The Tomahawk Jam is my favorite dunk. It embodies the grace of basketball at its best, but also the raw physical power of an athlete in his or her prime. There are certain expectations most of us have about unicycles, and they generally don't include The Tomahawk. Unicycles are the conveyances of clowns and jugglers, not the launchpads of athletes, but a ferocious blur pulled me back to the game. Ramel Robinson, the Michael Jordan of unicycle basketball, came ripping from the right side of the basket, his body and cycle at a 45-degree angle to the Arena floor; then, from the baseline, about four feet from what would have been the outside of the key, his mighty legs exploded into the pedals and, for all intents and purposes, he took flight. It was the platonic ideal of a Tomahawk Jam: his back arched, his feet curving upward and his two chiseled arms, gripping the ball like Atlas, reaching back to meet them like coiling a spring. Like his body, the moment hung there, frozen. When I tell you I was stunned, there is no exaggeration. Listening to my taped interviews, at that moment, mid-sentence, I pause and mutter, "Jesus." Then the spring snaps, his spine curves back, legs thrust forward, and his hands bring the ball to the hoop like a fucking hammer.