Hitch Kick

The sand was a yellow-white, combed with more care than a Zen garden. Jogo stared at the long jump pit, unblinking. A gentle breeze brushed the perspiration away from his cheek and brought the scents of autumn past his nose. The metal bleacher was no throne, and he was no king; his once straight back bent forward so his elbows could rest on his thighs. His hands were clasped before his mouth as if to prevent evil from invading, or escaping, his lips.