the basketball bride... part 2
he looks good on the court tonight. tallest of the team, he strides, confident, smiling, waiting for the game to begin. the melee starts; he runs - his long legs outstride the others' two to one, when he wants them to. they steal the ball, he shakes his head and runs, beats them to the other end and stands, shoulders flexed.
he is the rock.
in posession of the ball, his team mate tries and fails to find the basket. surrounded by the enemy, he plucks the ball from their hands and, seemingly effortlessly, tips it into the ring.
he makes it look so easy.
he looks focussed, sitting on the bench, his eyes rarely leaving the game. quarter time, i notice the absence of their coach. they're playing the best i've seen them, and the uptight wog is not even there to see. a brilliant rebound, a simple, fluid move.
glancing over to locate his teammate on the wing, he catches my eye in the bleachers and grins. a split second diversion - he snaps back to the game. they try a messy combination to set up a shot - rebounds, and again. my defender - he pauses for a moment, and in his passivity loses his chance for the ball. they convert and pelt away from him down the court, leaving him to grimace and shake his head. time out, and he is left on the bench. they are deep in discussion - seems to me that they do better to coach themselves. he sits off to the side, still irritated, but moves in to discuss their next attack. in their arrogance, the other team practices shots. they're down four points but, also without a coach, do not lack the self-assuredness to ignore that fact. still on the bench, he stands, hands on hips as i've seen a thousand times before, and watches the other defender bumble through a move.
subbed in, he stands again, defensive, elbows out. he is my rock. the enemy halts before him. not quite, but he makes for a formiddable defense. i need to learn the rules of this game. but this like any other game, is complex, with fouls and signals i don't understand.
they're starting to tire. i now understand the arrogance of the other team. they're fit, and they know it. as my boys begin to flag, their lead diminishes then disappears. 48 them, 42 us. again, my boy tower grabs a rebound from the ring. dribbling it down to their circle, a cross by one of the little guys is too fast for him. again, he shakes his head. down their end, frustrated, he fouls, slamming a palm down onto the hands holding the ball. a minute later, he is there again, all frustration gone as he jokes with the ref. i smile.
they frustrate easily, these boys. five fouls are on the board, against the other team's zero. if that means what i think it means, they'll lose a player next. i hope its the tall blonde oaf. my man sits on the sideline whilst this six foot four ox plays almost a whole game. he carries his weight heavily, lacking the grace his tall frame requires, that so casually carried off by his six-seven teammate. again, their tactics are beyond me.
they've lost it. a minute and a half to play what started off as their best game, and they're nine points down. a shame. they played well though. especially my boy.
defender. tower. strength.
he is the rock.
in posession of the ball, his team mate tries and fails to find the basket. surrounded by the enemy, he plucks the ball from their hands and, seemingly effortlessly, tips it into the ring.
he makes it look so easy.
he looks focussed, sitting on the bench, his eyes rarely leaving the game. quarter time, i notice the absence of their coach. they're playing the best i've seen them, and the uptight wog is not even there to see. a brilliant rebound, a simple, fluid move.
glancing over to locate his teammate on the wing, he catches my eye in the bleachers and grins. a split second diversion - he snaps back to the game. they try a messy combination to set up a shot - rebounds, and again. my defender - he pauses for a moment, and in his passivity loses his chance for the ball. they convert and pelt away from him down the court, leaving him to grimace and shake his head. time out, and he is left on the bench. they are deep in discussion - seems to me that they do better to coach themselves. he sits off to the side, still irritated, but moves in to discuss their next attack. in their arrogance, the other team practices shots. they're down four points but, also without a coach, do not lack the self-assuredness to ignore that fact. still on the bench, he stands, hands on hips as i've seen a thousand times before, and watches the other defender bumble through a move.
subbed in, he stands again, defensive, elbows out. he is my rock. the enemy halts before him. not quite, but he makes for a formiddable defense. i need to learn the rules of this game. but this like any other game, is complex, with fouls and signals i don't understand.
they're starting to tire. i now understand the arrogance of the other team. they're fit, and they know it. as my boys begin to flag, their lead diminishes then disappears. 48 them, 42 us. again, my boy tower grabs a rebound from the ring. dribbling it down to their circle, a cross by one of the little guys is too fast for him. again, he shakes his head. down their end, frustrated, he fouls, slamming a palm down onto the hands holding the ball. a minute later, he is there again, all frustration gone as he jokes with the ref. i smile.
they frustrate easily, these boys. five fouls are on the board, against the other team's zero. if that means what i think it means, they'll lose a player next. i hope its the tall blonde oaf. my man sits on the sideline whilst this six foot four ox plays almost a whole game. he carries his weight heavily, lacking the grace his tall frame requires, that so casually carried off by his six-seven teammate. again, their tactics are beyond me.
they've lost it. a minute and a half to play what started off as their best game, and they're nine points down. a shame. they played well though. especially my boy.
defender. tower. strength.
posted by Me. at 3:58 PM
5 Comments:
wow! my first comment! i feel privileged to be called pathetic by one obviously so experienced and internationally renowned as your tarty self, oh uber nerd with binary nick. i would very much like to see your writing as you haven't bothered to link to a blog. generally, i believe that if people are going to criticise others, they should at least be able to back that up. and it intrigues me that you post this comment on the least cryptic of my blog entries - a factual account in third person of my boyfriend's basketball game. IF you are referring to the, indeed, cryptic entry below this, your apocryphal 'pathetic' tag with which you have labeled me, should be directed to the author from whose book i copied this, not to me. so, in layman's terms, fuck off until you can back up your statements, you stupid tart.
respectfully yours, she.
that isn't binary stupid tart...you should think before you type...if you can.
with that picture you don't think you are? denial?
life imitates art. get over it.
Art isn't all about obscenity though, it is a symbol of the less cultured, less organised, less desireable lifestyle most of us left behind during evolution
It's cute to see people have some feathers ruffled and... for what?
I like to think I'm a smart guy, but shit you have me running for a thesaurus every now and then. Damn you woman!
- Daley
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