And he was not a good player. And he called fouls every time he touched the ball.
After my treadmill run, I stood and watched the game for awhile. I wished that I was nineteen, because he would not have intimidated me, and he would not have stopped me, but I'm thirty-four and slow and can hardly touch the rim . . . it's hard to be old.
I don't know why I caught a dirty look from this guy, except the ball came out of bounds, and I didn't touch it -- not my job -- and maybe he thought I owed him that much for all the iron he'd pumped. The meanface didn't touch me while I was standing there. I raised my eyebrows and kept my face still and gave him the dumbest look, I'm sure, he's seen for a while. As if to say, "Whatever, dude," and he knew what I was saying.
The meanface didn't touch me then, but, damn, it's been haunting me since. Why do I suffer this fool like he's got anything for me? He's barely running a court at a rec center in Athens, Ohio. He wouldn't have got scraped off the sidelines at Miller Sybly fifteen years ago. And why does that matter to me?
Ah, hell, I'm bound up in this.