but I don’t want to be known as the Screw-up Girl.
I get into complete basketball mode and put on my uniform at noon, a full three hours before we’re scheduled to be on the court. I scan the channels searching for a WNBA game but can’t find one.
What I need most is help focusing. Maybe if I do, I can be a decent player and have people cheer for me, instead of boo.
I hunt down the closest thing to a basketball and come up with an orange. It’s starting to mold, but it’ll do. I set up a garbag e can next to the couch and place the orange on the coffee table. Then I stare at the two objects. Orange. Garbage can. Orange in the garbage can. I pick it up and throw it in the garbage. It lands with a thud. Score!
I keep on shooting baskets until I’m getting most of them in. The orange is flat after a few minutes, but I don’t stop until it starts spraying. I like the pace of home basketball and think I’ve got an air-tight strategy. Focus being the operative word.
At two thirty I leave my house and walk over to the court. I pass all the usual places. But on the corner of 62 and Collins I notice a small tattoo parlor, John’s Tats. I’m sure it’s been there for a while, but I’ve never really taken notice of it. I should go in and get a tattoo just to see how long it takes Dad to register it, but I think you need parent permission to ink yourself.
I hit the walk button and that’s when I see trouble walking toward me. If I ever needed the little man to light up, it’s now. Sprinting across the street is not an option because cars are whizzing over the bridge.
Thunder’s not with Zoey today; instead, she’s with the beefy guy from the game. I still can’t believe I thought his friend was Graham. This guy looks mean like a bulldog and seems a lot older than us. He’s definitely not the type to chit-chat about art. Art to him is probably the picture of Sponge Bob on a Campbell’s soup can.
Great, now I have two people to pelt me with verbal darts. This is not something I want to stick around for. The light changes and I motor across the street. My plan is to not look back and hope they ditch into a store or something. I’m walking so fast, all I can hear is the sound of me breathing. I see the delivery trucks and bike messengers coming and going, but I don’t hear them. Actually, come to think of it, I don’t hear Thunder either. I know she’s still behind me because I do hear him. His voice is kind of high for such a big guy. It’s like he got a double dose of soprano and was short-changed on the bass. He’s saying something about putting a new engine in his car so he can blast past those suckers. Whatever that means. I’m just grateful Thunder’s not on my case. It’s not like her to give up center court to somebody else. She must really like him, either that or he’s more of a stage hog than her.
I can’t help myself, and I turn around for a second. Thunder’s rubbing his shoulder. His gaze is locked on the pavement now. She catches my eye, drops her arm, and sneers through her smile. I quickly turn back around. I wonder how long they will last together. Adding beefy thunder babies to this world would be a scary thing.
I get to the court, unscathed but severely out of breath, and I see gray everywhere. How sad is that—we’re playing the anti-color. The color of sorrow, detachment, and loneliness (old sneakers, chewed gum, and wolves). They could at least call themselves the Silver team—Olympic medals, teapots, and jewelry.
We gather aroun d Coach for some instruction. She apologizes for missing practice yesterday and says she hopes we had the initiative to practice on our own. Then she sends us to run a lap around the baseball field. It wouldn’t be such a bad idea if it weren’t ninety degrees outside right now.
I head out with Liz. We’re moving along at a decent pace, despite having to wipe the dripping sweat from our faces every few seconds. Heat stroke is a definite
I get into complete basketball mode and put on my uniform at noon, a full three hours before we’re scheduled to be on the court. I scan the channels searching for a WNBA game but can’t find one.
What I need most is help focusing. Maybe if I do, I can be a decent player and have people cheer for me, instead of boo.
I hunt down the closest thing to a basketball and come up with an orange. It’s starting to mold, but it’ll do. I set up a garbag e can next to the couch and place the orange on the coffee table. Then I stare at the two objects. Orange. Garbage can. Orange in the garbage can. I pick it up and throw it in the garbage. It lands with a thud. Score!
I keep on shooting baskets until I’m getting most of them in. The orange is flat after a few minutes, but I don’t stop until it starts spraying. I like the pace of home basketball and think I’ve got an air-tight strategy. Focus being the operative word.
At two thirty I leave my house and walk over to the court. I pass all the usual places. But on the corner of 62 and Collins I notice a small tattoo parlor, John’s Tats. I’m sure it’s been there for a while, but I’ve never really taken notice of it. I should go in and get a tattoo just to see how long it takes Dad to register it, but I think you need parent permission to ink yourself.
I hit the walk button and that’s when I see trouble walking toward me. If I ever needed the little man to light up, it’s now. Sprinting across the street is not an option because cars are whizzing over the bridge.
Thunder’s not with Zoey today; instead, she’s with the beefy guy from the game. I still can’t believe I thought his friend was Graham. This guy looks mean like a bulldog and seems a lot older than us. He’s definitely not the type to chit-chat about art. Art to him is probably the picture of Sponge Bob on a Campbell’s soup can.
Great, now I have two people to pelt me with verbal darts. This is not something I want to stick around for. The light changes and I motor across the street. My plan is to not look back and hope they ditch into a store or something. I’m walking so fast, all I can hear is the sound of me breathing. I see the delivery trucks and bike messengers coming and going, but I don’t hear them. Actually, come to think of it, I don’t hear Thunder either. I know she’s still behind me because I do hear him. His voice is kind of high for such a big guy. It’s like he got a double dose of soprano and was short-changed on the bass. He’s saying something about putting a new engine in his car so he can blast past those suckers. Whatever that means. I’m just grateful Thunder’s not on my case. It’s not like her to give up center court to somebody else. She must really like him, either that or he’s more of a stage hog than her.
I can’t help myself, and I turn around for a second. Thunder’s rubbing his shoulder. His gaze is locked on the pavement now. She catches my eye, drops her arm, and sneers through her smile. I quickly turn back around. I wonder how long they will last together. Adding beefy thunder babies to this world would be a scary thing.
I get to the court, unscathed but severely out of breath, and I see gray everywhere. How sad is that—we’re playing the anti-color. The color of sorrow, detachment, and loneliness (old sneakers, chewed gum, and wolves). They could at least call themselves the Silver team—Olympic medals, teapots, and jewelry.
We gather aroun d Coach for some instruction. She apologizes for missing practice yesterday and says she hopes we had the initiative to practice on our own. Then she sends us to run a lap around the baseball field. It wouldn’t be such a bad idea if it weren’t ninety degrees outside right now.
I head out with Liz. We’re moving along at a decent pace, despite having to wipe the dripping sweat from our faces every few seconds. Heat stroke is a definite
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