Each basketball match is a tale composed of four chapters that invariably culminate in a tragedy for someone! And the interludes yield all the histrionics humans are capable of… namely, comedy, passion, and incessant complaining to the officials.
Along these lines, my mates and I recently played the Pistons and Hornets. Although we were victorious in the former, and vanquished in the latter, both matches had a similarity.
In Detroit, I was subjected to a strangely roundabout flagrant foul from Charlie Villanueva. It struck me as a little strange that the hairless Piston chose to crush the only other Spanish speaker on the court! But I took this in stride, as Villanueva has been known to attack a variety of individuals… including fans!
The following match against the Hornets saw me catching, in short order:
—A blow from David West’s elbow to my face as I rounded a corner...
—A crushing blast from Emeka Okafor’s thorax upon my visage...
—An elbow thrown in flagrante delicto from Marcus Thornton upon my countenance...now my face was as red as a pepper!
While the last stroke was deemed flagrant (the second such foul inflicted upon me in as many matches!), it was Okafor's blow that left me with the vision to the left. (I still hit my bonus shots, though!)
But for all this, I count my lucky stars… which is easy, as they are still floating about in my peripheral eyesightings. You see, we also had a recent match against the Celtics, and I counted myself fortunate that my reedy frame suffered no death-blows from the NBA’s true enforcer: Brian Scalabrine. (That would have been a true tragedy!)
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