Versus
I know it has been way too long since I got out and
got some good exercise—I mean besides running my ass off from or to catch some
damn perp.
I also know that there is nothing good at ALL on
TV. Not today, not tonight, probably
not tomorrow morning.
Ha. Doesn't life suck?
So instead of flopping down on the couch and lying
there like a vegetable for the rest of the night, I get up and go to my room.
Open the dresser drawers. My god, don't I have anything
left to wear?
I finally settle on a pair of sweatpants-material
shorts and a tank top. It's only April but it's getting really hot out here.
And frankly I don't favor being drenched in sweat.
I grab a pair of tennis-shoes and shove them on my
bare feet, not even bothering to put socks on.
Okay, I've got everything but one thing…
"Where aaaa-re you?" I warble cheerfully,
glancing under tables and in closets. And finally, O orange bumpy sphere of my
dreams, I find you under my bed. Where I probably should have checked in the
first place.
I snatch you up and dash out my apartment door,
locking it behind me.
I left my pager behind.
I look around. There's a church nearby with hoops in
the back parking lot. So…I start jogging towards it, dribbling the ball as I
go. Down the sidewalk, looking out into the car-filled street.
It doesn't take me more than two or three minutes to
get there and I dash over to claim a court, doing a sloppy lay-up. Clunk.
I make a face at the ball and dash to rebound it,
stretching so I can grab it. Dribble in a little, crouch, and shoot. My feet
lift off the ground a little.
Clu-clunk.
I swear softly at the hoop and rebound again,
shooting as quickly as I can.
Shinnn-ng. It rolls around the rim
and—falls off. I must really be out of practice.
I pick the evil ball up before it can bounce away
and dribble around for a little while, doing all kinds of those dumb tricks
kids are so happy to do. I snort to myself and finally dribble over to the
free-throw line.
Crouch, shoot.
Whoo-hsh!
I do a victory dance and then rebound. Shoot again.
Airball!
"Man, I suck!" I say quietly to myself, laughing.
And shoot again. Smack! It whaps against the
backboard and comes hurtling down towards my head.
"EYAAAAAH!" I yell, ducking, and then watching as
the ball bounces towards the street. "Aw, CRAP!" I run after it, pumping my
long legs about as fast as they'll go—and catch it just before it falls off the
curb.
I dribble leisurely back to my court and shoot
another lay-up.
Clunk-swish—hh!
Another victory dance. I strike a really ludicrous
pose and then leap to catch the ball. Shoot again.
Whoosh!
Somebody else rebounds it and I look over. "Hey," I
say, placing my hands on my hips.
"Hey," he replies. "Wanna play one-on-one?"
I consider it. "Nah, I'm just screwin' 'round."
"Okay," he says, tossing the ball back to me. I grin
and take another shot.
Clunk.
He laughs and walks away.
I grab the ball and take a bank shot. It rolls
around and finally goes in.
"Heh," I say, catching it as it bounces off the
concrete and running out to the way-far-away part of the court, as I like to
call it.
I take the ball in one arm and heave it at the
basket.
CRACK!
"HEADS UP!" I yell to anyone who might care as the
ball whaps off the backboard. I jump up and manage to snag it.
Somebody laughs.
I slowly walk towards the basket, the ball thudding
against the pavement in rhythm with my footsteps.
I stop, glance up, and shoot.
Swish.
"SWISH!" I yell, doing another victory dance and
shaking my butt as the ball comes rolling to my feet.
This is very relaxing. I haven't had a chance to do
this in…way too long. A long, long time. Probably not since I've gotten this
damn gland. Damn thing.
Ha, ha. As if cursing it's gonna change anything.
I snort to myself again. And shoot.
Yes! It banks off the backboard and into the net.
I catch it and try to do a hook shot. Key word: try.
Baad, baaaaaad shot. I wince, grab it again, and
take another shot.
Which, thankfully for my hurt pride, goes in.
And another, and another, and another. The minutes
fly by, measured only by the sound of the basketball—sometimes a swish,
sometimes a thump, sometimes a crack, sometimes a clunk, sometimes a whoosh.
Somebody catches my ball—again.
"Hey pal," I say, my back to him, catching my breath
with hands on knees, "I'd like my ball back."
"Fawkes, I din't know you liked playin' b-ball. You
an' me coulda played 'fore this."
I turn and grin. "Hobbesy."
He tilts his head towards my outfit, grinning too.
"Nice duds."
I snort and put my hands on my hips. "Hey, look at
you."
"Oh, yeah." He's not dressed much better than
me—cutoff shorts and a ragged tee shirt. He's still holding my ball, too. "So,
Fawkes. Y'wanna play?"
I laugh. "So I can kick your fat ass?"
"My ass ain't so fat, and I ain't so sure you c'n
kick it."
"Oh yeah right. C'mon, admit it, you suck at
basketball an' I'm gonna beat you."
"We'll see 'bout that."
I grab the ball from him and toss off a
three-pointer, all casual-like. And it goes in, like I've been wanting it to
for the past half hour or so.
He laughs. Rebounds.
I proceed to whip his ass.
FIN.
