My dad bought it at Sportsmart. He enlisted scab labor to hold it true. Mr. Halfner, scalp gleaning, smoothed the concrete. “Like a pancake,” he said.
Dad threw his back out during a pick-up game years ago. So we stretch.
Aaaaaaaand stretch.
1-2-3-4. Muscles that sound foreign. Somehow not our own.
He shoots like a catapult poorly built. Jerky motions, release too high too slow. A low-flying blimp could block it. John Stockton on ketamine, maybe.
Jumpshots, like Egyptian slave labor, are about triangles.
Tuck that elbow. Tuck it.
Dip your hand in the cookie jar.
Fitting, I guess. To save money he used a metal baking sheet and magnetic chess pieces. Every play left the chubby kids open.
And we passed. I swear we passed.
He never wore Zubaz. And he never yelled. He wanted me to pass more.
Last night the hoop danced with gale force winds, and the snow circled in and out.
In and out.
