Splash

Splash.
The cleanliness of his shot absorbs into the polished, wooden floor.
He backs away
Still with his hand in the air
Holding up three digits,

He wipes the sweat off his brow,
And returns to defensive position.
His ears turn red,
Not used to having all the eyes on him.

Smack.
He falls to the floor,
As he took a perfect charge. 
The foul shot gives him time,
To catch his breath.

He makes both shots.

Splash.
A tear absorbs into the polished, wooden floor.
Because he knows,
The perfect game won't happen again.
As his high school fantasy only lasts one night.