tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-62304484303916422332024-03-12T17:27:50.893-07:00Gentrification: The Early Works of Ed WagemannEd Wagemannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17064932689724454936noreply@blogger.comBlogger2125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6230448430391642233.post-2044264007094427662019-05-23T09:45:00.005-07:002023-01-26T05:08:25.933-08:00bean ball<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<div class="PreformattedText" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><div class="PreformattedText" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><div class="PreformattedText" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><span>The summer of 1980 was my last summer before becoming a teenager. My little league team won our town's little league championship that summer. Things like that are epic for a 12 year old. My best friend on the team was Billy "The Goo-man" Googins. Billy and I celebrated by camping out in his back yard, drinking Mountain Dews all night and making fart noises under our arms. Billy played right field for our team and was our worst hitter. He was extremely afraid of getting beaned by a baseball. He was so terrified by getting hit that he would partialy duck out of the batter's box every time the pitcher released his pitch. Occasionally he would get a base on balls, but over the course of the season, he did not get a single hit. Still, our team won our town championship which meant that we were invited by Creve Coure (the small town five miles north of us) to play against their league champion. <o:p style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"></o:p></span></div></div><div class="PreformattedText" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><br style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;" /></div></div><div class="PreformattedText" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><span>Creve Coure was a stinkhole of little town with a population of 5,500, almost twice that of our town. My mother made me roll up the windows in the car whenever we drove through Creve Coure because the stench from a local factory was so disgusting. The houses in Creve Coure were cheap, the schools were cheap and the alcohol was cheap. But their little leage baseball team was always tough. Creve Coure's champion team was coached/managed by Kim Humphries, a t-shirt wearing, 30 something year old unemployed bartender or something. Each year Humphries collaborated with the other coaches in Creve Coure to stack all the best twelve year olds onto his team so basically his team was the All-Star team of Creve Coure. Since Marquette Heights didn't host an All-Star tournament, Creve Coure would just invite our town's champion to play a game against Humphries team each year. Our Marquette Heights team had lost to Creve Coure eight times in a row and now this year they had some six foot tall mutant 12 year old pitching for them, "Lightning" Rod Blander, who reportedly threw the ball over 85 miles per hour. There wasn't an 11 or 12 year old around who could hit the bastard. The only problem was that Blander had control problems - he was always beaning the shit of kids. There were rumors in fact that he had actually hospitalized kids and even put a kid into a coma with one of his wild fastballs. <o:p style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"></o:p></span></div></div><div class="PreformattedText" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><br style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;" /></div></div><div class="PreformattedText" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><span>Billy "The Goo-man" Googins was petrified of the prospect of stepping into the batter's box against this mutant, and he confided in me that he was having crazy nightmares in which he was being chased around town and being pelted with baseballs by a bunch of six foot tall mutant 12 year olds. Billy's father, 'Old Man' Gooman I called him, looked to me to remedy the situation. I was the first baseman on our team. I joked around a lot, was relaxed on the ball diamond, and prided myself on my clutch hitting. Old Man Gooman became my biggest fan earlier in the season when I broke up Dennis Tuttle's no-hitter in the 7th inning by lining a double off the center field fence. Dennis Tuttle's dad just happened to be Old Man Gooman's supervisor at a local factory. After that, Old Man Gooman was in the stands every game, right behind our dugout, keeping a score card and updating player's stats with each pitch. Every time you'd look up, there he was with his calculator, figuring out some stat. He never did any coaching, but he was always hovering around the team practices as if he was part of our team. <o:p style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"></o:p></span></div></div><div class="PreformattedText" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><br style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;" /></div></div><div class="PreformattedText" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><span>After winning our town championship, our team had four days to prepare for the Creve Coure game. We held a practice each day. On the last day of practice, as Billy's turn for batting practice came, Old Man Gooman called me over to the side of the dugout.<o:p style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"></o:p></span></div></div><div class="PreformattedText" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><br style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;" /></div></div><div class="PreformattedText" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><span>"Say," Old Man Gooman smiled at me. "You know how important this game against Creve Coure is gonna be, don't you?"<o:p style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"></o:p></span></div></div><div class="PreformattedText" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><br style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;" /></div></div><div class="PreformattedText" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><span>"I think so," I answered.<o:p style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"></o:p></span></div></div><div class="PreformattedText" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><br style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;" /></div></div><div class="PreformattedText" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><span>"Well, we have a little situation with Billy, you know. I mean, he's an adequate fielder, but... we are going to need every advantage we can get against that Creve Coure team," Old Man Gooman explained.<o:p style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"></o:p></span></div></div><div class="PreformattedText" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><br style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;" /></div></div><div class="PreformattedText" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><span>I looked over at Billy, whose batting helmet seemed two sizes too big for him. Our coach threw him a soft pitch and Billy instinctively stepped backwards. <o:p style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"></o:p></span></div></div><div class="PreformattedText" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><br style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;" /></div></div><div class="PreformattedText" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><span>"Son, you're a team leader," Old Man Gooman continued. "I realized that when you knocked that double off of Dennis Tuttle to break up his no-hitter."<o:p style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"></o:p></span></div></div><div class="PreformattedText" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><br style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;" /></div></div><div class="PreformattedText" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><span>I nodded.<o:p style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"></o:p></span></div></div><div class="PreformattedText" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><br style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;" /></div></div><div class="PreformattedText" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><span>"Now that's what you have to do here. You've got to take charge. Be a leader."<o:p style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"></o:p></span></div></div><div class="PreformattedText" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><br style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;" /></div></div><div class="PreformattedText" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><span>I looked over my shoulder at Billy again, slouched there and inched backed into the very farthest corner of the batter box. <o:p style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"></o:p></span></div></div><div class="PreformattedText" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><br style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;" /></div></div><div class="PreformattedText" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><span>"That means that you got to do something about Billy," Senior Gooman continued. "You gotta make sure he gets his head back into this game - you're the only one he'll listen to."<o:p style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"></o:p></span></div></div><div class="PreformattedText" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><br style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;" /></div></div><div class="PreformattedText" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><span>This last bit was true enough. I could talk Billy into nearly anything. I guess that's why he was my best friend. One time I had gotten him to throw a marble-sized spit wad at our school librarian, Mrs. Martz, that landed right in her ear. Then another time I put him up to pouring Drano into the aquarium in Mr. Ozog's Science class - causing the genocide of an entire school of exotic fish. So I nodded in agreement with Old Man Gooman as he revealed his plan.<o:p style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"></o:p></span></div></div><div class="PreformattedText" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><br style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;" /></div></div><div class="PreformattedText" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><span>"There's only one way to get Billy over this phobia - and that's for him to face his fears head on," the old man explained. "What you're gonna have to do is stand his scrawny ass up against a fence, put a ball bat in his hands, and get a bunch of your teammates to pelt him with baseballs!"<o:p style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"></o:p></span></div></div><div class="PreformattedText" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><br style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;" /></div></div><div class="PreformattedText" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><span>I did a double take at Old Man Gooman.<o:p style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"></o:p></span></div></div><div class="PreformattedText" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><br style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;" /></div></div><div class="PreformattedText" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><span>"Do it," he grimaced at me and nodded as though we understood each other. "It's the only way."<o:p style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"></o:p></span></div></div><div class="PreformattedText" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><br style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;" /></div></div><div class="PreformattedText" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><span>And that's when I realized his crazy sumabitch was out of his mind. Yet one thing about his plan did make sense. Billy had to get over his fear of getting hit by a beanball. </span>That night, Billy and I took our customary late-night bike ride around town and I explained to him how he was going to have to get over his fear.</div></div><div class="PreformattedText" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><br style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;" /></div></div><div class="PreformattedText" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><span>"The first time you come up to the plate," I explained to him, "You're gonna have to lean into one of Lightning Rod's best fastballs." <o:p style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"></o:p></span></div></div><div class="PreformattedText" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><br style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;" /></div></div><div class="PreformattedText" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><span>Billy obviously didn't like this suggestion. His eyebrows made a 'V' as he looked at me. His lips tightened.<o:p style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"></o:p></span></div></div><div class="PreformattedText" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><br style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;" /></div></div><div class="PreformattedText" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><span>"Get beaned intentionally," I continued, "that way you'll get over your fear of being hit." I popped a small wheelie to accentuate my point.<o:p style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"></o:p></span></div></div><div class="PreformattedText" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><br style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;" /></div></div><div class="PreformattedText" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><span>"Plus you won't have to worry about getting beaned again, because you know there's no way you could get beaned twice in the same game...by the same guy."<o:p style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"></o:p></span></div></div><div class="PreformattedText" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><br style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;" /></div></div><div class="PreformattedText" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><span>Such is a twelve year olds line of reasoning. But my skills of persuasion only marginally prevailed as on the day of the big game Billy showed up with an expression that teetered between stoic determination and utter horror. In the dugout I offered Billy a wad of ABC gum for good luck as we watched Lightening Rod in his pre-game warm up. Lightening Rod was every bit as menacing as we could have imagined. Even his wind up was intimidating. He would rock back once, then twice, then kick his left foot out violently and without even looking at his target he would rear back and then let her fly with a snarl, that seemed more fitting for a demon than a human. The ball zinged through the air in a blur and exploded into the catcher's mitt with an</span> deafening WHACK with each pitch! Billy jumped from fright with every explosion.<o:p style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"></o:p></div></div><div class="PreformattedText" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><br style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;" /></div></div><div class="PreformattedText" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><span>"Just lean in to her," I consoled, giving him a wink for encouragement. "It'll just sting for a second."<o:p style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"></o:p></span></div></div><div class="PreformattedText" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><br style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;" /></div></div><div class="PreformattedText" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><span>---<o:p style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"></o:p></span></div></div><div class="PreformattedText" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><br style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;" /></div></div><div class="PreformattedText" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><span>As testement to him being the worse hitter on our team, Billy batted last in the order, which meant if Lightning Rod was pitching well, then Billy he might only have to face him two times the entire game, the third and maybe the fifth or sixth inning. But instead Billy came up to bat in the very first inning. Lightening Rod was already beaning everyone in sight. He was trying to throw the ball too damn hard and was absolutely out of control. His coach came out to the mound to give him a few words of encouragement, with the hopes of calming him down, then WHAM! The very next pitch was a dart right in the middle of the next batter's shoulder blades. <o:p style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"></o:p></span></div></div><div class="PreformattedText" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><br style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;" /></div></div><div class="PreformattedText" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><span>When it came time for Billy to step up to the plate, there were two runners on base - both had been beaned. Larry LePew was on third base, he had gotten whacked in the elbow and was holding his hand over a huge welt that was swelling up like a grape fruit. And Davey Wolfson had gotten it in the ankle and was hobbling around second base on one foot like he had shit in his shoe. Any illusion of confidence that Billy might have mustered up before the game was now completely gone. He timidly approached the plate, like a man walking toward the electric chair. As always his helmet was way too big and loose, so that he resembled one of those wooden Bobbleheads whose head bobs up and down.<o:p style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"></o:p></span></div></div><div class="PreformattedText" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><br style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;" /></div></div><div class="PreformattedText" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><span>I clapped my hands from the dugout and gestured to Billy: 'Just lean in to her' I motioned. Billy tiptoed into the batter's box like an old lady dipping a toe into a tube to test how hart the water is before she slips in. Before Billy even looked up at his demon, Lightening Rod impatiently rocked back, kicked, grunted and fired. The ball rocketed out of his hand at over 85 mph and Billy didn't even have to worry about leaning in to it - it was heading right for his head. Billy froze, the deer in the headlights, as the ball whacked up upside the ear hole, cracking his helmet in two and knocking the Gooman out cold.<o:p style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"></o:p></span></div></div><div class="PreformattedText" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><br style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;" /></div></div><div class="PreformattedText" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"><span>The bad news for Billy was that he had to be taken to the emergency room and treated for a concussion. But the good news was that Marquette Heights beat Creve Coure in a landslide 11 to 3. And when the last out had been recorded and we received honorary trophies, Old Man Gooman drove me to the hospital, where we gave Billy his trophy. Since Billy hadn't even had to lean into the Lightening Rod fastball, I didn't feel any responsibility for his cracked head. Yet when I walked into his room and saw him there, spread out on the hospital bed with a peach-sized bruise on the side of his noggin, he looked up at me as if it were all my fault!</span></div></div></div></div><div class="PreformattedText" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; margin: 0px;"></div></div></div>
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Ed Wagemannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17064932689724454936noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6230448430391642233.post-85557279422967415412017-06-06T14:20:00.005-07:002021-03-15T10:03:23.566-07:00streetball junkie<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Chicago, 1991.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had just turned 23 when I became strung out on streetball, needing a fix at least 6 days a week, up to 10 hours a day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The court where I hung out the most was in Chicago’s Bucktown neighborhood.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bucktown was still a year or two away from becoming gentrified at that time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a neighborhood full of Hispanic households that had more kids than bedrooms.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was also a handful of starving artists types who lived in Bucktown because they were young and idealistic enough to think that going hungry was romantic and being poor and suffering was the only legit way to be creative.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The rest of the neighborhood was filled out with white trash, wanderers and homeless types who loitered outside corner taverns with names like Danny’s or Estelle's.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On the larger four lane streets that formed the borders of Bucktown was the usual assortment of laundromats, second hand clothing and thrift shops, a few greasy restaurants, and still more bars.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Tucked away in this neighborhood on the corner of Wolcott and Cortland was the court where I spent most of my days that summer, and it was there that I was dubbed with the nickname “Flea”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At other courts I had different nicknames like ‘the Caucasian,’ ‘Whiteboy,’ or ‘Mayonnaise.’<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But on Cortland it was ‘Flea’.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The last game I ever played there was one I’ll never forget.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a typical day, late summer, clear sky, bright hot sun.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> At noon t</span>here were four guys on the court shooting around with me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A Nirvana song had been running through my head as I practiced using my off hand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had heard of college coaches making their players tie their dominant hands to their shorts and go through a scrimmage like that, using their weak hand only.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So I was doing the same thing - playing with my right hand stuffed in the pocket of my shorts - when I hoisted up a bank shot and a white Oldsmobile with no license plates and a tiny flag of Puerto Rico hanging from the rear view mirror pulled up alongside the playground.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The basketball rim had a couple of loose lug nuts holding it to the backboard so it wobbled and bounced like and epileptic spring board as the ball rattled through the net.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">“Hey!” someone called as I hurried to gather the ball after it bounced onto the pavement.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">A gangbanger, not even old enough to vote, had raised himself out of the passenger side window of the white Oldsmobile and was pointing a small caliber handgun over the roof directly at me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The song in my head that had been steering me around disappeared and the other four guys on the court slowly began backing away in unison.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">The gangbanger called out, “Which of you’se is with the Unknowns.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Five other gangbangers were crowded in the Olds, all decked out in white and blue t-shirts, and it slowly dawned on me that this was a drive-by.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn’t know if any of the kids I was shooting around with were in the Unknowns—a local rival gang, but I pulled my hand out of my pocket and took a step toward the Oldsmobile.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Behind me I could sense the others still hedging backward so I stopped and shook my head at the kid with the gun as if to indicate he and his buddies were in the wrong place.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then the kid with the gun and I locked eyes for 6 or 7 seconds. Uncertainty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It may not seem too smart to stare down a guy twenty yards away who’s pointing a gun at you, but I have to admit I had a strange fascination in being in that position.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Generally I’m bored with everything—except when I’m playing hoops.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But here I was with a gun pointed at me and it wasn’t boring at all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a curious feeling; I wasn’t panicking, yet I wasn’t exactly calm either.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After another second and half the gangbanger kid frowned as if he was disappointed about something then ducked back into the passenger side window, said something to the driver, and the Oldsmobile pulled away real slow, not in any hurry, until it turned the corner and disappeared.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">I’d heard that in order to be accepted into some gangs you had to shoot someone in a rival gang.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wasn’t in a rival gang or anything, but I still wondered why the kid didn’t shoot me - it probably would have been enough to get him into the gang.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I know that sometimes it’s hard to pull the trigger.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had been having thoughts of sticking a gun to my own head and blowing my own brains out around that time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Many of those summer nights I’d lay in bed, unable to fall asleep and these images would come.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I couldn’t help it. These thoughts just invaded my mind, almost every night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then one night I actually did pull a gun to my own head, but when I went to pull the trigger I couldn’t get my finger to do it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I imagine that’s what happened to the gangbanger—he just couldn’t make his finger pull the trigger.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">When the white Olds was gone, all of the kids who had been shooting left as well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But suddenly feeling territorial I decided I was going stay.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Physically the schoolyard wasn’t much to look at; uneven pavement, broken whiskey bottles, fast food wrappers and graffiti tags spray painted up and down the brick wall of the school building.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But conceptually, tucked away somewhere in between Sector 3 (my imagination) and Sector 4 (my memory) this playground was paradise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was the reason I got out of bed each morning, even though the days were too hot and it would have been much easier to lie on the mattress in front of my clanky fan and wallow in the stench of my own sweat and body odor.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">I jabbed my right hand back into my short’s pocket and dribbled the ball down to the other end of the court where, just to the right of the free throw line, there was a gradual mound.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some sort of shifting in the earth or unsettling of the cement had caused this bump to rise up, just slightly noticeable—unless you knew it was there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I practice dribbling over it, knowing that it was possible to use this bump as a mechanism to gain a step on a defender.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">I picked up this little trick from Martin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Martin, a tall, handsome angular Mexican, was the undisputed neighborhood superstar.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>31 years old, always dressed in profession styled warm-up jersey, Martin was a true streetball artist.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With Martin it was all smoke and mirrors.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was the master of deception, making everything he did look like he wasn’t making any effort at all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At the blink of an eye he could be cleaning up a rebound, nailing down an outside shot or making a slick steal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But his best work was in the post, down around the basket.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Slippery, seemingly misdirected inside moves that split double-teams, and then a quick release to the hoop was his trademark.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Miraculously, he seemed to find a slightly different way of doing it each time - as though he was just creating the move for the first time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Martin was a</span>lways easy going and respectful of others and he usually arrived around 3:30 in the afternoon - as did the other regulars (approximately 95% Hispanic here at Cortland).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some came slowly, some came running, some came straight from work and some slithered out of strange and dark corners of the neighborhood.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">By 6 pm that day the sun was hovering just above a row of trees lining the other side of the street.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Visibility was good, but an elongated purple shadow began to stretch its way across the court.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Somewhere in Sector 3, I had begun realigning my DNA: instead of being a 5’10” out of work lazy white guy wearing hand me down sneakers, I’d become a 6’6” basketball Jones with his own Converse high-top named after him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Meanwhile the young ones and the less serious had been pushed off to the sidelines as the mood for the rest of the afternoon was set.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some days it was serious, competitive, stress filled, trash talking, elbows flying, grudge matches.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Other evenings it was more relaxed—trick shots, jokes with the token fat guy and one-on-one matches with the little Mexican kid who wore a baggy white t-shirt that was so big you couldn’t see what the advertisement on it read.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was one of a group of 7 or 8 little kids that bombarded the court between games, trying to get in as many shots as they could until they were pushed off once the real games started.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And as always there was a flock of new school punkwipes, gangbanger types who were battling the latest NWA lyrics back and forth at the teen-aged chicks in baggy pants and tight fitted tops:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“<i>Bitches ain't shit, but ho’s and tricks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lick on these nuts and suck the dick.</i>”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Occasionally I’d catch a glimpse of the teenage chicks, their busts and buttocks blossoming in the summer sun as they packed together on the other side of the chain link fence like a row of carnations.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And of course there was the ice cream guy, with his push cart and jingle bells (ding-a-ling, ding-ding) to provide concessions to the 20 to 30 kids who were just there to hang out on the sidelines.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But as the summer heated up, the mood at Cortland took on the competitive edge more often than it did the relaxed one. Certain players began to drop out while others began to emerge.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Martin’s arch rival was a thirty four year old black named J-ball who traveled up from Union Park on the Near Westside about once a week with a couple of other brothers—Green Jeans and Waxy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Green Jeans (about 6’3” and solid build) and Waxy (distinguished by his Super fly Afro circa 1974) were both in the habit of draining outside jump shots while telling you all about themselves in the process.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“You can’t guard me,”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“See this one, this one’s in your face all day long mutha fuckah,” and so on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But even they knew better than to say anything is Martin’s direction.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Before J-ball and his crew showed up, mainly because of Martin, there was a certain semblance of constructive competitiveness maintained between everyone on the court.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It wasn’t unusual for friends to compliment each other, even if they were on opposing teams.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Good move,” or “Nice shot,” and stuff like that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But J-ball had his own twist on this; he’d kiss up to Martin between games, saying things like, “Damn Martin, you’re like Michael Jordan to everyone around here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They all love you, the little kids and everyone, like you was Michael Jordan.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’d say it with just enough smile to keep things nice and friendly between him and Martin, but as soon as the game began, J-ball would do everything in his power to disrespect Martin on the court.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">On my last day at Cortland, with only a few hours of sunlight left, J-ball and his crew pulled up in his rust bucket yellow Ford Ltd. (I think it was ’73) and before he was even out the door he was calling, “I got NEXT dammit!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I got game!” spinning his genuine leather Spalding ball out in front of him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>J-ball had come to humiliate the Hispanics, as he liked to do once every week or two just to get some kicks.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Martin gathered Amelio, a wide body and beer gut with an automatic set shot (when he was feeling it) who liked to play the point and distribute hard slap-fouls to compensate for his lack of quickness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then Martin picked Mundeez, a tall skinny 19 year old and the most explosive scorer on the court who could drive the lane or hit from outside.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And to round off the quartet Martin eyeballed the sidelines, scanning the ranks for a hard-nosed defender who was also aggressive on the boards.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He looked at me, the only true white boy in the lot (besides a clumsy, giant Ukrainian guy).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">“Wanna run Amigo?” he asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">J-ball, aware of old school protocol, had seen the white bread and found it necessary to comment, “Whiteboy, if you came out to get a sun tan you came to the wrong place.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The beach is that-ah way,” as he swooped his head exaggeratedly toward the east.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A little laugh spread around the sidelines, but I noticed he called me “Whiteboy”, instead of “White Bread” which was somewhat less insulting.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">I tightened my shoelaces and stood up, “I’ll run.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">“Well if you all are gonna run with a white boy,” J-ball announced, as though running with a white boy was a disability, “then I’m gonna have to run with a white boy,” and he choose the giant Ukrainian guy to round out his foursome.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Since J-ball’s squad had just arrived, our team got the ball first.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a ritual of Martin’s to be the last one to touch the ball before the game officially started.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That way, the game didn’t start until Martin said it starts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Martin tossed the Spalding inbounds to Amelio then jogged down to our end of the court.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>J-ball’s team started out in a zone defense, confident that they wouldn’t have to exert too much energy to defend against us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They didn’t even press.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Green Jeans fronted Martin down in the post, denying him the ball.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So Amelio swung it over to me on the wing. I did a dribble drive cross court and bounced an entry pass to Martin that just barely threaded the needle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The giant Ukrainian lumbered over to help Green Jeans double team Martin, which left Mundeez open for a jumper in the corner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Martin knew he could spilt the defenders, but most likely they would only foul him so he wouldn’t get off a good shot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of course our team would get the ball back on the foul, but that wasn’t the type of game that Martin wanted to run.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He knew to beat J-ball’s squad he was going to have to get his teammates involved.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So he made his move to the bucket, extending the ball out way above his head as if he was about to throw up a shot, but then with only the slightest flick of his wrist, dished the ball over to Mundeez who was in position for a 16 foot jump shot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The ball left Martin’s hands just a split second before Green Jeans and the Ukrainian sandwiched him with a hard foul.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bone and meat crashed and bruised as all three players collided into each other like stock cars in a crash up derby. Mundeez lined up his 16 footer, fired the shot and missed the “gimme”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Green Jeans rebounded the ball and threw a baseball pass down court to where J-ball was waiting for the easy lay-up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> As J-ball flipped</span> the ball into the hoop he announced, “One thing I can do…is finger roll.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Midway into the game a dim street lamp from across the street clicked on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>J-ball’s team decided to turn up the heat and switched from zone defense to man-to-man.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As a result his team was on top and J-ball was looking for new ways to challenge himself and rub in his superiority.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">“This games too easy,” he cracked, hitting from outside to put his squad up 9 to 4 in a game to 15.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">“Damn,” Martin hurried to take the ball out of bounds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Flea, let’s switch guys,” he said, directing me to guard J-ball.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">J-ball began to laugh.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Oh day-um... you all must be desperate putting a white boy on me.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>J-ball pretended not to remember me, but I’d played against him and even with him before - a couple times at Wicker Park and once or twice over at Commercial Park just off Chicago Avenue.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One thing I had noticed about him was that he was a master of the game within the game.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> If</span> he didn’t think his defender was a challenge to him, as the game progressed, he would disrespect the defender and also challenge himself by taking an extra step backward, lengthening the distance on his shot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This would draw the defender further and further from the lane and loosen things up down low giving his teammates have more room to maneuver for a rebound (or to be open for J-ball to hit them with a quick interior feed).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By the time I began to defend him he was shooting from nearly out-of-bounds.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Next time he touched the ball, J-ball dribbled it lackadaisically at his side. In mock consternation he surveyed the court.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“This games too easy,” he declared.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">I crowded him, knowing not to go for the steal, which would only give him his chance to shoot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I held my ground instead, face up, my feet apart, one hand in his face and the other hand free to slap at the ball—the textbook defensive position.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>J-ball juked as if to drive. I heard the screech of sneakers scuffling the pavement, causing me to shuffle slide to the right.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But J-ball simultaneously backed off a step, giving him ample spacing for his jump shot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Realizing my mistake, there was nothing I could do but watch as J-ball’s shot left his hand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Like every natural jump shooter, J-ball’s jumper had its own distinct peculiarities.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Whereas Michael Jordan would bite his lower lip in concentration, J-ball liked to widen his eyes, sorta like an old lady examining her fingernails after a manicure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Oh , that’s nice,” he seemed to say, “That’s real purty.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Also he had this hitch where he released the ball high above his head, instead of out in front of his him (like most shooters do).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This made it difficult for a defender to reach out and block it. It is such a natural hitch in his shot that I imagined he learnt it at a very young age, probably playing against older and taller boys.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Last of all</span>, when he shot, J-ball’s feet were relatively close together, making his center of gravity more stable and giving him a little extra lift from his legs (even though his feet only got a few inches off the ground). This accounted for the spectacular range and steady alignment on his shot.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">His shot sailed over my head, the ball spun like a distant planet, softly, silently through the cool blue evening air in a perfect trajectory toward the basket, until it sunk through the hoop untouched but for the bottom of the net that resulted in that crisp, familiar “swish”.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">“This game’s too easy,” J-ball gawked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Martin grabbed the ball before it could hit the pavement and hustled it out of bounds, up to Amelio. The guy with the afro, Waxy, was all over me, not respecting my space.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I felt serious, maybe too serious.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Waxy crowded me so that I couldn’t square up on my jump shot and said, “You can’t score on me whiteboy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ll block that shit right back to where it come from.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">“He’s more worried about your damn afro blocking his shot that you blocking it,” Martin yelled as he tangled up with Green Jeans and the giant Ukrainian in the post.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I passed the ball back out to Amelio on the point.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our team was dead, no energy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I swung through the lane, crisscrossing with Mundeez, catching someone’s elbow in my jaw.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Martin stepped into Waxy and lowered his shoulder squarely into Waxy’s chest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> I heard</span> a thud followed by a gasp of air leaving Waxy’s lungs as Martin’s ‘pick’ allowed me just enough time to pop out to the three point line, if I hurried.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But Amelio was out of breath, like an overworked old mule, and slow to ricochet a bounce pass over to me, barely skipping it there before Waxy recovered from Martin’s pick.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Waxy and his funky afro came chasing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’d recovered the cocky smile from earlier and was confident that he was gonna reach me and reject my shot before I could square up to the basket.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Since the gangbanger incident earlier in the afternoon, the Nirvana song that had been running around in my head had been missing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Suddenly the sporatic patter of Waxy’s sprinting footsteps recreated the drum beat, and the song, somewhere out of sector 4 in my head, came banging back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">There are certain moments and certain shots during the course of a game that can define the entire game for a player.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Certain shots depending on whether you make them or miss them, can influence an entire career.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When Michael Jordan, as a freshman at the University of North Carolina hit the game winning shot in the NCAA finals, it was one of those shots that elevated his confidence and had a mark on the rest of his career.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Conversely when Charles Smith of the New York Knicks choked in the final game of the 1993 Eastern Conference Finals and missed three straight shots form underneath his basket, that effort marked him in the annuals of NBA lore as a loser and a choke artist.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">When I heard Waxy’s footsteps and saw him coming towards me I realized that, in my own little world of lifetime street ball highlights, this was going to be one of those shots. It was either going to make me or break me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But there was no time to think about that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had to focus.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>John Paxson, after hitting a three pointer with just 1.8 seconds left in the game that clinched the third straight NBA championship for the Chicago Bulls, described the shot in terms of proper mechanics. He described it in therms of repetition. He had taken that shot thousands of times. It was simply a matter of getting your feet squared up, using proper balance then releasing the ball and following through.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was something that he and every other NBA player had done over a hundred thousand times in their lives.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But the amazing thing about that shot was the time and space it happened in - and the heightened level of concentration it took to balance aggressive with composure within such a time and space.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">I saw the hoop—it was comfortably familiar; orange and rusty, broken chains dangling from it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I saw the look of nonchalance burrowed behind Waxy’s brown eyes, strangely mixing into the murky late afternoon shadow that was now stretched across most of the court.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I pulled the trigger, but had to shorten up on my follow through - just enough to avoid Waxy’s outstretch arms.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The ball spun through the air and splashed through the hoop—all net.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The giant Ukrainian simultaneously let a fart.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The first threads of dissension among J-balls’ team appeared.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">“Man, why is white guy’s farts stink the worse!” J-ball wailed, motioning to the Giant Ukrainian.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“What do you guys eat?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">“That wasn’t me,” the Ukrainian protested, sounding too slow to hang with J-ball.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">“It’s all that wiener schnitzel and Sour Crout and shit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Damn!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>J-ball made an ill advised pass; Martin intercepted it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Something had changed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Martin tossed the ball ahead to me and I dropped in a quiet lay up.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">But once again J-ball returned to the game within the game.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This time so did I.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He called for the ball and positioned himself to shoot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I gave him plenty of room to square up for his outside shot, but this time, when he squared up to release, he saw something in my eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I made no effort to block his shot, but instead I charged straight at him, tapping his elbow and letting my momentum carry me, pounding him chest-to-chest and knocking him off balance—a solid hard foul that caused his shot to bank off to the left of the board.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">“Foul!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Man!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>J-ball cried.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Man what the fuck is this, rugby!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Don’t you white boys know the difference between basketball and football!?!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">I remained silent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Martin retrieved the ball and tossed it back to J-ball.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Just take your foul and play the game,” he said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">“Damn white boy better stay the fuck off me!” J-ball continued, dribbling the ball low, below his knees out in front of him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He tossed the ball off to Waxy in the corner and Waxy fired up a 20 footer that hit the front of the rim, then the back of the rim, then the backboard, and then ricocheted off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Some players if they want to get noticed as a big time player, find it necessary to bring attention to an aspect of their game which would otherwise go unnoticed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At five foot ten, not many people would think of me as a formidable rebounder. So sometimes, especially after I’d gone awhile without a rebound, I would crash the boards like the Tasmanian devil and let out a primal scream from the pit of my stomach as I jumped and bumped underneath the basket and fought my way for a rebound, letting everyone on the court know that I wanted the ball more than they did.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And if there was someone else who wanted it more than me, then that was too fucking bad, because I was the one who had it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So after Waxy’s shot bounced around the rim, I boxed everyone else out and was there to grab the rebound.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">“AAAHHHRR!!!” I screamed and cradled the ball in my arms like it’s my first born.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">J-ball laughed, “Crazy honky.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now he thinks he’s a rebounder.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">I saw Mundeez releasing down court so I hit him with a side arm bounce pass which he grabbed in stride and silently laid into the hoop, just before getting tangled up with the small Hispanic boy with the baggy t-shirt who was trying to sneak in a quick shot while the ball was at the other end of the court.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>J-ball, chasing after the play, got tangled up with the little boy as well.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">“Hey!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Get the Fuck off the court!” he yelled at the kid.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt; text-indent: 0px;">"Take it easy, that’s my cousin,” Martin yelled from the other end of the court.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">The little kid with the bag shirt grabbed his ball and ran off the court while Waxy was slow about taking the ball out of bounds; J-ball noticed this and called for the ball.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Niggah, give me the pill!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Waxy tossed it to up to J-ball at half court and J-ball turned around to shoot another jumper.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I came charging at him, just like on the last play, and J-ball flinched.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But this time instead of following through I put on the breaks and avoided touching him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>J-ball’s shot missed completely.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">From that moment on everything became subconscious—the way it’s supposed to be.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>An adrenaline high mixed with a confidence-high, causing my endorphins, dopamines and what not to swell up and intertwine. Energy, mass and dark matter spread throughout my veins and seeped from my pores.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">By the time the sun sunk completely below the row of houses across the street, our team had rallied ahead to take a 14 to 12 lead.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One more bucket and we would win.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>J-ball’s team had the ball though, until I snuck up behind Waxy and poked it away from him as he tried to slash down the lane.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The ball squirted away cleanly and ended up in Martin’s possession.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Martin held the ball with both hands and exhaled deeply.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He and everyone else on the court was dog-assed tired.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He dribbled the ball at his side as both teams fell back in transition to the other end of the court.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">At mid-court I called for the ball.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Martin tossed it to me and I looked for Amelio and Mundeez who were both out on the wings, too exhausted to shake their defenders.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The leather hide basketball felt like it was melting in my hand, so smooth and becoming even smoother every second.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Waxy was sluggish coming up to defend me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, “Screw it!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>said to myself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I’m going for it.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn’t have time to catch my breath.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I juked then jived down the lane, splitting the defenders—Green Jeans and the giant Ukrainian—then hesitated with a quick cross-over, and then in one fluid motion I drove the lane, losing Waxy as he stumbled over the bump on the pavement, the bump that I knew so well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I left my feet and rose toward the basket with the ball in my right hand, switching it to my left as I saw J-ball leaving his man to come over and defend me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He rushed at me to slap the ball, but he couldn’t touch me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Not today bro,” I said just above my breath and before anyone could even think about it I served the ball to the hoop and gently laid it in like a polite waiter serving a bowl of cream of broccoli soup.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And with the dainty “swish” that followed, the game was over.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Final score 15 to 12.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">“Game!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">A round of cat calls spread around the sidelines.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">“I wanna rematch,” J-ball balked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“20 bucks a man.” </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">But </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt; text-indent: 0px;">I didn’t stick around the court.</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt; text-indent: 0px;"> </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt; text-indent: 0px;">I was thirsty.</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt; text-indent: 0px;"> </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt; text-indent: 0px;">“I’m outta here,” I said to no one in particular and walked off the playground.</span></div>
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Ed Wagemannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17064932689724454936noreply@blogger.com0