The rubber of the black and green Boston Celtics branded Spalding basketball felt comfortable Big Dick’s palm. It bounced against the dark, bright black pavement of his suburban driveway with a casual confidence. A small boy with big hands. Richard wore his role well. The ability to palm a basketball had eluded him for so long and it had only come recently after countless evenings drilling techniques in his driveway and his bedroom. Quarantine and COVID-19 had taken away a lot of minutes on the court...
Dick had tried to make ‘em all up in his driveaway. Driving layups and shooting fades against ghosts and imaginary opponents. Leaving his knockoff Paul Pierce jersey coated in sweat while getting his ankles sliced by spirits. He had worked too hard and too long. It wasn't all for this moment, but this moment was definitely worth all of it.
“Alright my guy,” Richard spoke with a casual slowness, “It’s been awhile, but the rules of the game remain the same…”
This opponent was all too different because he was all too real. This feeling of anticipation before facing friend and the intensity required to turn them into a foe had eluded Richard for all too long. He was willing to take whatever vaccine his mother shoved in his arm with no hesitation or question. Being with his buddy was worth it. Giving his friend the work was the best reward.
“Make it—take it!”
Dick carelessly shot the ball from the edge of his driveway. The shot was off. It bounced off the rim of his home hoop with a resounding and resentful boing! Big Dick grimaced. He didn't bother chasing the rebound.
Talkin' bout practice
Not the game; Late July 2021; Tagging Deamon
A hand went up and gathered the ball, another joining it to add control and feet touched down on the warm asphalt of the drive. With a grin, Darryl Smith Jr. span around to face Big Dick.
"Yo, what was that supposed to be? No wonder you guys sorry."
Darryl hoped that Dick was just warming up because if not he would have to start to reconsider the company he kept. If he turned up to a pickup game with that kind of shooting then he'd have fled the court with his tail between his legs. That said they were outside and able to play in person and that was good enough for him. NBA 2K had really fallen to pieces in recent years he had learned during lockdown and it hadn't been trending well to begin with.
"Here, let me show you how it's done," Darryl said as he dribbled out from the side of the hoop they had set up in Big Dicks driveway, working in some between the legs moves as he did so.
"All in the wrist," He said as he span and shot, leaving his arms up in a shooting pose as the ball gracefully sailed through the air before also clanking off the hoop, which wobbled in displeasure at the beating it was receiving and the play it was seeing.
"Well..." Darryl folded his arms and turned his head to look at Big Dick. "I think your hoops broke."
"Yo, what was that supposed to be? No wonder you guys sorry."
Darryl hoped that Dick was just warming up because if not he would have to start to reconsider the company he kept. If he turned up to a pickup game with that kind of shooting then he'd have fled the court with his tail between his legs. That said they were outside and able to play in person and that was good enough for him. NBA 2K had really fallen to pieces in recent years he had learned during lockdown and it hadn't been trending well to begin with.
"Here, let me show you how it's done," Darryl said as he dribbled out from the side of the hoop they had set up in Big Dicks driveway, working in some between the legs moves as he did so.
"All in the wrist," He said as he span and shot, leaving his arms up in a shooting pose as the ball gracefully sailed through the air before also clanking off the hoop, which wobbled in displeasure at the beating it was receiving and the play it was seeing.
"Well..." Darryl folded his arms and turned his head to look at Big Dick. "I think your hoops broke."
“Hey bud,” Richard playfully protested, “We ain’t sorry cuz of me,” Dick believed that, totally—completely, “And you know this maaaaaaaaaan.”
The ball bounced towards him with a lackadaisical and taunting rhythm. Richard immediately scooped it up and began dribbling himself. His style was textbook. The fundamentals and techniques that had been drilled into him through years of travel basketball were apparent in his every move. Carefully rehearsed and practiced muscle memories that revealed all the desire Big had along with all the innate skill he lacked. Want-to only mattered so much.
Dick had found it mattered very little. At least on the court.
He dribbled his ball. Once between the legs before he began the movements for a crossover. Shadow boxing in a basketball game and once the shadow’s ankles were broken, Richard found himself darting and dashing towards the hoop. Dick had scored five three pointers in a game once—but the three-point shot was the worst in his arsenal. He was a streaky, inconsistent and overenthusiastic shooter…
But that didn’t matter when Big Dick Buster found the paint.
With a flick of the wrist, the chubby ginger boy found his layup making it’s mark with a confidence building swish. It wasn’t a three-pointer. It didn’t do anything for the game they were playing—but the feeling of making one shot usually lead to the making of others.
Rich bounced the ball towards Daryl with an easy and definitive pass…
“Shoot that shit again!”
The ball bounced towards him with a lackadaisical and taunting rhythm. Richard immediately scooped it up and began dribbling himself. His style was textbook. The fundamentals and techniques that had been drilled into him through years of travel basketball were apparent in his every move. Carefully rehearsed and practiced muscle memories that revealed all the desire Big had along with all the innate skill he lacked. Want-to only mattered so much.
Dick had found it mattered very little. At least on the court.
He dribbled his ball. Once between the legs before he began the movements for a crossover. Shadow boxing in a basketball game and once the shadow’s ankles were broken, Richard found himself darting and dashing towards the hoop. Dick had scored five three pointers in a game once—but the three-point shot was the worst in his arsenal. He was a streaky, inconsistent and overenthusiastic shooter…
But that didn’t matter when Big Dick Buster found the paint.
With a flick of the wrist, the chubby ginger boy found his layup making it’s mark with a confidence building swish. It wasn’t a three-pointer. It didn’t do anything for the game they were playing—but the feeling of making one shot usually lead to the making of others.
Rich bounced the ball towards Daryl with an easy and definitive pass…
“Shoot that shit again!”
Darryl had to admit, Richard did style on the player he was imagining. But objectively the issue was that he just wasn't fast enough or big enough to be able to force his way into making plays. He was doomed to an existence taking half-shots from just inside the arc. See, Darryl had already come to terms with his height deficiency, sure he could make plays during the pick-up games he took part in, but when the big guys came in, the men with the height and weight, well he knew better than to push his luck.
Dick didn't have that self-preservation instinct, or he did and just suppressed it. Either he didn't know when to quit, which was both admirable and unfortunate. But then Darryl still attended every game the Terriers played so who was really the fool?
"Not bad, not bad," Darryl said as he gathered the ball.
He set his feet and bounced the ball off the tarmac a few times before shooting the three-pointer again.
The second attempt was better than the first and the ball sailed through the hoop with a satisfying swoosh.
"Eyy, there we go," Darryl said with a smile and a dramatic brow wipe. "Was worried I'd lost all my skill over the lockdown."
Dick didn't have that self-preservation instinct, or he did and just suppressed it. Either he didn't know when to quit, which was both admirable and unfortunate. But then Darryl still attended every game the Terriers played so who was really the fool?
"Not bad, not bad," Darryl said as he gathered the ball.
He set his feet and bounced the ball off the tarmac a few times before shooting the three-pointer again.
The second attempt was better than the first and the ball sailed through the hoop with a satisfying swoosh.
"Eyy, there we go," Darryl said with a smile and a dramatic brow wipe. "Was worried I'd lost all my skill over the lockdown."
“Yeah! Hell yeah! I like that!”
Richard felt a genuine exuberance come to his face as his cheeks tightened and his grin expanded from ear to ear. Dick pumped his fist and cheered before picking up the ball, dribbling it twice and then bouncing it back over to Daryl. Dick loved playing basketball and he preferred to play the position of point guard from a pass-first perspective. To see Daryl, take his pass and effortlessly make the shot off the bounce? It was hard not to get hyped. He was too loud to lie.
Richard had seen Daryl light it up in pick-up games. Dick was good, he was poised and smart with the ball—Daryl was special. He was flamboyant and fearless with a penchant for theatrics and he derived a distinct pleasure in making shots in other’s faces. Daryl and Dick had dominated many pick-up and street games as a quick and tenacious back court. Sure, there were times when their opponents were too damn big and too damn skilled to do anything against…but against Joe Schmoe and The Average Alfreds? Easy money.
“How ‘bout it? Senior year, fresh off the pandemic…,” Big Dick Buster got in position, preparing to play defense as the two began their one on one, “Smith and Buster in the back court takin’ the scrappy Terriers to the playoffs for the first time in a generation? One last ride—for ya boy! You know you wanna!”
He knew the answer before he asked. It never stopped him from doing so.
Richard felt a genuine exuberance come to his face as his cheeks tightened and his grin expanded from ear to ear. Dick pumped his fist and cheered before picking up the ball, dribbling it twice and then bouncing it back over to Daryl. Dick loved playing basketball and he preferred to play the position of point guard from a pass-first perspective. To see Daryl, take his pass and effortlessly make the shot off the bounce? It was hard not to get hyped. He was too loud to lie.
Richard had seen Daryl light it up in pick-up games. Dick was good, he was poised and smart with the ball—Daryl was special. He was flamboyant and fearless with a penchant for theatrics and he derived a distinct pleasure in making shots in other’s faces. Daryl and Dick had dominated many pick-up and street games as a quick and tenacious back court. Sure, there were times when their opponents were too damn big and too damn skilled to do anything against…but against Joe Schmoe and The Average Alfreds? Easy money.
“How ‘bout it? Senior year, fresh off the pandemic…,” Big Dick Buster got in position, preparing to play defense as the two began their one on one, “Smith and Buster in the back court takin’ the scrappy Terriers to the playoffs for the first time in a generation? One last ride—for ya boy! You know you wanna!”
He knew the answer before he asked. It never stopped him from doing so.
Dick was more excited for the bucket than Darryl was, he was the perfect hype man in that way. Between that and his infectious love for basketball—despite his lack of natural skill—it made the next stage of their conversation easy to predict. That and the fact they'd had the same conversation every year since they had met, with the same results. That didn't mean it wasn't fun to hear the tale of their theoretical on-court partnership and the domination they would have over their competition. To hear Richard tell it they would have been an unstoppable duo, Jordan and Pippen, Malone and Stockton. But it wouldn't be like that, for a start the rest of the team would also be required to play and while Darryl couldn't deny that part of him was attracted to the idea the reality was different.
Darryl gathered up the ball as it rolled back towards him.
"As tempting as it is," He began, dribbling to the far right side of the imaginary arc before pulling up and hitting another three. "I'm not joining the team."
Darryl gathered up the ball as it rolled back towards him.
"As tempting as it is," He began, dribbling to the far right side of the imaginary arc before pulling up and hitting another three. "I'm not joining the team."
“Somehow,” Dick mused as he drifted towards the ball after it had gone through the hoop with a very loud swoosh for the second time, “Ya don’t sound too tempted my friend.”
But could Richard blame him? Why bother wasting time practicing and sweating and dealing with Donovan and Victor and everything that came with competing for the underfunded and underperforming Terriers? For the glory and privilege of getting blown out by West Salem?
Dick dribbled the basketball in his hand. Bright black and green and new. Richard had a garage of worn down balls. Dribbled smooth. When he bounced the ball off the asphalt, he dribbled hard and fast. One hand to the other and then between the legs. Daryl had a great shot and a killer instinct. He enjoyed making shots in people’s faces and causing a ruckus. Big Dick enjoyed getting in faces. Big Dick took pleasure in bringing order to the disorderly.
"Think I'm done tempting you..."
He bounced the ball aggressively towards his friend and his eyes narrowed.
"Prolly better to just beat that ass."
Before Daryl could bounce the ball again, Richard would be in his face. Knees bent and hand outstretched, sticking to his best friend like glue. When you were 5’3” there was only one defensive strategy that counted for anything…relentless, constant and unyielding pressure.
In other words—you had to be a fuckin’ pest.
But could Richard blame him? Why bother wasting time practicing and sweating and dealing with Donovan and Victor and everything that came with competing for the underfunded and underperforming Terriers? For the glory and privilege of getting blown out by West Salem?
Dick dribbled the basketball in his hand. Bright black and green and new. Richard had a garage of worn down balls. Dribbled smooth. When he bounced the ball off the asphalt, he dribbled hard and fast. One hand to the other and then between the legs. Daryl had a great shot and a killer instinct. He enjoyed making shots in people’s faces and causing a ruckus. Big Dick enjoyed getting in faces. Big Dick took pleasure in bringing order to the disorderly.
"Think I'm done tempting you..."
He bounced the ball aggressively towards his friend and his eyes narrowed.
"Prolly better to just beat that ass."
Before Daryl could bounce the ball again, Richard would be in his face. Knees bent and hand outstretched, sticking to his best friend like glue. When you were 5’3” there was only one defensive strategy that counted for anything…relentless, constant and unyielding pressure.
In other words—you had to be a fuckin’ pest.
So here they were again, at the intersection of friendly competition and ego. There always came a point in a street game where it became a matter of pride. There was only so long you could let someone dunk on you before you had to stand up for yourself. It appeared that point had been reached. That or Dick just wanted to challenge Darryl and he wasn't as keen on the idea.
He never enjoyed having to deal with all five three of Richard being up in his business. Dick had compensated in his lack of pure athletic ability by becoming the most annoying person to play against and they were friends, but Darryl just couldn't abide having hands waved in his face every second of the game, especially not from someone whose closest physical resemblance was Garfield.
That being said short of trucking the small ginger cat over Darryl couldn't find an easy way through. He turned and backed himself into Richard, pushing him back towards then went for a spin to try and escaped out of the side door. Dick read the move though and moved perpendicularly so when Darryl pulled up and shot he managed to get his fingers on the ball, sending it just off-target enough to clip the rim.
He never enjoyed having to deal with all five three of Richard being up in his business. Dick had compensated in his lack of pure athletic ability by becoming the most annoying person to play against and they were friends, but Darryl just couldn't abide having hands waved in his face every second of the game, especially not from someone whose closest physical resemblance was Garfield.
That being said short of trucking the small ginger cat over Darryl couldn't find an easy way through. He turned and backed himself into Richard, pushing him back towards then went for a spin to try and escaped out of the side door. Dick read the move though and moved perpendicularly so when Darryl pulled up and shot he managed to get his fingers on the ball, sending it just off-target enough to clip the rim.
The Last Dance.
At the height of The Pandemic. With a complete lack of sports, Dick had been caught up and captivated by the documentary series telling stories of a basketball team he had only seen on YouTube and heard about in conversation. Jordan was a legend, sure, but the star of the doc in his mind?
Dennis Rodman.
As the ball bounced off the rim, the rotund boy's attention turned to the sphere and Rodman’s frantic description of rebounding echoed in his mind. This was a place where the boy could eat. Big Dick’s game was like lasagna—it had layers! Bright blue eyes found the ball and big hands outstretched and yanked it from the air at the end of a rather surprising bunny hop. When Dicky hit the ground, ball in hand—he lost all finesse. Instead he found himself twisting his hips and arms from side to side as a method of creating space.
Daryl gave it to him, his brand of basketball having all the smooth to Richard’s crunch. The ginger breathed heavy and the ball bounced high. He got enough distance from the hoop to be fair and slowed his pace. Now it was his turn and his eyes and focus were true. He heaved the ball, almost throwing it at the backboard like he was Tom Brady. It hit it’s mark with a thump and bounced in with a force that shook the front yard hoop.
“That’s all day buddy! All day!”
History had proven otherwise, but Richard was wise enough to not let the moment to celebrate pass.
At the height of The Pandemic. With a complete lack of sports, Dick had been caught up and captivated by the documentary series telling stories of a basketball team he had only seen on YouTube and heard about in conversation. Jordan was a legend, sure, but the star of the doc in his mind?
Dennis Rodman.
As the ball bounced off the rim, the rotund boy's attention turned to the sphere and Rodman’s frantic description of rebounding echoed in his mind. This was a place where the boy could eat. Big Dick’s game was like lasagna—it had layers! Bright blue eyes found the ball and big hands outstretched and yanked it from the air at the end of a rather surprising bunny hop. When Dicky hit the ground, ball in hand—he lost all finesse. Instead he found himself twisting his hips and arms from side to side as a method of creating space.
Daryl gave it to him, his brand of basketball having all the smooth to Richard’s crunch. The ginger breathed heavy and the ball bounced high. He got enough distance from the hoop to be fair and slowed his pace. Now it was his turn and his eyes and focus were true. He heaved the ball, almost throwing it at the backboard like he was Tom Brady. It hit it’s mark with a thump and bounced in with a force that shook the front yard hoop.
“That’s all day buddy! All day!”
History had proven otherwise, but Richard was wise enough to not let the moment to celebrate pass.
Now, if Darryl didn't possess a level of self-belief that allowed him to brush setbacks off as only temporary he'd have started to grow frustrated in Dick's ability to make him miss two easy shots. Although he supposed if you looked at it subjectively that level of self-belief was a unifying force between the pair. They both knew they could achieve their goals, it wasn't so much a question of if but when, at least in their minds.
But with all that said, Darryl really couldn't just let Richard get away with the taunting. A man had to draw a line somewhere, once, sure he could forgive that. But twice, well, twice was a challenge, twice was fighting words. Darryl had grown up on streetball and he instinctively saw the damage to his reputation. The potential damage that was. There was no one else around, it was just him and Dick, but still, he couldn't let it go.
"Alright, alright, big man," He said, picking up and bouncing the ball with one hand while making a calm down gesture with the other. "Guess we're doing this."
As he said it Darryl dropped into a playing stance and started dribbling, taking the ball left, then right, planting and spinning so his back was to Richard pressuring him back. Then once he was happy with his positioning turning on the ball of his foot, dropping back and firing up a shot.
But with all that said, Darryl really couldn't just let Richard get away with the taunting. A man had to draw a line somewhere, once, sure he could forgive that. But twice, well, twice was a challenge, twice was fighting words. Darryl had grown up on streetball and he instinctively saw the damage to his reputation. The potential damage that was. There was no one else around, it was just him and Dick, but still, he couldn't let it go.
"Alright, alright, big man," He said, picking up and bouncing the ball with one hand while making a calm down gesture with the other. "Guess we're doing this."
As he said it Darryl dropped into a playing stance and started dribbling, taking the ball left, then right, planting and spinning so his back was to Richard pressuring him back. Then once he was happy with his positioning turning on the ball of his foot, dropping back and firing up a shot.
And there it was.
Just like that.
Boom! Pow! Flash! Like magic!
The game had changed. The game got real.
Daryl was too damn quick, too damn skilled and too damned smart. Worst of all? He wasn’t too damn tall—he was juuuuuuust tall enough. It was compounded by Richard. Too damn short, too damn slow and too damn caucasian. It wasn’t something Dick liked to think about. Richard wasn’t uncomfortable in topics surrounding race but he wasn’t exactly racing to acknowledge and reckon with his privilege either. Dick and Daryl were boys. Best friends. That connection conquered color.
Except this was America, right? And color was always there whether you liked it or not. Connection didn’t change history.
Daryl and Dick were best friends. Daryl was still a black kid and Dick still a short, fat and freckled white boy. Larry Bird he was not. Dicky had seen it at many a pick-up game—black dudes getting enraged and anguished at the idea of losing to the round-mound-who-couldn’t-jump-high-enough-to-rebound. Turn on the news and flip the channel. Black folk didn’t have much in the United States to claim ownership of aside from rapping and ball and here Dicky stood trespassing and making his way to the fridge. First you stereotype and now you wanna steal? Of course Daryl couldn't stomach that. Nobody was watching, it was just the two of them. Richard could still sense his friend's awe and calm disdain for his audacity. This court was Daryl's place...it only happened to be at Richard's house.
Maybe that’s why Daryl didn’t want to join the team? I give you friendship Whitey, but ball? Ball is for me to keep.
All this stuff permeated in the background, under the surface and Dick barely grasped or conceived it. He could hardly think to articulating it's finer points and truths. This was a ball game. Richard wasn’t going to breakdown race and reputation in this second…
He could barely breakdown Daryl. And that was his best friend.
Left. Right. Spin. Too much pressure and too much weight moving far too quickly…
Dick felt his ankles buckle and then his butt hit the ground.
“Shit!”
The only thing louder was the swoosh as the shot went in. Nothing but net.
Just like that.
Boom! Pow! Flash! Like magic!
The game had changed. The game got real.
Daryl was too damn quick, too damn skilled and too damned smart. Worst of all? He wasn’t too damn tall—he was juuuuuuust tall enough. It was compounded by Richard. Too damn short, too damn slow and too damn caucasian. It wasn’t something Dick liked to think about. Richard wasn’t uncomfortable in topics surrounding race but he wasn’t exactly racing to acknowledge and reckon with his privilege either. Dick and Daryl were boys. Best friends. That connection conquered color.
Except this was America, right? And color was always there whether you liked it or not. Connection didn’t change history.
Daryl and Dick were best friends. Daryl was still a black kid and Dick still a short, fat and freckled white boy. Larry Bird he was not. Dicky had seen it at many a pick-up game—black dudes getting enraged and anguished at the idea of losing to the round-mound-who-couldn’t-jump-high-enough-to-rebound. Turn on the news and flip the channel. Black folk didn’t have much in the United States to claim ownership of aside from rapping and ball and here Dicky stood trespassing and making his way to the fridge. First you stereotype and now you wanna steal? Of course Daryl couldn't stomach that. Nobody was watching, it was just the two of them. Richard could still sense his friend's awe and calm disdain for his audacity. This court was Daryl's place...it only happened to be at Richard's house.
Maybe that’s why Daryl didn’t want to join the team? I give you friendship Whitey, but ball? Ball is for me to keep.
All this stuff permeated in the background, under the surface and Dick barely grasped or conceived it. He could hardly think to articulating it's finer points and truths. This was a ball game. Richard wasn’t going to breakdown race and reputation in this second…
He could barely breakdown Daryl. And that was his best friend.
Left. Right. Spin. Too much pressure and too much weight moving far too quickly…
Dick felt his ankles buckle and then his butt hit the ground.
“Shit!”
The only thing louder was the swoosh as the shot went in. Nothing but net.
He had to do it to him.
The status quo had to be reestablished.
Dick had improved but he hadn't improved that much.
Richard had gone down and the ball swished through the net. Clean, efficient, devastating. The ball bounced back to his feet and Daryl stopped it by placing his foot on top. He leaned one arm over his knee and reached out to his friend with the other, hand extended.
"Sorry about that," He said with a slight grin, "Didn't mean to run you over."
Okay, he had kinda meant it. It was a get out the way or get knocked down deal.
"You've improved though, might be one of the better players now."
The status quo had to be reestablished.
Dick had improved but he hadn't improved that much.
Richard had gone down and the ball swished through the net. Clean, efficient, devastating. The ball bounced back to his feet and Daryl stopped it by placing his foot on top. He leaned one arm over his knee and reached out to his friend with the other, hand extended.
"Sorry about that," He said with a slight grin, "Didn't mean to run you over."
Okay, he had kinda meant it. It was a get out the way or get knocked down deal.
"You've improved though, might be one of the better players now."
“I’ve been gettin’ serious run since Freshman year,” Rich grunted as he accepted Daryl’s hand, “I’m the best on the team.”
”And you know it!” was the unspoken phrase. It didn’t taste right fresh off getting put on ice like Richard had been. But it was the truth as far as Dicky was concerned! He had been playing team ball since before he could read. The boy consumed basketball in all it's forms and absorbed fact and stat to obnoxiousness. No other Terrier had Big Dick's experience or dedication or leadership ability or pure basketball IQ.
That was the problem, wasn’t it?
When your most experienced ball player was someone built like Richard? It didn’t speak a lot to your State Title prospects. On a decent team, Dick would ride the bench. At a powerhouse, Big-Time Basketball Factory masquerading as a school? Big Dick would struggle to make the team, let alone gain meaningful minutes. Wasn't the case at John Endecott. If it wasn’t for the pandemic? Shit, Richard might’ve had a shot at being JEM’s all-time assist leader.
And that was the problem, wasn’t it?
The Big Boy was pulled up by a combination of his buddy's strength and with a heave and a-ho of his own. Dick dusted himself off and returned the grin. The worst thing to appear was uncool. The uncoolest thing to appear was bitter.
“And I know you better than you think, bitch-ass,” Richard chuckled, “You definitely meant that,” a big hearty, belly shaking laugh, “And I definitely earned it.”
”And you know it!” was the unspoken phrase. It didn’t taste right fresh off getting put on ice like Richard had been. But it was the truth as far as Dicky was concerned! He had been playing team ball since before he could read. The boy consumed basketball in all it's forms and absorbed fact and stat to obnoxiousness. No other Terrier had Big Dick's experience or dedication or leadership ability or pure basketball IQ.
That was the problem, wasn’t it?
When your most experienced ball player was someone built like Richard? It didn’t speak a lot to your State Title prospects. On a decent team, Dick would ride the bench. At a powerhouse, Big-Time Basketball Factory masquerading as a school? Big Dick would struggle to make the team, let alone gain meaningful minutes. Wasn't the case at John Endecott. If it wasn’t for the pandemic? Shit, Richard might’ve had a shot at being JEM’s all-time assist leader.
And that was the problem, wasn’t it?
The Big Boy was pulled up by a combination of his buddy's strength and with a heave and a-ho of his own. Dick dusted himself off and returned the grin. The worst thing to appear was uncool. The uncoolest thing to appear was bitter.
“And I know you better than you think, bitch-ass,” Richard chuckled, “You definitely meant that,” a big hearty, belly shaking laugh, “And I definitely earned it.”
Darryl kept his mouth shut when Dick replied. He may have been the best player on the team but the talent level of the team was...suspect. Richard was solid but he was firmly at his level. They both knew that. They also both knew that there was no reason to say it.
Luckily Big Dick let all of the unspoken tension roll off his back and let out a laugh. Darryl couldn't help smiling as well. His friends' optimism and love for the game was infectious in that way. It didn't matter how many points got dropped on the Terriers he'd still be fighting over every single possession and enjoying every moment of it. He was a human representation of their mascot Darryl supposed.
"Alright," He said finally, slapping Dick on his shoulder. "Let's keep going, can't let me do that to you."
Luckily Big Dick let all of the unspoken tension roll off his back and let out a laugh. Darryl couldn't help smiling as well. His friends' optimism and love for the game was infectious in that way. It didn't matter how many points got dropped on the Terriers he'd still be fighting over every single possession and enjoying every moment of it. He was a human representation of their mascot Darryl supposed.
"Alright," He said finally, slapping Dick on his shoulder. "Let's keep going, can't let me do that to you."
Fin.