Small is agile, fast - easily dismissed. Arms stretch, hands and fingers extend, reaching for the ball that’s gained its brief and false freedom. Caught - success. Now move, side to side to side, head and shoulders down, face up, left arm as a shield, warding off the eager and violent opponent. Now we’re down, crouching, cat-like, knees bent, body bent and ready and rising and springing up and out and we leave the ground and there is pure freedom and ecstasy and the ball experiences its own brief escape once again and it rides high in the air, lifting, curving, spinning that perfect spin, and then down down down, slight bounce, metallic ding, the net shivers, the ball falls through back into its previous trapping universe through the wormhole and into my hands, that clasp and cling and bring the ball close to my chest, my heart, thumping through my limbs and breath clouding into my face, the night sky clear with stars, small galaxies above and falling down on me, upon me.