Just Like Dad

By Taya Wilson

Heat radiates off my skin in the dim light
inside a sanctuary that my dad and I share.
The vacant bleachers, the audience,
defenders merely visions in my head.
The constant panting of breath and thudding of footwork
mingles with the occasional sound of a crisp pass
and the ball bouncing off the rim.
With every catch of a firm pass,
I feel the rough, leathery texture of the ball in my hand.
My father encourages energy and inspires speed.
Sweat beads on my face,
my feet dancing like lightning on the court,
and squeaking like mice under me, still he calls out faster.
The ball clanks as it hits the rim;
it taunts me as it falls outside the orange cylinder.
He passes me another.
The ball audibly thuds as it lands in my hands.
My fingers run along the small bumps to find the perfect crease.
It’s loaded in my hands, a gun cocked, ready to shoot.
I go through the fluid motion of my shot,
a shot that mimics my father’s,
the trigger pulled, the ball explodes from my hands.
Almost in slow motion, the ball arches towards the goal.
I can feel it the moment it leaves my hands: perfection.
The shot is just like his, everything I want it to be.
The swish of the net confirms my feelings.
I let out a joyous war cry and pump my fists.
Dad grins at my display of pleasure, he pats me on the back,
jokingly telling me I shouldn’t have missed so many.
I know he’s right, but for now, I have the sweet taste of victory in my mouth,
and it makes me hunger for more, more to be
just like Dad.