Motion

it's a poisonous smell, hard-earned sweat mixed with dirty sneakers and synthetic orange leather. boys are making trick shots from the left half court line and identical, blonde-haired girls in leggings are playing knockout on the right.

the basketballs bounce squeakthud on the polished floor, a cavalcade of shiny white shoes and layups, thwack onto the hoop like darts that morph into throwing knives when you dare to fire your own bullet into the testosterone-fueled battlefield of sports

and we wished we could get away, find a basket in a corner somewhere. another space stolen, taken over by boys with boorish voices and simple, uncomplicated ideas of what it means to have power.

but soon, something opened up: a small one, in the corner of the court where the legging girls had been. we reclaimed ourselves and our bodies in a tangle of jumps and fast heartbeats, sweat beading on our forehead because have never sparkled like the alpha boys in red Air Jordans claimed we did.

and that was when we realized us two girls had more power than anyone in the world on that court, layups and shots and passes and bodies in motion, hair tied back to clear our eyes, showing the world what we were truly made of.