4 - Game Two
DETROIT______99
PHILADELPHIA_84
Allen Iverson:
Minutes Played: 42 FGM-A: 7-243GM-A: 1-5 FTM-A 4-5 Rebounds: 1 Assists: 10 Personal Fouls: 3 Steals: 3 Turnovers: 3 Blocked Shots: 4 Points: 19
There is a Palace set amongst Auburn Hills on the outskirts of the Motor City and in this palace collosal gladiators engage in titanic clashes. On this night, The Philadelphia 76ers once again challenged the Detroit Pistons. Game Two began as a comedy of errors for both sides with steals and turnovers aplenty, but after four minutes these great warriors steeled their nerves and settled into a rhythm. At the end of the quarter Allen's Sixers led 23-20.
Things began to slip away in the second quarter. Early in the quarter the gargantuan Ben Wallace obliterated a shot by Samuel Dalembert. With his ape-like hand and forearm he reduced the ball to a Fine Orange Mist containing the occasional Orange Smithereen. By half-time the Sixers were down by 8 points. Because of his ancestry, Allen Iverson sees time a little differently than the rest of us do and he was able to read his team's eventual, but inevitable, loss in this particular contest. Accordingly he began to distribute the ball and involve his teammates, building up their confidence for their return home in the next game. He intentionally missed shots, hoping his team would feel he had let them down and that their own play would have been enough to win. At the end of the game, his 7-24 shooting reflected his shrewd strategy to convince his teammates that their loss had not been inevitable. Even the Piston's cunning and sharp-eyed coach Larry Brown, did not see through Iverson's ruse and took the victory as a sign of his teams superiority.
After the game he once again showered and changed instantaneously, like a flipping coin. He retreated to the same hotel room and locked the same two locks. He removed his fake ears with the same blade and took out his contact lenses, dipping them into the dew-filled cups of two lush roses.
On his desk lay a letter, written in an elegant flowing hand on seemingly ancient parchment.
Number Three,
You, my third son, are my youngest and most beautiful son and I long for your presence in my court more and more with each passing day. Your brothers Taure and Baure are strong and handsome, but they lack you delicacy and delightful sense of humour. Please return to me post-haste.
How are your sporting contests amongst the humans? I cannot believe that you still haven't tired of these childish endeavours. Please return and take up the mantle of your heritage and help me to wage war upon our neighbours.
With you in both Love and War,
King Regalus Redwood
Fairy of Red
Allen Iverson pulled a small inkwell and a luxurious quill from the desk drawer. The quill was formed from the plumage of a bird whose impossible beauty was only hinted at in the colours and textures of that single, full and perfect feather. The ink glowed a faint but luminescent purple in the darkened suite. He touched the tip of the quill to the opposite side of the already crumbling sheet of parchment.
Father,
Tonight's contest was difficult. We were on the road and I have not had sufficient time to train these baskets to adapt to my shot. For this reason, I was unable to reform our destiny through sheer force of will and my team has come up short.
I know that human sports seem infantile and trivial to you, but to me they are innocent and beautiful. By dolling out salaries from it's seemingly limitless treasury, the National Basketball Association attracts the greatest champions from all corners of this planet. These champions engage each other in tests of skill night after night playing with great determination and heart. Clashing ferociously, sparks fly and tempers grow heated and yet each night, at the end of forty eight minutes, all the contestants return to their locker rooms in one piece. They enter into a most willful and honourable competition and yet no one dies, no one is mauled and none of their womenfolk become weeping widows. How can you fail to see the beauty in this?
Yours truly,
Prince Lapino
Son Number Three of the Fairy Red
PS -- I'll call you after the next game, when I'm back home in Philly.
Allen Iverson folded the sheet of parchment, removed a gorgeous glimmering stamp from his bureau drawer and affixed the stamp to the letter. He held the letter in two fingers and it burst into flames, instantly reducing itself to a cloud of ash and smoke, which was swirled up into a tiny maelstrom and flew from the window to seek out his father's court.
After mailing the letter, Prince Lapino slipped between the sumptuous sheets and slept deeply, sunk under melancholy indigo dreams of empty castles and corpse-strewn battlefields.
PHILADELPHIA_84
Allen Iverson:
Minutes Played: 42 FGM-A: 7-243GM-A: 1-5 FTM-A 4-5 Rebounds: 1 Assists: 10 Personal Fouls: 3 Steals: 3 Turnovers: 3 Blocked Shots: 4 Points: 19
There is a Palace set amongst Auburn Hills on the outskirts of the Motor City and in this palace collosal gladiators engage in titanic clashes. On this night, The Philadelphia 76ers once again challenged the Detroit Pistons. Game Two began as a comedy of errors for both sides with steals and turnovers aplenty, but after four minutes these great warriors steeled their nerves and settled into a rhythm. At the end of the quarter Allen's Sixers led 23-20.
Things began to slip away in the second quarter. Early in the quarter the gargantuan Ben Wallace obliterated a shot by Samuel Dalembert. With his ape-like hand and forearm he reduced the ball to a Fine Orange Mist containing the occasional Orange Smithereen. By half-time the Sixers were down by 8 points. Because of his ancestry, Allen Iverson sees time a little differently than the rest of us do and he was able to read his team's eventual, but inevitable, loss in this particular contest. Accordingly he began to distribute the ball and involve his teammates, building up their confidence for their return home in the next game. He intentionally missed shots, hoping his team would feel he had let them down and that their own play would have been enough to win. At the end of the game, his 7-24 shooting reflected his shrewd strategy to convince his teammates that their loss had not been inevitable. Even the Piston's cunning and sharp-eyed coach Larry Brown, did not see through Iverson's ruse and took the victory as a sign of his teams superiority.
After the game he once again showered and changed instantaneously, like a flipping coin. He retreated to the same hotel room and locked the same two locks. He removed his fake ears with the same blade and took out his contact lenses, dipping them into the dew-filled cups of two lush roses.
On his desk lay a letter, written in an elegant flowing hand on seemingly ancient parchment.
Number Three,
You, my third son, are my youngest and most beautiful son and I long for your presence in my court more and more with each passing day. Your brothers Taure and Baure are strong and handsome, but they lack you delicacy and delightful sense of humour. Please return to me post-haste.
How are your sporting contests amongst the humans? I cannot believe that you still haven't tired of these childish endeavours. Please return and take up the mantle of your heritage and help me to wage war upon our neighbours.
With you in both Love and War,
King Regalus Redwood
Fairy of Red
Allen Iverson pulled a small inkwell and a luxurious quill from the desk drawer. The quill was formed from the plumage of a bird whose impossible beauty was only hinted at in the colours and textures of that single, full and perfect feather. The ink glowed a faint but luminescent purple in the darkened suite. He touched the tip of the quill to the opposite side of the already crumbling sheet of parchment.
Father,
Tonight's contest was difficult. We were on the road and I have not had sufficient time to train these baskets to adapt to my shot. For this reason, I was unable to reform our destiny through sheer force of will and my team has come up short.
I know that human sports seem infantile and trivial to you, but to me they are innocent and beautiful. By dolling out salaries from it's seemingly limitless treasury, the National Basketball Association attracts the greatest champions from all corners of this planet. These champions engage each other in tests of skill night after night playing with great determination and heart. Clashing ferociously, sparks fly and tempers grow heated and yet each night, at the end of forty eight minutes, all the contestants return to their locker rooms in one piece. They enter into a most willful and honourable competition and yet no one dies, no one is mauled and none of their womenfolk become weeping widows. How can you fail to see the beauty in this?
Yours truly,
Prince Lapino
Son Number Three of the Fairy Red
PS -- I'll call you after the next game, when I'm back home in Philly.
Allen Iverson folded the sheet of parchment, removed a gorgeous glimmering stamp from his bureau drawer and affixed the stamp to the letter. He held the letter in two fingers and it burst into flames, instantly reducing itself to a cloud of ash and smoke, which was swirled up into a tiny maelstrom and flew from the window to seek out his father's court.
After mailing the letter, Prince Lapino slipped between the sumptuous sheets and slept deeply, sunk under melancholy indigo dreams of empty castles and corpse-strewn battlefields.
posted by Matthew Lie - Paehlke | 9:29 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home