basketball

            I am taken down the court. Bounce after bounce. Hitting the ground over and over again, but it doesn’t hurt. It is power, it is love. I sit in your hands, waiting for someone to be passed to. The power I bring you when you are holding me. Everyone relies on you to not mess up—everyone relies on you to get me in the net. Every person on the opposing team is watching your every move, my every move. I have been passed to someone else. Attention has moved to another player—you’re no longer in the spotlight, but I always remain in the light. It’s a team sport; you have to share the limelight, but I am selfish.

A pass goes into the key, the ball is caught. I watch and wait, hoping someone will use me to get a point. She turns, but her check is standing right in front of her—blocking her from taking a shot on me. I strive for that shot, that bounce off of me. She jabs right, her check falls for the fake, I am going to be used, and oh how I have missed it. The ball echo’s as it hits me. My square target point you look for every time you go for a layup. If you hit my square in just the right spot, at just the right speed, you’ve made me happy. The ball drops slowly into my mesh, falling through my hoop. Two points. You leave the ball there, bouncing on the ground—waiting for someone to pick it up. You leave me alone, to go score on my opponent. I will miss you until you come back.

I am no longer yours; I am now in the hands of the other team. Your job is to fight for me-- get me back. The most dangerous part of this sport is when I am not in your control. Defense—quick feet, aware eyes, ready to pounce for me.

Defend me as if I am your life. The adrenaline that follows a stuff, or a steal. The quickness that follows that. The whole team runs as fast as they can down the court, hoping to put my body to use, hoping to score once again into my lonely mesh. Their basket is no longer in danger, it is me that is in danger—but I strive for that attention. You left your basket, undefended, unprotected, and all alone, but for me I am attended.

And after that hour and half, both teams leave. One a winner, one a loser. A hard fought game that has come to an end. You leave me—a poor orange rubber ball alone, for I am no longer a use for you at this time. I am put away, no more control, no more attention, just loneliness as I wait for my next opponents to fight for me.

And I am left to hang, no one to protect me, no one to score on me. No need for anyone to protect me at this time. For I am like the ball, in order for me to be loved, the ball must be too. I dangle there, waiting for the ball to hit my square. Waiting for the sensation of the ball when it falls through my mesh—waiting to defeat my opponent hanging on the other side of the gym.

Everyone is left waiting—the players, the circular rubber ball, and the plastic backboard. All left to be, until the next game comes. Until those players decide they miss the ball and net. Until they realize they miss the spotlight, and the power. Until then, everything is left alone to rest.