Free Here Come the Dogs by Omar Musa

flick of the wrist,
    the release,
    swish.

    Just like before the injury.

    A scar the size of a caterpillar
    hums on my Achilles.

    Now I’m in the rhythm,
    counting my shots:
    miss, miss, one,
    miss, two, miss,
    three, four, five,
    miss, six, seven,
    miss.

    That word floats into my head.
    Afakasi
– the Samoanisation of ‘half-caste’.
    Not white, not brown.
    Outcasts, loners, entitled.

    I keep shooting, angry and imprecise,
    until the rhythm calms me down again.
    My knees and ankles ache after minutes
    and I take a long draught of water,
    squinting at the sun,
    when a man calls out.

    His name is Fred,
    a small Filipino dude with a transatlantic accent
    and a furry lip.
    He’s excited to have made a new friend.
    As he shoots wildly,
    he explains that he just moved from Perth.
    He’s shirtless as well,
    lean and muscled,
    which makes me feel self-conscious.

    â€˜First to five?’ he says.

    I’m worried about the new tatt,
    but I nod.

    He starts quickly,
    feinting to the right then throwing up an improbable shot,
    which banks hard off the backboard and in.

    1–0

    He has no technique,
    but makes up for it with quick feet and floaty,
    almost boneless movement.
    He’s difficult to read.
    He dribbles to his left,
    gets trapped,
    slips,
    then suddenly jumps and scoops a shot up with his right.
    Swish.
    I land awkwardly
    and there’s a dull toll in the back of my head.

    2–0

    Everything swollen and tight already.
    I try to focus.
    This time, this time I’ll get him.
    I stretch out my arms in a defensive stance,
    showing off my wingspan
    and getting in his face.
    Fred trips forward,
    suddenly unsure,
    apologises when he steps on my foot,
    then runs in circles around the three-point line before I get an easy
    strip.

    I face him and it takes only a flicker
    for my mind to register every possibility,
    Â Â the lie of the court,
    Â Â his uncertain feet.
    I jab step to the left.
    He bites, so I drive hard to the right
    and bully the shorter man out of the way for an easy lay-up.

    1–2

    Check ball.

    I wipe sweat away with my forearm,
    then begin dribbling from the three-point line.
    I drive right,
    cross him up with my left hand,
    the Shammgod move leaving him stranded.
    I finger roll the ball in smoothly.

    2–2

    He looks at me in awe. ‘Did you used to play? Properly, I mean?’
    â€˜Nah. Just messing around.’
    â€˜Damn. You should join a team, bro.’

    I don’t reply.

    The next points don’t come for several minutes.

    I shake beads of sweat off my dreds,
    lungs small as a baby’s fist.
    My Achilles white hot.
    Impotence and fury.
    I try to rearrange my features into the mask I used to wear,
    but I’m breathing so heavily it’s difficult to.
    Fred seems to notice the change in atmosphere
    and has fear on his mug.
    He hadn’t anticipated being drawn into a battle of this kind.
    The sound of the ball on the asphalt
    like a war drum.
    I post him up,
    use my size against him
    and back him down,
    slowly, slowly,
    facing away from the basket,
    slowly, slowly, wearing him down.
    It’s ugly but effective,
    not the fancy moves I once prided myself on.
    I pivot and my hook shot drops in.
    One more to win.

    I summon my fury and focus it into my body.

    I drive for a fadeaway,
    mishandle and bounce the ball off my shin.
    It shoots over the dry grass
    and rolls down a ditch next to the dilapidated wooden fence.
    As I jog to retrieve it,
    I’m suddenly filled with a deep sadness
    at this deteriorating body,
    my waning manhood,
    and I feel tired.

    I wish I were alone.

    Fred shoots and misses.
    I finish it off with a feathery jumper that he praises exuberantly.

    â€˜Mad shot, bro!’

    As I drink deep from my water bottle
    and twist on my hips,
    I notice crumbs of light sparkling on the edge of the court,
    like the glow of treasure.
    I stand for a moment,
    half bent,
    staring,
    thinking about how it was luck