The handball championships.
The best of the best.
Playing in the finals.
They dive and swat and scream.
Scraping the ground, bloody knees and elbows.
Plastic goggle frames fly off their heads, cracking on the pavement.
Ragged leather gloves, torn surfer shorts, soles ripping off of their shoes.
Towels soaked in sweat, empty water bottles.
Pickle brine jars.
Anything for a win, anything.
Shouting at the referee, the crowd.
Kicking over chairs.
Time out, time out.
One more serve to go.
Bounce it on the ground.
Slap it, and scream with everything you’ve got.