Stripped Of All Decorum
February 8th 2007 02:47
I could have played pro ball if only I had played in college. I was good. Damn good. And I could have played college ball if only I’d completed my high school basketball career. Again, I was recognized as a star and a ‘go to guy’ on the court. I could get the business done. Everybody knew I could do it, and accolades were often mine. These accolades fed me—ego, fantasy, and such things grew in exponential fashion.
Some, who portray themselves as authorities and ‘in the know’ say that fantasy is healthy to a point. They say it has a purpose. Fantasy, goes the mantra, is in service of filling the void splayed open by living a mundane and pragmatic life. Fantasy and magical thinking may be the great liberator from a stuckness in consensus-based reality. Fantasy may give voice to anger, hostility, fear, sadness, vengeance, and a host of other emotional states that we are enculturated to suppress, repress, and otherwise deny.
I don’t really know. I just try to live my life in the moment. All this thinking and evaluating and analyzing and seeking here and there for answers gets a bit dreary. Give me a ball and a court, and I’m good. Aight?
A ‘pick up’ game of basketball at the local rec. center is a great thing. It is fun, healthy, and an effective way to burn off the angst and strain piled on by the stress of life. A good, clean leisure activity. I’m told, by those authority types, that this contributes to an overall balance in living. And, it is good to sweat all the toxins out of the system. Perspiration, you see, is your friend.
In one particular game, I was better than usual. I was knocking down shots, blocking shots attempted by my foe, collected several assists, and rebounded like I was a kangaroo in gangsta sport wear. I was all over the place. I was on fire, and it was all good!
It’s not possible to say for certain that the other team put a hit out on me because I was so hot. Such things do happen in competitive sports, and elsewhere. “Put the slam on that dude” they say, and reclaim the swagger. Swagger, you see, is hugely important.
When that elbow collided with my jaw, everything went dark. I fell to the ground, my sweat rendering the wooden floor dangerously slick. From that elbow-induced darkness I merged into flashing lights and stars, and as I came to I could see my team huddled together discussing how we would offend and defend our opponent. The other team, too, was huddled together plotting strategy against their foe.
Kudos to the medical staff and their remarkably efficient smelling salts. My nose followed that vial from left to right, and I was ready to play. After all, I was on fire!
The crack of that fellows’ elbow did not intimidate me one bit. If anything, I was hyper-focused on the task at hand. So, when he was driving toward the basket and jumping up to lay the ball in, I swept his legs out from under him. “A-hole won’t mess with me anymore.” His head cracked hard on the wooden floor, and you could see the blood shoot into the crowd. People were scrambling to avoid it, while others were agape at what they were witnessing on the court. Needless to say, this guys’ game was over.
A bit later, the game still close, I was battling against a giant of a man for another rebound. It looked as if he had me beat. I remembered the earlier elbow to my jaw by one his partners, and decided what to do to get that ball. I was able to maneuver such that I could slam the back of my head into this punk-ass’s face. I know he lost at least two teeth, because they were stuck in my head. I saw one more on the ground, and one sticking partially through his lip. Blood was flowing from his gnarled up nose. He had to leave the game.
It wasn’t long before I was forced to defend the other teams’ fastest player. He could dart around like those aquarium fish you see making improbable ninety degree turns on the dime. I was on him, and sticking with him tenaciously. He was bothered, and I thought I was wearing him down. I, also, was becoming fatigued. And when he darted by me, all I could do was reach out and hope…
I could never have hoped for this gold, though. My index finger got stuck in this fools’ left eye socket, and his marvelous speed proved his ultimate downfall. The faster he moved away, the greater the stretch on his eye socket. I’m not sure if he screamed first or if his eye came out first, but even I had a little sympathy for the pain he was apparently enduring. And expressing with his jungle-like shrieks. Oddly, very little blood followed the dangling eye. The dangle seemed eerily reminiscent of a bouncing basketball. Needless to say, his game was over.
I think someone called 911, though I continued to target my focus on the game. On my game. I was on fire, you know.
We won the game. After all, several of their players were ‘injured’. Pussies. Once showered and dressed and walking away from the gym, I heard someone say to me…
“Yo! Good game, man.
deorre
Some, who portray themselves as authorities and ‘in the know’ say that fantasy is healthy to a point. They say it has a purpose. Fantasy, goes the mantra, is in service of filling the void splayed open by living a mundane and pragmatic life. Fantasy and magical thinking may be the great liberator from a stuckness in consensus-based reality. Fantasy may give voice to anger, hostility, fear, sadness, vengeance, and a host of other emotional states that we are enculturated to suppress, repress, and otherwise deny.
I don’t really know. I just try to live my life in the moment. All this thinking and evaluating and analyzing and seeking here and there for answers gets a bit dreary. Give me a ball and a court, and I’m good. Aight?
A ‘pick up’ game of basketball at the local rec. center is a great thing. It is fun, healthy, and an effective way to burn off the angst and strain piled on by the stress of life. A good, clean leisure activity. I’m told, by those authority types, that this contributes to an overall balance in living. And, it is good to sweat all the toxins out of the system. Perspiration, you see, is your friend.
In one particular game, I was better than usual. I was knocking down shots, blocking shots attempted by my foe, collected several assists, and rebounded like I was a kangaroo in gangsta sport wear. I was all over the place. I was on fire, and it was all good!
It’s not possible to say for certain that the other team put a hit out on me because I was so hot. Such things do happen in competitive sports, and elsewhere. “Put the slam on that dude” they say, and reclaim the swagger. Swagger, you see, is hugely important.
When that elbow collided with my jaw, everything went dark. I fell to the ground, my sweat rendering the wooden floor dangerously slick. From that elbow-induced darkness I merged into flashing lights and stars, and as I came to I could see my team huddled together discussing how we would offend and defend our opponent. The other team, too, was huddled together plotting strategy against their foe.
Kudos to the medical staff and their remarkably efficient smelling salts. My nose followed that vial from left to right, and I was ready to play. After all, I was on fire!
The crack of that fellows’ elbow did not intimidate me one bit. If anything, I was hyper-focused on the task at hand. So, when he was driving toward the basket and jumping up to lay the ball in, I swept his legs out from under him. “A-hole won’t mess with me anymore.” His head cracked hard on the wooden floor, and you could see the blood shoot into the crowd. People were scrambling to avoid it, while others were agape at what they were witnessing on the court. Needless to say, this guys’ game was over.
A bit later, the game still close, I was battling against a giant of a man for another rebound. It looked as if he had me beat. I remembered the earlier elbow to my jaw by one his partners, and decided what to do to get that ball. I was able to maneuver such that I could slam the back of my head into this punk-ass’s face. I know he lost at least two teeth, because they were stuck in my head. I saw one more on the ground, and one sticking partially through his lip. Blood was flowing from his gnarled up nose. He had to leave the game.
It wasn’t long before I was forced to defend the other teams’ fastest player. He could dart around like those aquarium fish you see making improbable ninety degree turns on the dime. I was on him, and sticking with him tenaciously. He was bothered, and I thought I was wearing him down. I, also, was becoming fatigued. And when he darted by me, all I could do was reach out and hope…
I could never have hoped for this gold, though. My index finger got stuck in this fools’ left eye socket, and his marvelous speed proved his ultimate downfall. The faster he moved away, the greater the stretch on his eye socket. I’m not sure if he screamed first or if his eye came out first, but even I had a little sympathy for the pain he was apparently enduring. And expressing with his jungle-like shrieks. Oddly, very little blood followed the dangling eye. The dangle seemed eerily reminiscent of a bouncing basketball. Needless to say, his game was over.
I think someone called 911, though I continued to target my focus on the game. On my game. I was on fire, you know.
We won the game. After all, several of their players were ‘injured’. Pussies. Once showered and dressed and walking away from the gym, I heard someone say to me…
“Yo! Good game, man.
deorre
| 64 |
| Vote |
subscribe to this blog
Comment by Stanley
Comment by Deorre
Stress Alive
Man Lessons