Balls, you discovered one Friday afternoon in the covered
courts, are beautiful. You couldn’t
put it into words, but you knew there was something about its flight that made it
pleasing to the visual senses. You realized it that one fateful intramural basketball
game. Both your class’ team and their opponent were neck and neck in terms of
score, with the enemy team leading by just two points, and only a little under five
seconds were left before the end of the last quarter, as well as the end of the
entire tournament. That was when Steve, your class’ team captain, in possession
of the ball, swiftly crossovered out of the clutches of the enemy’s defense,
stepped precisely in front of the three-point arc, and in one fluid motion, jumped
and let fly of the ball. How proficient, how masterful, how immaculate was his
form in that very moment, from the placement of his feet to the tiny flicking
motions of his fingers, because the flight he caused of the ball was nothing
short of perfect.
The way in which the ball was thrown was precise: not too
high to waste precious time in beating the buzzer, not too low to risk merely
hitting the outside of the ring, but it was thrown at just the right angle with
just the right power to make it travel in an equally precise and efficient arc heading
straight for the basket. The ball flew like a mighty eagle – graceful, calm,
and in control. It was superior, invincible and untouchable above everyone
else, above the spectators and referees who were in both fear and awe, and, most
especially, above the opposition who could do nothing but watch helplessly and
pray to God for an early Christmas miracle, but not without an ominous feeling
that rested deep in the bottom of their souls. At the last split-second, the
ball effectively ended the game with the euphoric, almost silent fwish, that sound that only the most
adept of players can produce.
At the blare of the buzzer, everyone watching went up in flames.
Your team took off their sweatied jerseys and waved them around like victory
flags as they ran back to the embrace of your classmates, who were joyously jumping
and roaring around with the force of a million lions. The opponent team, on the
other hand, walked back home with their faces buried in their hands. It must
have been the ultimate heartbreaker for them, having the championship stolen
from them at the very last second by the most well-executed clutch play
produced in the entire school. Even as you were already watching cars and
lights blur past the window, the only thing that remained in mind was not that
play, but the winning ball. The match had ended, but it remained still in the
midst of the ecstatic riot that was your class. The letters printed on its
surface looked you straight in the eye, as if it was communicating to you an intimate
invitation.
Points: 316
Reviews: 28
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