He moved into the dead rose red paint that peeled into dust under our squeaking rubber soles, framed by white lines, dictators, rules. End lines like yellow tape, Do Not Cross over. One step past my scramble; one foot, hark on its toes, grows from the red; two white leather flower pots for his pulsing hairy legs. He had paused with a purpose, it seems, he teased, then bounced rubber rock on rock before he looked back at me. Hovered by his shadow and the hoop that crowned his head, I lunged to take a risk. In the name of all those 5 foot 4, I threw my hand through the shape his elbow formed, cutting edge with cutting edge, with swift. I’d managed to learn the burn of rubber escaping my fingertips. I’d touched what was his, this giant hoop tyrant, but would soon claim what was mine. My chest sunk back into my frame deflated of hope and pride, only to be filled instead with shame, while his song –grunt, swish, clap, YES –played, and belittled by his High Five.