It was 14 days in the making. The bloodshed. The flying fists of death. The whining. Oh, the whining.
Having showed up 15 minutes early, I was delighted to find the LAUSD scoutmaster painting her nails in her car.
"This door?" I asked.
"Yeah," she said, as she rolled down the window.
It's on, I thought to myself. Not only was this the weekly cathartic "it's on" as in "oh, thank goodness they will let us pay $10,000 a year to play basketball on these courts." It was an "it's on" like the 13-year-old BSR used to think when watching a Mike Tyson Pay-Per-View fight on TV.
It. Was. On.
The doors flew open, I was in the gym solo. Nice. Time to practice some free throws.
Not too long until, suddenly, in comes the champ: Shahe effing Vujacician.
With a wide grin and speechless, I walked right up to him and shook his hand. "Shame on you," I said with a congratulatory tone. Shahe cracked a smile and started on an irritated tirade about how uncontrollable Ricky F'ian is.
"Did you resolve it?" I inquired.
"No, man. He doesn't get it." Said the Shoot-First-Ask-Questions-Later shooting guard.
I listened and nodded. And the waiting began... When will Ricky F'ian enter? Before game one? In the middle? After? NEVER?
As the night grew long, the few bodies trickling in allowed for only a 2-on-2 start: BSR/RG II (or III?) vs Vujacician/Al Qaeda.
After two dizzying games of three-point-shooting, multiple drives for layups, Olajuwan-esque post moves, and Nash-esque tear drips by BSR (yes, you read that correctly; don't adjust your Peruvian monitors), Vujacician was left saying "who is this BSR guy?"
But, really, why bore you with the game details.
It was all for naught. Five more 5-on-5 games sans any evidence of Ricky F'ian. The Ultimate Fight-ian was not bound to happen.
And, so we await another week.
We await the fury.
We await the clash... ian.
