We were up, 26-24, up to 30, 1-2 scoring rule. I've got a swelling pain already in my elbow, a discoloration marked the spot, toxic blood pushing the fresh flow back. A 1.5 litre of coke was on the line, it was throw an elbow or be crushed in the gutter. The slit-eyed drove to my right, the ball tightly clasped over his left hand. The right elbow was cocked like a spear. I met the challenge: I sprung like a wayward rocket. I knew I blocked the shot--the ball was thrown aback--but the elbow impaled me directly to my ribs. The pain was so disconcerting, I felt my ribs cracking and my heart pumping acid. I had no time to compose myself; everything went berserk. The slit-eyed felt he was bullied so he wanted to throw a pakyaw hook to me but my teammates were quick to the draw, at least two of them had already ganged up on the slit-eyed even before he can launch his punch. I was woozy and was holding the arm of papawis, slit-eyed's point guard, who was desperately trying to escape after hitting one of my teammate with a stick. They all scampered; thinking perhaps that we had something to maim and scorch them. I was holding still on my burning ribs. Three days after, the pain still felt like a sword forever stuck into my heart. I counted at least five bruise spots all over my body. Heal now bastards, I've got to play again and fight for that 1.5 litre of coke as if it is the last in this land of pandemics and manual elections.
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