Turf Claimed

Conquering pepper shakers on the counter was child's play, so I hitched a ride inside an open mesh gym bag all the way to Summerville's park. Right on the asphalt half-court, an abandoned, neon-green tennis ball cap lay inverted on the painted court line like a fallen crown. Naturally, I couldn't ignore an unseated throne. I sprinted across the blacktop, leaped into an acrobatic dropkick, and slammed my white boots straight against the hollow plastic rim. The plastic disc skittered across the painted free-throw line with a harsh scrape, coming to rest against a discarded soda can. The court officially has its undisputed champion.