Shots fired by an enigmatic gunner John Starks made me cry a lot. The day after Hakeem Olajuwon blocked a potential New York Knicks championship from happening, I went out on to the court in the park behind their house to vent. I shot. And shot. A few weeks later, I was on my way to West Point for soccer camp. One of my roommates was a teammate from my travel team. Our fathers thought that it would be a good idea for us to room together because we played on the same team and carpooled together.
And so on and so forth until, in attempt to get them to quit, I inadvertently and incorrectly admitted that I was something resembling Jakey Lee Curtis.
Ugh, I was never good with the double reverse psychology. Flash forward a few months and I, The Articulate Corniness, am stuck in a room, on the campus of the fucking United States Army, with the Napoleonic ringleader of this conversation and a small Asian kid with amazing comedic timing. You can make it through this week, I thought. Work on your game.
Forget about your hoop dreams, and remember that before you picked up a basketball, you wanted to be Paolo Maldini, the dogged, skilled AC Milan left tackle. I woke up because I felt like something heavy was clinging to my face. I heard snickering when I woke, but I thought it was related to a dream. As I stood up, gravity accentuated the sticky weight on my face.
A thick layer of glistening blue. Spread evenly, spread beautifully. They got me. And there was nothing I could say or do to change the situation. It took a little while, but the toothpaste came off.
