Sweat, Repeat

He starts by bending his knees, both his feet set on the ground. Both his hands are on the ball, positioned in his shot pocket. He gathers energy as he moves his body upwards, channeling the inertia from his legs to his arms and raising the ball up. His right hand is behind the ball, his elbow straight towards the basket. His left hand is on the side of the ball, providing guidance as he launches it into the air. His right hand follows through but the ball hits the back of the rim. He gathers his own miss. He repeats, his mind somewhere else.

He often finds himself in the same situation. A gentleman born in the wrong decade, women his age seldom understand his qualities. Always the preferred son-in-law candidate, never the worthy potential partner. A dying breed, this sad gunner. No one he's been with is ever ready for what he has to offer, and a man can only take so many heartbreaks. Sooner or later, he'll start to lose all feeling. With every failed relationship, he closes in on becoming just like his peers. Heartless. Numb. Pathetic.

He lies down on the court, ball not far from his hand. He stares directly at the night-sky, gasping for air. Burnt-out, he thinks about going back. A swift wind passes by him and sends a chill over his sweaty body. He pauses for a moment, realizing that there's nothing else to think about. He picks himself up. He looks at the ball next to him and knows exactly what to do next. "100 more jump-shots," he mutters under his own breath.