TS: Live from the Milkwood Colosseum, in neutral Norwalk, Connecticut, this is Trent Snuffburger welcoming you to the Tuesday Afternoon Classic featuring a showdown between the Intercontinental Basketball Association’s sworn rivals and contenders to the throne, the Newark Raiders and the Poughkeepsie Steamers. I’m joined by color man and gentle giant Fudge Jablone. Fudge, what do you make of today’s matchup?
FJ: Well, Trent, Poughkeepsie is powered by the crystalline beauty of star forward Julian Swann. He’s an art-school dropout who’s since made a canvas of the hardwood.
TS: He
certainly is magnificent, isn’t he, Fudge?
FJ: He sure is. He stands six feet, eight inches tall in penny loafers, has cascading and perfectly translucent hair that you can only glimpse under the brightest of lights—
TS: We’ll
see it tonight, I hope.
FJ: And the softest bank shot since the Wizard himself, Stu Gaborst, roamed this arena in overalls during the Water Wheel Riots.
TS: Yes,
and to the viewers at home, that is Stu’s rotund silhouette you see in
the IBA’s logo in the corner of your screen.
FJ: Swann calls em Backboard Bankers, for reasons all his own, and he just flips em in one after another, like an octopus workin a griddle full of flapjacks. He won’t open his eyes until game time, but you can find him out there right now, casting Spauldings into the hoop, like coins into a wishing well.
TS: I
wonder what he’s wishing for, Fudge. Another championship for Poughkeepsie?
FJ: The word from assistant coach Bill Barge is he’s too superstitious for any of that. All he asks is the chance to prove himself against the greats, like Newark’s brooding titan Frank Bigtonski.
TS: Call
him Frank the Tank and he’ll kick a dent in your Buick, ain’t that right,
Fudge?
FJ: Everyone wants to call him that, but everyone knows better. He was raised a Yahweh’s Witness and says his people don’t believe in nicknames. He’s got hair like sauerkraut and a nose like a rotten gourd. I asked him one time, “Say, what if I nicknamed you Frank Bigtonski, what would ya think of that?” Took him a day or two to respond.
TS: Well,
what did he say?
FJ: I dunno, he kinda went from being quiet to being silent. Nothing was said, nothing transpired, except this mood slid off him like an avalanche from a mountain top, and next thing I knew I was waking up in Union City, in the foyer of the old Tissue Museum on Depot Street. The janitor was dousing me with mop water, saying, “You’re burning up! You’re burning up!” I felt great.
TS: Frank
sure is a singular case, but his games just bacon and eggs, isn’t it, Fudge?
FJ: Bigtonski likes to take his man down on the low block, tie him to sawhorse down there and just beat the ribbons out of em until he can scare the ball into the hoop.
TS: As if
there weren’t enough violence on TV already, Frank and the Newark Raiders are
all set to ransack the great mid-sized city of Norwalk and anyone who dares
defend the Raiders’ rim. We’ll be back after this break.
>>>
TS: And
we’re back. Hope you liked that song and dance number about America’s hottest
new coo-PAY, the Daimler New Orleans: 28 feet long, built of repurposed rebar,
and it runs on turnip juice as well as grade E diesel. I hear that it’s legal
to drink and drive in the New Orleans, is that right, Fudge?
FJ: As if you were out for a sip-n-stroll on Bourbon Street itself. Be merry and open carry, as they say. Personally, I like to do my drinkin at the YMCA.
TS: They
got a brand-new sauna over there, ay, Fudge?
FJ: They do, indeed. Night manager pays me a silver dollar each time I spit on those sizzling rocks.
TS: Well,
it looks like the Raiders have rolled their siege-craft out to midcourt.
FJ: They’re not gonna wait for the announcer to hail the starting five man by man. They insist that they are all one unit.
TS: So,
I’ll just read the names for the viewers at home. Standing 5’8” and ascending
from the University of the Meadowlands is playground legend and point man Tim
Sneeb. He’s like a spider on roller skates, Sneeb is. Starting two guard is the
battle-tested whippet from Hilton Head, South Carolina, the 6’3” Don Lawndale.
Never went to college and I think that was a wise choice. By the way, the man
loves his conditioner. Look at those locks jostle and bounce. At small forward
is the defensive ace, Maurice Rice, from Urbane University. Power forward is
the utility man Snog Preekins. Snog never shoots and seldom fetches a board but
still plays about 30 minutes a game.
FJ: College, for people like Snog, is frankly irrelevant.
TS:
Couldn’t agree more. He went straight from the potato farm to the pros. And
currently anchoring the great state of Connecticut to the receding shelf of the
Northern Appalachian Mountains is two-time block champ and that bad odor of a
man himself, Frank Bigtonski.
FJ: Frank’s 7’1” and he’s just made of rebounds.
TS: Each
of his shoulders looks like James Caan. He went to school at Police University
in Chicago.
FJ: His mother was a cop, and his father was an L-train. Frank’s averaging 20 of everything: points, rebounds, and missed free throws per game.
TS: He’d
average 20 fouls if the refs’d let him.
FJ: His opponents probably think that’s already the case.
TS: (Cocking
a hand to his ear) What’s that? Why, I’ll be. That brief, listless
murmur means that the Poughkeepsie Steamers’ starting five has been announced
in a colorless rush by that no-good scab of a PA man they have here in, Norwalk.
FJ: That man hates the roundball about as much G. Gordon Liddy hates huarache sandals.
TS: I
guess I’ll rattle off the Steamers too while the mic is still warm. At six feet
even is “The Priest” Floyd Word, Poughkeepsie’s point guard—only dribbles the
ball with his right hand, but he gets by. He’s a 10-year vet out of Marshall
McLuhan State College. The starting two guard for the Steamers is the 6’2’ deep
threat, Ron Wine.
FJ: Mustache lookin nice and wet on Ron today. He evidently warmed up pretty hard in the layup line.
TS: Ron
went to Des Moines State before it blew away. Starting small forward is Trooper
Ginftd, all of 6’7” and 160 pounds of him.
FJ: He’s a lite beer man, for sure.
TS: He was
a film major at Wharton’s. Trooper goes on sabbatical in between field goal
attempts, but the starting power forward for Poughkeepsie sure tries to make up
for it. That’s right, it’s the Golden Raisin himself, Julian Swann.
FJ: Swann’s got a 90-inch wingspan and he’s built like a suspension bridge.
TS: Looks
like a harp when he’s running the floor. My, oh, my.
FJ: He leads the league in scoring with 40 a game but he’s all swat when he’s roaming the paint on D.
TS: Nobody
knows how old Swann is for sure, but he fled Townsend University with ¾ of a
fine arts degree and a minor in Peace Studies back in ‘68. Then he dodged the
draft and started barnstorming through Alberta with the Rote Armee Runde Kugel Spielers,
where he learned his trade. Just about drove Hoover to an early grave, I hear.
FJ: Some say he did!
TS: And at
center and a gloomy six feet ten inches tall is the Hudson River
Bargeman, Karl Winterheat. Karl spent three freshman years at Yeast College out
there in Dutchess County.
FJ: An unaccredited university.
TS: But
Winterheat’s all heart. Wears those phone-book-sized knee pads so he can
endlessly dive for loose balls.
FJ: Karl once told me there’s nothin he likes more than skinning his thighs on the varnish and slamming sweatband first into a fan who’s takin a big slurp of keg-fresh Genesee.
TS: He
loves the amber shower, that’s for certain.
FJ: Now, Bigtonski and Swann have never acknowledged the other’s presence. Not directly.
TS: Yes,
they each have their own plane, their own gravity well, it seems. And, ha,
Frank’s got the edge there, I should think.
FJ: Yes, but Swann is never just where he seems to be.
TS: He
flickers in and out of traffic like a deck of cards God’s shuffling to pass the
time…
FJ: Now the difference in this contest might come down to coaching. The Steamers are helmed by Rod Drisaradops, a mystic of sorts from the Poconos.
TS: He’s a
visionary.
FJ: Rod’s got a steamer trunk full of basketball arcana he reads by candlelight. He even has a tarot card for every man on the team. Says Swann’s card is—
TS: You
can’t say it, Fudge, not on TELEVISION!
FJ: Well, let’s just say that his coaching philosophy is exotic, even by IBA standards. In crunch time, the Steamers like to run an offence called the Alan Watts that seems…almost like a joke at first.
TS: A set
piece, yeah.
FJ: But then it chugs into shape…like a train rising from the sea.
TS: The
Priest extends that long index finger of his.
FJ: (Laughing) He’s got three of them.
TS: Ha,
ha, ha.
FJ: It sures gives Bigtonski the fits.
TS:
Frank’s more of a logician, I’d say.
FJ: A logician of sweat and silence. His grotesque figure is a kind of proof, impossible to ignore. Even Swann can’t eschew the brutal fact of the man for long.
TS: No, he
can’t. And Newark’s got no shortage of leadership down on their own bench.
FJ: The Raider’s head coach, Don DeMune, is a jukebox full of plays.
TS: Put a
nickel in him and he’s tattooing Xs and Os all over the court.
FJ: DeMune’s got eyes in his head. (Holding both hands, one clutching a long slender microphone, to his eyebrows) He’s as watchful as a cliff full of ravens. Knows there’s a chance Swann will fluctuate into his Net.
TS:
There’s the horn. The action is about to commence.
FJ: “Action.”
TS:
Indeed. The ref’s got the ball at midcourt and he’s prepared to launch it.
FJ: Whoa, that one’s a beauty.
TS: A
long, parabolic toss like that one favors Swann, I think.
FJ: Could be, but big Frank knows his geometry.
TS: The
men are crouching, probing their own densities for signs of what’s to come.
FJ: Swann nicks it, and—
TS: The
ball resides with the Priest. The Priest dangles it one handed and makes for
the sanctum.
FJ: No word from the shot clock yet?
TS: No
word at all.
FJ: The Priest twirls a finger to initiate a little choreography and then dashes into the key. He’s looking to draw a crowd.
TS: The
Raiders are like paparazzi. Ho-lee smokes.
They’ve got moped feet. It doesn’t look pretty but they’ll snatch your
purse.
FJ: Swann runs baseline, as far as I can tell.
TS: It’s a
maneuver, alright.
FJ: He sets a pick for Trooper on the strong side block. Trooper breaks free and looks like he sees a pie cooling on the sill. The Priest dishes him a slice of leather.
TS:
Trooper’s got it and he’s open. He whispers the Lord’s Prayer just as fast as
he can and—
FJ: Up he goes. The notch of that man’s wrist! Boy, that ball’s got a story to tell.
TS: Two
points for the Steamers.
FJ: I can’t find Swann!
TS: We’ll
find him, we’ll find him.
FJ: Big Frank’s yankin his elbows back and forth, his feet following close behind.
TS: He’s like a ghost ship about to crash into a pier.
FJ: Frank parallel parks on the elbow, which is a bit of a frontier for him. He’s usually no good from more than a foot away from the rim.
TS: He likes to keep his nose in the basket.
FJ: Sneeb feeds it to Bigtonski. The ball disappears like a child’s orange balloon into a storm cloud. Hup! There it is again. And Frank’s edging methodically toward the paint for a shove shot.
TS: Yes, Frank’s long enough that he can shove the ball straight down into its target. Which is the case here, as he grabs his first deuce of the night, and the Raiders are on the board.
FJ: Swann inbounds it to the Priest and—damn it, where did he go?
TS: You
hear that?
FJ: Just the faintest trickle of electricity?
TS: Yes, yes, it cuts through all the ambient chatter of the crowd somehow.
FJ: Swann is just a streak of particles at this point. The clock’s vanished. The Steamers are getting into their set—looks like they’re running the Dancing Wu Li Masters this time, but still no sign of Swann.
TS: Poughkeepsie doesn’t seem too worried. He’ll surface eventually.
FJ: Frank is down there lookin for something to chew. He does not have a penchant for theory.
TS: Doesn’t believe in what he can’t see, and yet Swann tests his prejudices, doesn’t he?
FJ: He tests all his opponents. Frank’s only a man, after all.
TS: There’s Swann, I see him!
FJ: Climbing a ladder of wind.
TS: The Priest rainbows the ball up into the mesosphere and Swann… catches it and sends a ferocious dunker spiraling through the iron! Incredible. It was like calligraphy, the way he scissor-kicked into position.
FJ: The
crowd’s rustling like a prairie fire now.
TS: Another stiletto dunker from Swann and Norwalk will blow its top!
FJ: As
many of the folks at home undoubtedly know, Norwalk is endowed with some
strange characteristics.
TS: Very strange, Fudge.
FJ: It’s a
land of anomalies. Swann has never played here, but I sense that he’s unlocked
something, a privileged facet of the game. What we see tonight may be
basketball, but it may be something entirely new.
TS: Snog Preekins dribbles the ball off his size 18s and possession carroms back to Poughkeepsie.
FJ: Looks
like the scorer’s table is having a hard time totaling the points. Swann’s
introduced a unique set of variables to their calculations.
TS: Yes, the best they can do at the moment is vacillate between awarding the Steamers 4 and 8 points.
FJ: Could
be that neither of those is the true score, or perhaps both simultaneously.
TS: Newark Coach Don DeMune stomps the butt of his Vantage cigarette with his galoshes—
FJ:
Weather calls for a wintry mix tonight.
TS: And screeches for a timeout.
FJ: The
refs are telling him that time is relative. Don’s not taking it too well.
TS: They never do. You can sound the buzzer all you want, but that won’t stop the Swann.
FJ: You
know, Trent, Swann’s never been to New York City. Says he always gets lost in
the Lincoln Tunnel—comes out somewhere upstate.
TS: And it’s the only place he does get lost, if I recall.
FJ: Well,
you never know for certain what’s in another man’s heart, another man’s
head. Maybe Swann is lost constantly and just lucks his way into greatness from
one second to the next.
TS: It was luck that originally brought Ron Wine to the attention of Poughkeepsie’s vaunted scouting crew. He was painting chain link fences a rusty orange for the board of education. All the research at the time suggested that constant exposure to dilapidation would make kids want to play less and study more.
FJ: Boy,
that’s an old song. And I sure wish they’d quit singin it.
TS: And one day a young boy on a school playground tossed a ball at Ron’s head, just for spite. Ron caught it and persuaded it into the hoop, all without lowering his brush.
FJ: I didn’t
know the Steamers hired school kids to do their scouting—
TS: No, no. The scout was nearby, changing a tire, eating a sandwich out of a brown paper bag, covered in cigar ash from pate to foot, combing the neighborhood for pluck and fundamentals.
FJ: He
certainly found it in old Ron. Ron’s a talented man. Knows his way around the
hibachi.
TS: Well, Fudge. It looks as though the scorer’s table has peered into the abyss. Swann’s diagramming something with chalk and slate. Who knows if any man, let alone a lowly Norwalk scab, can summon the sublime concentration necessary to digest Swann’s revelations.
FJ: Could
be that the game already happened and Swann’s just letting them know.
TS: The fans don’t like it when that happens, but what can you do, Fudge?
FJ: Well,
Swann is a man with receipts. He keeps records of all his peregrinations. If he
somehow drifted into another dimension where today is tomorrow, he can probably
furnish a notarized box score to settle his case.
TS: Swann’s a sight to behold but he’s not always easy to see.
FJ: My
ears are ringing.
TS: They’re tapping out some kind of code on the buzzer. I’m guessing they’ll split the difference and call it halftime.
FJ: That’s
right, Trent. A new score’s been posted: Steamers 66 and Raiders 33. Everyone’s
heading to the locker rooms.
TS: Hard to say what goes on in there.
FJ:
Impossible.
TS: Half time it is! Well, folks, we’ll see you on the other side.
>>>
FJ: That’s what’s so hard about this job, Trent. You can’t just say that one thing happened but not the other.
TS: For
example, my wife left me, but she’s still at home.
FJ: Still in love with you?
TS: Yes,
deeply in love, but…missing entirely just the same. I look for her and there
she is, but, even so, she’s gone.
FJ: It’s a sad story, Trent, but is it all the sadder for being inexplicable?
TS: No, I
wouldn’t say that. I must speak up for mystery. A man has to know enough to
mourn, to know what he’s missing. But knowing everything is no salve, no
cure.
FJ: Have you read the Russians?
TS: Hmm?
FJ: Tolstoy (waves his hands), Turgenev.
TS: Oh,
yes, yes.
FJ: Say, did I mention that I’ve got a new car? It’s no Daimler New Orleans coo-PAY, but it’s the belle of the block, where I come from.
TS: What
kind of car is that, Fudge?
FJ: A Negotiator.
TS: (Whistles).
That’s a wicked piece of steel.
FJ: It’s more than a car to me. It is my ride and my destination. It is where I want to go. Do you know what that does to a man?
TS: No,
no. It’s…unimaginable.
FJ: Now that my dreams have come true, I will know no peace.
TS: What
color is it, Fudge, if you don’t mind my asking?
FJ: Red, with a tan interior. Looks great in the rain.
TS: Makes
your pray for rain, does it?
FJ: For restlessness and rain, Trent. My burdens.
TS: The
desolation…
FJ: My goodness...
TS: Should
we discuss the concessions?
FJ: There are hotdogs, chili dogs, cheese dogs, Italian sausages, knackwurst, soft pretzels, potato chips, popcorn, caramel corn, root beer, cola, lemon soda, and beer.
TS: What
kind of beer, Fudge?
FJ: Schlitz, Miller. And Genesee.
TS: Do you
think they’re proud of the mess they make here in Norwalk?
FJ: Can I tell you something I’m proud of, Trent?
TS: I’d be
honored, Fudge.
FJ: I’m proud to have led the Stoughton Gorillas to a state title back in ‘46. Proud to be the first man in Massachusetts not to try to kick in his foul shots, but shoot them with my hands, like normal basketball shots, instead.
TS: I’m
with you Fudge, 100%.
FJ: I’m proud that I got all my neighbors to stop dumping their trash on the golf course.
TS: Right
in the hazards, I’m sure.
FJ: And I’m proud that I graduated from Stone House College with a 2.3 in Patronage and Public Works. Proud that I led the Stoners to a perfect record and became the first man in school history to make more than 30% of his field goals. Proud to go pro.
TS: And
play with the Chicago Sausage Makers all those years.
FJ: Before my kneecaps fell off, yes. And I’m proudest of all that I once jumped so high that George Mikan himself released a sweeping hook shot directly into my crotch, almost ending my life.
TS: Boy
you could sky back then, Fudge. The Reds must have thought you were a nuke.
FJ: But we won the game. I could take on Mikan from time to time. But I look on The Golden Raisin out there, and I tremble. And I look at that big miserable dreadnought Bigtonski and I reach for my golf clubs. I think to myself, there are better games than this, more civilized.
TS: But
none so transporting. Viewers may wonder how a second-rate professional league
such as the IBA could give rise to two transcendent forces like those we see on
the floor today.
FJ: Well, it’s the freedom to experiment our players have. To find their own way. The IBA’s got a unique set of parameters, which has proved fertile ground for dreamers and obsessives. The league’s like a cheap motel filled with exotic fauna and priceless art.
TS: Here
in the IBA the rules are sometimes referred to as the 11th man on
the court.
FJ: They are peculiar.
TS:
Defenders must keep one hand in their pockets at all times.
FJ: There are many fine Italian Americans in the IBA.
TS: The
ball is softer and bouncier than in the NBA. The court’s almost as wide as it
is long. The lane is just a streak of action painting running from the baseline
to the charity stripe, so big fellas can really graze near the hoop.
FJ: And they can score reverse baskets by swatting made shots back out through the ring.
TS: Yes,
and, finally, slam dunkers are worth 2 ½ points, which makes Swann as deadly as
an adder in this league.
FJ: Here he comes.
TS: The
Herald.
FJ: He shines like a trumpet.
TS:
Epiphanies fluttering off him like bubbles from a child’s pipe.
FJ: And here comes that hoagie Bigtonski. Looks like he cut himself shaving.
TS: Could
be sauce. Terrible, whatever it is.
FJ: It is terrible, but what more could you want?
>>>
TS: Winterheat inbounds to the Priest to start the second half. The Priest advances. He circles a finger around his ear three times to call for The Whole Earth Catalog, which sends Swann effervescing to the high post, running his man into Wine’s screen. Swann catches a bounce pass with his left and casts his magisterial gaze back over his right shoulder to survey the scene, with Snog lapsing toward his assignment belatedly. Bigtonski snarls and shades off his man to double just as Swann lofts the ball into the air for a swooping Winterheat who feasts on an alley-oop dunker! Oh, boy. Snog hurries back and tries to bat the dunked ball through the rim for a reverse hoop but whiffs. Dejected, he sulks to the baseline and inbounds to Sneeb. Sneeb receives the donation and makes his way conversationally up the court. He says something affectionate to Drisaradops about the cut of his blazer and Drisaradops gives a little speck of a nod in return. Sneeb beams and floats an entry pass to Rice at the high post. Rice gives it right back to the slashing Sneeb, who draws two defenders and dishes to Frank underneath. Winterheat tries to rebut him, but it’s no use. Bigtonski shoves it home and shaves two points off the sizable Steamer lead.
FJ: By now
the Raiders have got to start scheming. They need an Eventuality.
TS: But Swann is gliding forth and just like that he’s eaten up most of the court, shedding Raiders as he proceeds. He flicks up one of his immaculate Backboard Bankers and it dashes home like a Minnesota Fats trick shot from cushion to pocket in a hummingbird’s heartbeat. DeMune tantrums toward the scorers’ table and successfully calls for a timeout. He’s gotta think big if they’re to achieve parity with Poughkeepsie.
FJ: Now,
this is just a rumor, Trent, but I’ve heard that there’s a clause in the IBA
founding documents which give the Raiders room for hope.
TS: Oh?
FJ:
Allegedly, the Charter contains some…conditions, written in a sort of
cipher, which could tilt the game in their favor. The story goes that IBA founder Reinhold LaRouche
peppered the document with obscure parentheticals written in Hunnic runes.
TS: You don’t say.
FJ:
Evidently, he did this to agitate his brother, I forget his name, who’s always
fulminating about a conspiratorial elite, you know, ruling from the shadows. It
was supposed to be a joke on Reinhold’s part.
TS: But we’re not talkin yucks here, I gather.
FJ: We are
not. His brother paid a disgraced philologist named Antonius LeMoyne to
translate the Hunnic, and while most of it was gibberish, there did appear to
be one major and entirely accidental stipulation folded into the Bill of Rules.
It said, “Great and glorious raiders are favored from on high, and their
subjects must give them double what they require.” It’s obviously just a bit of
campfire rationalization for the Huns’ barbarous conquests, but in context, it
appears to mean that Raiders’ baskets should be counted twice. Now, this
interpretation has never been tested in a rules committee review. But I think
it’s got legs. If DeMune is wise to it, he might try to argue that what looks
like a blowout is actually a tied game.
TS: Does Drisaradops know about this? Does Swann?
FJ: If
they do, they’re keeping quiet. But I did see some men passing out pamphlets
disparaging the Rockefellers over by the Raiders’ bench before halftime. I
wonder…
TS: It looks like DeMune has pigeonholed head ref Ray Dibridididio at the scorer’s table and he’s layin it on pretty thick.
FJ: Don’s
got some annotations to share.
TS: Yes, he has an armful of scrolls and reference books to help plead his case.
FJ:
Dibridididio glances through the materials and chirps some terse instructions
to the men behind the switches. The lightbulbs are sprinting toward their new
values and, well, well, well.
TS: It’s a tie game.
FJ: Drisaridops
is all limestone. If this sudden turn of events bothers him in any way, he’ll
never betray it.
TS: The horn sounds. Just seconds are left in the game.
FJ: That
clock has some explaining to do.
TS: Don’t get your hopes up. The Steamers are not going to resort to lawfare at the moment. They are huddling and staying loose, doing noodle bends and knee thrusts. Cutting edge stuff.
FJ:
Drisaridops rings a tiny bell that sets the Steamers aquiver. They seem to have
retreated to some post-hypnotic state, eyes glazed, bones gone mellow.
TS: Only Swann appears to retain control of his conscious mind. He shines like a Cadillac amidst a sea of junkers.
FJ: The
buzzer erupts. The moment has come.
TS: The Raiders seem pretty pleased with themselves, Fudge. They’re still over by the bench, high fiving flamboyantly and patting each other on the back.
FJ:
They’ve gotta realize that DeMune’s department of dirty tricks hasn’t won them
anything yet. They need to order one more bucket for the road. No easy feat
against the Swann.
TS: By chance, the listless Preekins is the first to make his way back to the floor. Dibridididio impatiently herds him out of bounds at half court and thrusts the ball into hands.
FJ: Snog
is not a trustworthy inbound man, to say the least.
TS: The Steamers have got their tentacles up and it looks like the pressure has got him spooked. Preekins panics and inbounds the ball to a beatific Priest who immediately snaps an immaculate bounce pass to Wine to avoid a trap. Wine returns the favor, and the Priest applauds the ball up the court for the Steamers’ final run toward the rim.
FJ: He unfurls
one or more index fingers as though pointing to a lightbulb that’s just
switched on above his head.
TS: They’re running the Alan Watts!
FJ: Now,
viewers at home will find the next 10 seconds or so disturbing. Though Watts
has never, to my knowledge, practiced or condoned it himself, Poughkeepsie is
about to engage in some hyper-aggressive Primal Scream Therapy.
TS: Perhaps it’s a diversion, Fudge. Or maybe it just helps them clear their heads. In any case, they’re lashing themselves to pieces out there! Cursing their parents and guidance counselors, ruing a lost age of atavistic candor when man could portray his urges without shame. Wine screeches that he’s wasted his life since he gave up the piano. Trooper tousles the hair of a short, invisible friend, alternately sobbing and bulging his eyes. Winterheat is ripping a doll to shreds. The Priest has gotten a hold of the hot-dog man’s mustard bottle, and it’s a big one. He squirts a large yellow pentagram onto the floor under the Raiders’ hoop. The mop boys can’t be too happy about that.
FJ:
8…9…10! The Steamers recover their wits and scatter to their assigned posts.
Swann finds himself in the center of a box with each of his teammates at the
corners. No one has the ball per se, but Poughkeepsie retains possession.
TS: Ho, ho, big Frank is frothing mad. When he can’t see the ball, he’s like a border collie listening to Maria Callas on some brand-new Sansui speakers.
FJ: He’s
taking his frustrations out on his teammate Lawndale, grabbing him by the
scruff and telling him to call Lost and Found to see if they have ball.
TS: Well, Lawndale can hang up the phone because the Priest has summoned it from parts unknown. Wine rushes in from the corner to screen for the Priest as Trooper and Winterheat lock arms with Swann.
FJ: This
has the Raiders running in elliptical orbits around the three-man
configuration, scrabbling for position.
TS: Now the Steamer troika unlocks their arms and commences a lightning-fast weave, further confounding the matters defensively.
FJ: Swann cuts toward center court before REVERSING COURSE and seething like an ice pick straight at that glacier Bigtonski.
TS: Frank
gets down into a three-point stance.
FJ: But Swann is no ruffian. He evades Bigtonski with a leaping corkscrew to the big man’s left—
TS:
Frank’s got no sense of smell on that side; he’s helpless!
FJ: And suddenly Swann is swaying gently in an invisible hammock high above the rim—
TS: The
Priest dishes it to him and Swann spikes it through the hoop for a saintly
one-handed dunker that gives the Steamers a two-and-a-half-point lead.
FJ: The buzzer keens! Poughkeepsie has won THE BIG GAME.
TS: The
crowd of 1,100 goes mad. They storm the floor, trying to tear the laces out of
Swann’s shoes.
FJ: Swann bounds and gleams toward the tunnel on his way to the locker room, where he and the rest of the Steamers will play tag with champagne until late this Tuesday evening.
TS: Big
Frank has cornered a hot-dog vendor. Looks like he’s thirsty. He drinks hot-dog
water out of his cupped hands between screams of rage.
FJ: The FEDs are on the court, now, looking for Swann—president Ford’s qualified immunity be damned. They’ll never find him.
TS: Not if
he’s got a basketball in his hands.
FJ: Well, I expect that Swann will retreat to plains of central Canada and accept his Championship MVP trophy in absentia once again.
TS: By now
he’s already got five golden Gaborsts up on his mantel. What’s wrong with one
more?
FJ: Indeed. Reinhold LaRouche has taken the microphone to announce…the IBA’s bankruptcy. Says Bigtonski’s contract’s been sold to a brewery in Wisconsin and that Swann’s rights have been flipped to a new league up in Greenland. Oh, they’re gonna repossess my Negotiator, aren’t they, Trent?
TS: It’s
okay, Fudge. It’s a big ocean out there. We’ll spear ya another tuna.
FJ: Maybe (snaps his fingers) Trent and I could take our talents for talk to the tundra?
TS: That’s
the spirit, Fudge. If the Swann flies north for the summer, so shall we.
FJ: It turns out that the Poughkeepsie Steamers are the IBA’s valedictory champs, and it was an honor to document their reign. This is Fudge Jablone.
TS: And
I’m Trent Snuffburger. The Newlywed Game is next.
FJ: (Waves hesitantly) So long.