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Foul Shot MAG
I stand alone.
The beaded sweat runs down my forehead.
A hush falls over the crowd.
They wait in anticipation
Collectively holding their breath.
The dictator in the striped shirt
Hands me the ball.
I cradle it like a baby.
Slowly my hands raise
And the orange sphere
Floats like a balloon in the wind.
It tickles the twine on the way down.
I am victorious.
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