The ball floats in the air
one, two, three,
and then it's mine.

Water splashes as I run,
each boy stepping in the
waves I create.

But they can't have it. No.
The ball moves toward me,
and then it's mine.

Behind me voices call out,
my skin burns from the tug
of competitor's claws.

My palms lay together,
striking dead center,
and then it's mine.

They didn't get it. No.