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  • Emma Creighton

The Foul Shot

As the lights become dim—

The wood floor

Becomes my driveway.


People descending, slowly,

One by one.


The walls fade out into dark green trees.


The tips of my toes

A toothpick away from the bold black line.

Fifteen feet from the circular orange rim.


Three dribbles.

One,

Two,

Three.


Inhaling as much air possible,

Exhaling

With a heavy heart.


The loud beautiful beat in the chest becoming steady

Once again.

The red faced players.

The huffing and puffing next to me.


I spin the ball through my fingers.

Anticipating the whisper

Of the whistle.

Looking at the stopped clock.

One more breath.

I Release.


Closed eyes and a focused mind

Waiting

For the sound.


Swish.


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