Turnover Ball

The white team were destroying

They had the edge in all departments. More compact. Better organised. Stronger, fitter, faster. And there, burning behind their eyes, clear to all onlookers watching from the stands, was an instinct to kill. To decimate the opposition at all costs. For three quarters they had the blues on the ropes. It was ugly.

But then something happened.

Something inexplicable. Out of keeping with all reason. By no means slowly, but as surely as motherfucking sure can be, the strength of the whites evaporated. Where they had been so strong, they became shadows of their former selves. Immobile, sluggish, stationary. And the blues began to strike back. In the space of twelve glorious minutes, the deficit was caught, overturned, and decimated. Like a solitary daisy in a silent field ripping the blades of a combine harvester to shreds.

Winter  is 40.

The fat kid, eyes closed, feet cemented to the floor of the gymnasium, making the block of his life.

Spring  is 14.

Suspended in air beneath the basket, unopposed, delivering the mother of all consummate game-clinching finger rolls. The one that crowns his team's comeback. And puts the whites to bed for good for another year.

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