146.
Harlan misses an easy five footer, a rarity for the sharp-shooting former college all-star. He knows my background as well and prepares himself for the classic confrontation of speed and agility versus strength and power. I use my body to move him off the spot and grab the rebound. For the last several years we have used Dr. Naismith’s remedy as a metaphorical stress buster. Our game is half trash talk and half stream of consciousness rap on the assignment du jour.
“If you could lawyer-up like you reverse layup, we might will a game or two,” I say challenging both his profession and passion.
“And if you could follow the rule book a little closer, ya know, be a team player, we might all stay out of the slammer long enough to close a case.” He returns hitting a sweet left handed jumper from the charity stripe.
Our one-on-one slugfest is in overtime, tied at twenty-one. We normally play to ten, but today, with a two point margin necessary for victory, neither side is giving an inch. Harlan’s shot puts the game in his advantage. I am bringing the ball in from the imaginary boundary needing a score to stay alive.
“The current plan calls for intentional infiltration of the Senator’s black-ops with our plant at MBI, what do you call her, the Queen? That is some ballsy espionage shit right there Mr Can’t Jump for Jack.” He is hand checking me with an aggression designed to keep me off balance and challenge my very core with a cheap second-guess pot-shot.
I decide to take it right at him and use a rocker-step spin move designed to create enough space to move right, which is my tendency and he knows it, and then pull up as fast as possible for a medium range jump shot.
“Yeah that is the understanding hot-dog but it has some special intricacies that need a lot of things to go perfectly to plan in order to work, personally I think it is too risky, but…” I use the verbal pause to pivot to my left, pull up and take the shot. The time and body position compromised by my ball transfer from left to right hand costs me the goal.
I miss, using too much emphasis and too little finesse on the trajectory. I try to muscle for the rebound but Harlan effortlessly soars above me and grabs the rock.
He clears it at the top of the key and stands dribbling while looking directly into my soul through the portal of my eyes.
“TOM, rightfully, asked for our best work. This is the championship game my friend, match freaking point. If we are going to win this one it will take everything we’ve got, we all need to up our games, fast, like… right… now.”
With a first step of undetectable quickness he fakes right, spins left, pulls up and nails the game winner hitting nothing but net. There is no defending this graceful athletic hoop choreography. I am in awe with shattered ankles and destroyed ego.
I stand sweating, holding the ball against my hip, contest over.
“Nice game.” I offer along with my part in a high five.
“Big one is coming up brother, let’s do this thing.”
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