don’t ask about the bugs

Spotted a scuffed pink rubber handball wedged tight under a tangled root of stoop ivy. Dug it free with two fingers—dense rubber, still loaded with spring. I backed onto the pavement, squared my stance, and whipped it hard against the third granite riser. Crack. The ball ricocheted off the rough stone, rocketing straight back at my nose. I snapped my left hand shut around it mid-air, barely an inch off my bandana. Planted my boots, wound up again, and fired back-to-back rebounds against the chisel marks until the stone rang like a snare drum. Twenty clean catches in a row. Speed hasn't slipped a bit. @waterball123