smiled. He was always so damn handsome and genial, even though he was a basketball sociopath. Yep, Big Ed was the Ted Bundy of the Saturday afternoon basketball crowd and murdered the hopes and dreams of his teammates forty-seven times a day.
Of course, one might wonder why people kept throwing the ball to Big Ed. Well, Joey and his fellow hoopsters were good players, so they always threw the correct pass. The open man always got the ball. And since Big Ed’s true shooting percentage was in the single digits, he was always left open by his defender and thus, due to the immutable laws of teamwork, always got the ball. Big Ed didn’t need a cut or pick to get open. He didn’t need to move. He could stand in place—and often did stand in one place for entire possessions—and would still get touches. And after Big Ed missed some horrific bukakke jumper, the man who’d thrown him the ball would think, I had to give it to him because the basketball gods demand that I play with honor and trust.
“Come on, Ed!” Joey screamed at his friend—his best friend. “Move the ball!”
Moments later, Big Ed drove into the key and missed a finger roll—no, it wasn’t a roll; it was a week-old croissant .
Joey didn’t howl. He didn’t make a sound. He just shook his head, walked off the court, grabbed his bag, and began his twelve-block walk home. As he walked, he removed his shirt, shorts, and boxers and tossed them aside. He also removed his knee braces, magnetic back warmer, and mouth guard and threw them into the street. He was forty-five years old and he was walking mostly naked—he was still wearing his socks and shoes—through his Seattle neighborhood. Strangers gawked and giggled; two of his neighbors smiled and waved. Joey ignored all of them. He wasn’t sure why he was doing this. He knew somebody had done the same thing during a hockey movie, and soccer players were always tearing off their clothes. Joey only knew he was engaged in some kind of political protest—perhaps the most minor political protest in human history—but it felt important to him.
At his doorstep, Joey sat on his welcome mat—it was surprisingly comfortable on his bare ass—and removed his shoes and socks. Then, completely naked, Joey walked into his living room, slumped into his recliner, stared at his blank television, and pretended he was watching Stockton-and-Malone run the pick-and-roll on an endless highlight reel.
Twenty minutes later, his wife, Sharon, pulled into the driveway. She walked up to the front porch and stared at her husband’s socks and shoes. She cradled them in her arms, opened the door, and discovered her naked husband still daydreaming about high-percentage basketball.
She regarded him. She certainly knew all of the curves and angles, and the parallel and perpendicular lines, of his body, and she’d memorized his half-damned soul.
“Big Ed again?” she asked.
“He tried a finger roll,” Joey said. “Can you believe that? A finger roll .”
“Oh,” she said. “That’s tragic.”
“The thing is, I don’t know how much more of this I can take. I’m old . Truly. How many years of hoops do I have left? And I want it to be good ball, you know? I don’t want to tear my damn ACL or Achilles because I’m trying to chase down some shitty Big Ed jump shot.”
“Why do you keep playing with him?”
“I don’t know, honey. It’s so demoralizing . And I feel trapped. It’s a terrible, destructive, and endless circle.”
“Just like poverty,” she said.
“It’s oppression and slavery,” he said. “Ed is, like, England, circa 1363.”
“Well, Braveheart,” she said. “If there’s a revolution, if you kill him, I’ll help you hide the body.”
They laughed.
“Hey,” she said, and checked her watch. “The boys won’t get home for forty-three minutes.”
Nineteen minutes later, after they’d made love, after he’d kissed her belly and thighs and moved his tongue and hips in the same
Of course, one might wonder why people kept throwing the ball to Big Ed. Well, Joey and his fellow hoopsters were good players, so they always threw the correct pass. The open man always got the ball. And since Big Ed’s true shooting percentage was in the single digits, he was always left open by his defender and thus, due to the immutable laws of teamwork, always got the ball. Big Ed didn’t need a cut or pick to get open. He didn’t need to move. He could stand in place—and often did stand in one place for entire possessions—and would still get touches. And after Big Ed missed some horrific bukakke jumper, the man who’d thrown him the ball would think, I had to give it to him because the basketball gods demand that I play with honor and trust.
“Come on, Ed!” Joey screamed at his friend—his best friend. “Move the ball!”
Moments later, Big Ed drove into the key and missed a finger roll—no, it wasn’t a roll; it was a week-old croissant .
Joey didn’t howl. He didn’t make a sound. He just shook his head, walked off the court, grabbed his bag, and began his twelve-block walk home. As he walked, he removed his shirt, shorts, and boxers and tossed them aside. He also removed his knee braces, magnetic back warmer, and mouth guard and threw them into the street. He was forty-five years old and he was walking mostly naked—he was still wearing his socks and shoes—through his Seattle neighborhood. Strangers gawked and giggled; two of his neighbors smiled and waved. Joey ignored all of them. He wasn’t sure why he was doing this. He knew somebody had done the same thing during a hockey movie, and soccer players were always tearing off their clothes. Joey only knew he was engaged in some kind of political protest—perhaps the most minor political protest in human history—but it felt important to him.
At his doorstep, Joey sat on his welcome mat—it was surprisingly comfortable on his bare ass—and removed his shoes and socks. Then, completely naked, Joey walked into his living room, slumped into his recliner, stared at his blank television, and pretended he was watching Stockton-and-Malone run the pick-and-roll on an endless highlight reel.
Twenty minutes later, his wife, Sharon, pulled into the driveway. She walked up to the front porch and stared at her husband’s socks and shoes. She cradled them in her arms, opened the door, and discovered her naked husband still daydreaming about high-percentage basketball.
She regarded him. She certainly knew all of the curves and angles, and the parallel and perpendicular lines, of his body, and she’d memorized his half-damned soul.
“Big Ed again?” she asked.
“He tried a finger roll,” Joey said. “Can you believe that? A finger roll .”
“Oh,” she said. “That’s tragic.”
“The thing is, I don’t know how much more of this I can take. I’m old . Truly. How many years of hoops do I have left? And I want it to be good ball, you know? I don’t want to tear my damn ACL or Achilles because I’m trying to chase down some shitty Big Ed jump shot.”
“Why do you keep playing with him?”
“I don’t know, honey. It’s so demoralizing . And I feel trapped. It’s a terrible, destructive, and endless circle.”
“Just like poverty,” she said.
“It’s oppression and slavery,” he said. “Ed is, like, England, circa 1363.”
“Well, Braveheart,” she said. “If there’s a revolution, if you kill him, I’ll help you hide the body.”
They laughed.
“Hey,” she said, and checked her watch. “The boys won’t get home for forty-three minutes.”
Nineteen minutes later, after they’d made love, after he’d kissed her belly and thighs and moved his tongue and hips in the same
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