by Dave Hauser

April 4, 2005

Poised on a diving board, you scan the distance between you and the hoop. One person stares at you from down in the water. Let’s see this. Another person, standing and dripping spots of grey onto the white concrete, eyes you. What do you have this time? From behind the camera, a person watches as your existence burns onto magnetic tape. Here it comes. A small dot on front of the camera shines red across the water, finding its way into your eyes. Do something. You plot the motions in your head, and take a deep breath.

And you’re in the air, your hand clawing the air for that oop you tossed out a little too far.

One leg stretched out ahead of you, the other trailing behind.

Slight waves below rocking the floating white hoop back and forth.

And everyone’s breath caught in their lungs,

As you rise up,

With your arm extended forward,

Reaching.

Almost.

So

Close.

A

Few

Inches

More.

There.

And a few split-seconds exist before you hit the water. So you windmill that thing around once, rear back, and huck it though the hoop. You grab the rim, pulling it down with you as you sink into the water. You know. For effect.

And for that one moment in the air, you saw heaven in front of you. You and it both existed. Floating in the air. Separate and shining out to everyone who watched. And you. You grabbed heaven and made it yours. You took the unattainable and rocked it through a floating white hoop. You owned heaven. And looked damn good in doing so.