One high school I frequented graduated several of the founding members of The Harlem Globetrotters. Their theme song whistled over the loudspeakers during every passing period. For the entire four minutes. Every day. Every forty minutes. I would imagine "Curly" Neal or "Twiggy" Sanders dribble passing to himself down the halls with his note- and text-books towing, rising, nodding, falling, and rising again behind him in the curious time-delayed force known as gravity. As he passes the dean's office, he smacks the door just below the window. The dean steps out, yet once again furiously shaking his fist and yelling, "You kids!"
With one exception, every class I *ahem* taught at this school took place in the gym. All the guys would dress up for basketball and the gym teacher would have them play ball all day. I desperately wanted to play as well, and often threatened the gym teacher that I was going to come the next day in my Larry Bird-era shorts and Chucky T's, ready to learn them young whipper-snappers a thing or two about passing the rock and other such fundymentals of the game of the basket ball as teamwork and disciplined lay-ups and twenty-five foot jump shots. But we both knew that threat that was never going to materializing due to insurance reasons.
photo © 2009 J Rosenfeld | more info (via: Wylio)---
The rest of this essay will be available in a ebook and, as such, I can only give snippets in other forms. Don't worry, the book will be cheap. And as my own agent, I must add, good.
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Be kind. Rewind.