Basketball season officially
convenes with pre-season at CLS the first week of October, the first official match
being Halloween and then stretches, as Patrick has surmised on more than one
occasion, around either the tables in the lunchroom or the skeletal yellow
rungs of the Monkey bars for what seems like from here to fuck-all eternity,
the Varsity elite playing the average of somewhere in the ball park vicinity of
something like 110 games per year, seventy percent of which are home games.
Last year the varsity elite continued to live up to what Coach M almost
vehemently insists on a standard of eternal excellence by having yet another
undefeated season. Patrick overhearing Meredith-Elise Willow dry witticisms
claiming that the every time she clambers through the caricatured mascot
hallways she feel as if she is making a guest spot on the Muppets, before
Cabbages breaks out into a muffled mana-bana
do-doo-doewdo. Patrick also can’t understand how the Varsity Elite appears
to be exempt from performing any task that has any hint of academics co-signed
to it throughout more or less the entire discourse of the year. Also, even more
perplexing is how Marcellus Buck, Aron Bowman, Eric the Red and Mario Rutherford
all strut around with giant C’s stitched into their leather jackets with the
words academics
scripted out in cursive font.
Still attired in mandatory minor prophet garb, Patrick thinks it looks just plain
wrong as Coach M, posing a la Adolf Hitler welcomes the members of the academy
each with a heartfelt saluting arm wielding heil! Before elbowing the rabbi’s in the rib-cage
and informing them that he is only fucking with them, before telling them to
watch out for that gas chamber over there, it sneaks up on you. Von Behren is
still located on the far edge of the gymnasium, next to Buster, looking
confused. Patrick sees no sight of Hollis as the Varsity cheerleaders take the
court, performing their pre-game warm-cheer that Patrick thinks looks just like
some sort of an African mating ritual from the direction in which their torso’s
jut and sway. He hears heavily snorts
from behind him and spots Aron and Mario, commenting ouloud that nothing beats
regularity—releasing the bowels before a ballgame.
Inside the basketball gym the
members of the New Jerusalem academy are all dressed in black outfits, black
short-short’s that that descend only half-way to the knee and appear to get
stuck mid-thigh. They all have an exorbitant amount of body hair and appear to
be shooting baskets be
volleying the basketball between them like they are playing a game of
four-square in an abandoned parking lot in Brooklyn, passing the ball with one
whimsical loop, a quick bounce and then passing the ball light in the air
again. For the first five plays of the game Marcellus Buck has intercepted
three of these passes, thrusting towards the rim in a break through slam which
makes younger b-squad students and cheerleaders and various other members of
the audience seated in the Comets home section swap their arms in a pummel fist
as if trying to start a lawn mower while saying the words damn. For his second
breakaway dunk, Marcellus Buck, clad in his gold-shackled specialty
manufactured Nike Dedalus XX that have been purportedly rumored to be worth
half-a-mill per foot, leaps from the free throw line, spins like a police siren
in the air at least three complete 360 degree angles before slamming the
rubbery orb through the gaping goatee of the rim and net. Patrick, dressed up
as Habakkuk watching the highlight reels of perpetual dunks from the vantage
point of the welkin where he is fairly certain that his cottony beard and
fathers housecoat keep him fairly occluded from the likes of Coach M, on the sideline, still dressed in
his Hitler uniform, giving the Comets a variety of hand signals apparently
denoting certain plays of Hasidic destruction. The Hasidic hall of famers have
yet to score and five minutes into the four ten minute halves the Comets
already have a 25 point to nilch lead. Dick and Gene, the commentators who won
an Emmy for David Hales annual autumn streak, Hale himself, arriving to school
in his grandmothers mini-van, has since the streak, been found signing copious
amounts of autographs for soccer moms in the audience. Coach M tried to host a
150 dollar a head Meet Ron David “Diggler” Jeremy Hale up in the five star fine
dining Sky Boxx restaurant where apparently there would be some sort of silent
auction, the highest bidder being able to have a magical all expense paid night
on the town and romp in the hay with Hale’s Truly all proceeds going to
Children suffering with the incurable FFE fundrome—a medicinal term Coach M
cannot say without covering his mouth in to a laugh while emitting a little
he-he chuckle. Earlier in the week Meredith-Elise sniveled the lids of her eyes
into a very impatient bat while re-filling Patrick’s fuckochino in the café
Hemlock informing Patrick that she is insufferably fraught with echoing angst
every time she comes home in the afternoon and sees her grandmother watching
the finale of Hale’s annual autumn streak in slow motion with her dentures out
brandishing a cucumber in her left hand, a tub of whip cream resting near her
feet.
Down below
the court one of the Hasidic junior high hall of famer that kind of resembles
Jebemiah Noelle just got whistled for a flagrant fouled even though from
Patrick’s angle and with the assistance of binoculars it clearly looks like
Aron Bowman hoisted the lad up and then slammed down center court near the
center of afro Jesus and just slammed him, muttering something about this
is what happens when you nail up a savior. Terry Durgham is refereeing the game
again, has been known to accept the occasional bribe or two. The mascot on the
Hasidic side, a smiley goggled-eyed rotund tanned zero named Bubba-the-bagel
seems to gulp every time another comet shot is swallowed by the orange lip of
the basket. Patrick thinks that the Varsity Elite should at least allow the
visiting team who they have invited to the annual plum creek hog roast
afterwards immediately following the game at least one basket before the first
of four periods comes to a close, the score, perilously close to fifty to one,
Marcellus Buck scoring a whopping 39 of the points while Eric the red, who runs
the offense has just drained three threes.
The sun
seems to bob its head over the skyblue horizon of the welkin as if it is
showing an act of reference to a Buddhist monk on an alms run. Downstairs,
below on the court, Patrick can still make out the Varsity elite giving the
future Hasidic hall of famers an on the court wedgie. Apparently another
technical foul was called on the the young Jewish kid with the glasses and the
dual curly hair that remind Patrick of kite-tendrils since he was trying to
guard Buck when he dunked over him and both Aron and Mario clobbered into him
on both sides—the technical foul being issued on the lad when he lanced out his
finger and began to cry. There is something vaguely reminiscent of the Jewish
kid that reminds Patrick of Jebediah Noelle. It seems that some people should
just demand more from life and not be so fucking content to have their head
lodged in the shitter five times a day. Jebediah Noelle has never really showed
much of an interest towards gaming and only once or twice off-hand can Patrick
remember Jebediah scaling the yellow rungs of the monkey bars in autumn to hang
out with the fellow losers and recess. Come to think of it the teachers really
don’t even do too much if Jeremiah is forgoes class do his daily multifarious
Ostrichings.
Midway
through the second period and the Comets are up 70-4.
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