Moving On

The girls, all dressed in white, uniformly marched up the red, tiled stairs. Their perfectly coiffed pony tails swinging happily behind. They were all different. Shapes. Sizes. Personality. Ability. The tension was as thick as fog on a damp fall night as they crossed into the packed gymnasium. Number 24 turned to me, gave me a quick hug, and whispered, ?This night is ours!? I smiled, knowing she was right.

The whistle blew as the over-weight referee tossed the leather ball high into the air. Two, fleshy hands dripping with nervous sweat reached for the sky, desperately hoping that their finger tips touched first. A voluminous roar filled the gym, bouncing from rafter to rafter, as the white angels captured possession of the basketball. This possession, the key to victory, was shared by all. Anxious teammates shouted words of encouragement from their cold, steel chairs. Number 34 launched the ball from way behind the black, three-point arc on the wooden floor. Every sneaker-clad pair of feet lifted off the ground in a joyous, excitement-filled leap. They had scored first, the psychological battle ending with the angels victorious.

The devilish opponents never saw their humiliating defeat coming. They were too self-absorbed in their own game plans. They were given no space, not even an inch to breathe or move. The angels dominated every aspect of the game, proving good will always triumph over evil. The devils? coach, clad in a pea-green suit that made the stomach churn, would not look the players in the eye. He was a proud man, with a horrible reputation and temper. After finishing the standard complimentary hand shake, number 24 tapped me on the shoulder. I quickly opened my arms and as we embraced, she whispered, ?This night is ours!? I smiled, a tear of joy streaming down my cheek, knowing that this was my last victory.