The nut house.
Had to go there.
For today, nuthouse lite.
Samir, my counselor, walks up.
“Come on, Greg, we’re gonna play HORSE.”
“Everyone knows you used to be a player.”
So it’s me, the white, fat fossil, and 5 young black guys.
Playing HORSE is simple- if it’s my turn I try to make a creative basketball shot. If I do, then the others must duplicate it, or be penalized, and eventually eliminated.
I grabbed the ball.
“Men, today we play old school HORSE, which combines shooting and trash talk.”
I hold the ball over my head, 20 feet from the basket, scream “My name is Jamaal and my momma ugleee”…I then bury the shot.
The five black kids stare at me. Samir covers his face with his hands.
Jamaal goes next. He trashes his momma, and misses. He is on his way to the exits. Others miss, too.
A left hand hook shot, but first “My name is Samir, and i enjoy the embrace of hairy men.” Swish, baby.
Samir stares at me for 10 seconds.
“Gotta do it, Sammy”, I purr.
He does. He misses.
The abuse continues.
“Hi, I am Angel, and I wear women’s clothing.” Bottom of the net.
“My name is Edwin, but they call me Shirley.” Off the backboard and in.
I was unconscious-never missed. Won the game in a romp.
I roll the ball to Samir.
“Gentlemen, the pleasure was all mine.”
And I start to leave.
I am immediately surrounded by grim looking black men.
“No fucking way you leaving.”
“Well, boys, it’s just a game”, I smiled.
They didn’t budge.
Had to play again.
And, Oh, the things they made me say about my momma, my private parts, and my taste in women.
Revenge was a dish best served ridiculous.
Samir never asked me to play HORSE again.
I had set the house collective mental health condition back 5 years.
But it was such fun.