Just A Dirty Rotten Game

Sat  Sep 15, 2007  5:48 am

My Friends,

As I said earlier, I've been dusting off a few of my earlier writings and entering them in the computer and editing them. I wrote a few stories when I was younger and thought I would post some of them along with the poetry and songs.

The story below is one I wrote when I was in high school. I was about 17 or 18. This story is based on an actual game played by myself and three friends and is pretty accurate with not much embellishment. I am Joe in the story and Wayne in the story is the same Wayne from the Immortal books who some of you have met. Brent was a good friend as well as Cannonball whose real last name was Cannon. We nicknamed him Cannonball for several reasons. He was several years older than the rest of us and a lot bigger. Excuse the mild cuss words, but that's the way we talked. Even so, the language is mild compared to literature and shows today.

It might be of interest to note the scene is a basketball court in an LDS [Mormon] church one lazy afternoon.

Just A Dirty Rotten Game

By Joseph John (JJ) Dewey

A basketball!

Two small boys on the court.

Then Cannonball came thundering in. He was first. Wayne was second. Brent was third. Then came the flip-flop of long flat feet. Long. Flat. Loud. Loud! Arms swayed and cut the air. Fourth! Last! That was Joe.

The two boys heard yelling. Screaming. Swearing. Thundering. Loud. Louder. Behind them--the ball was apprehended! Cannonball always shot first, last, and most. Now he was shooting first.

"Brent and I will stand you and Joe," said Cannonball speaking to Wayne.

"Hell," said Wayne.

"We get first outs," said Cannonball.

"Hell," said Wayne.

"We get it out here," said Cannonball.

"The hell you doo," said Wayne.

Then Joe said something. No one heard.

Wayne swore at Cannonball. Cannonball tossed the ball out to Brent. Brent ran in and made a basket. The two points gave him an evil smile of satisfaction. Cannonball hid his.

"Damn you Cannonball" Wayne and Joe belted together. "We haven't started yet."

"You're two points behind," said Cannonball.

"Hell," somebody said.

"Take this damned ball out so we can play," said Brent. He threw the ball to Wayne.

"Two to nothing," said Cannonball. The score came from a mouth shaped for a whistle that never came.

Joe almost heard the funny sound from Wayne's gnashing teeth. It was a challenge now to Wayne and Joe. They'd beat them. They'd win. They'd wipe the floor with them if needed, but they'd make up for that two points.

Wayne threw the ball to Joe, and the two boys watched.

Joe moved slowly, awkwardly, tall ...then he buzzed in for a lay-up.

Checked by two hundred pounds of Cannonball!

"Ow, damn. Ow, hell. Ow. Ow. Owwww! Ahhhh! Ooooo! Eeeeeee!"

Low rumbles, high shrieks came from Joe stretched out on the floor holding his thumb. Then the vibrations reached a frequency which extended beyond the hearing of a dog. He pounded on the floor. He rolled. He swore and he screamed.

"One thing about ol' Joe," said Brent, "as long as he's got enough energy to do all that we know he isn't hurt."

"He just wants attention,' said Cannonball roughly.

"Tum on poowe wittle Joe. Let mommy kiss it better," said Brent, lips puckered.

"It hurts. It hurts like hell," said Joe in a raising volume.

"Yea. Uh huh. You bet. Sure it does," said Brent.

"Why don't you watch what you do with that big bod of yours, Cannonball?" Wayne said.

"It's just too damn big to watch," said Joe getting up looking as if he were feeling better.

"What'd you say?" said Cannonball in as challenging and mean of a voice as he could. He seemed to be inhaling to form a swelled chest as he breathed the words out slowly and articulated. "Nothing," said Joe not looking Cannonball in the eye. "What'd you say?" said Cannonball with added emphasis. Joe didn't seem to hear. He shot a basket.

"What'd you say you.... "Cannonball started the question loud and it grew louder;

"Hmmmm?" said Joe as if he had just been woke from a stupor of thought.

Cannonball was bugged. He grabbed Joe by the teeshirt and Joe's hair moved as if there were a blight breeze as Cannonball reiterated the question.

Joe then pried Cannonball's fingers loose, brushed off the sweaty fingerprints, calmly put himself back together, and then yelled like a lion escaping from hell: "Your bod is too damned big." He then added softly, "That's what."

"Ohhhh," said Cannonball cleaning his ear, "just as long as we know. Here Brent. Take the Ball out."

"It's our outs. You fouled me," said Joe.

"That's right. Give him the ball," said Wayne, speaking to Brent.

"Hell," said Brent. "Joe wasn't fouled anymore than I'd claim you for a relation. I'll bet he practices those tantrums every night at home."

Cannonball sneaked away unnoticed to the basket and was vivaciously motioning to Brent to throw the ball.

"Maybe if your neck felt like my thumb you'd understand," said Joe in an unfeared threat.

Then Brent noticed Cannonball in his exasperating movements to attract attention and rolled him the ball through Joe's legs. It moved like a child's bowling ball. Brent watched it, smiling. Wayne vainly dashed after the ball, but Cannonball swooped it up and made a basket.

"Four to nothing," said Cannonball.

"That didn't count either," said. Wayne. Joe verified him with a different sentence structure.

"You ran after it," said Brent to Wayne. "If you didn't think it would count you wouldn't have ran after it. Why did you run after it? Huh? Why?"

Wayne was silent long enough for a pause.

"Why?" asked Brent again.

"It was our outs," said Wayne, ignoring the question, trying to find some ground.

"The hell it was," said Cannonball. "I checked Joe fair and square."

"Yea - square on the thumb," said Joe.

"Now it's your outs," said Cannonball. He said the word "now" slowly with emphasis. "Here's the ball. The score's four to nothing." "Nothing to nothing," said Wayne.

"You know it's four to nothing, now take that ball out so we can play," said Brent in a moderate yell.

"That's right Wayne. Take it out," said Joe. "And we'll just remember the score's nothing to nothing."

"We're four points ahead no matter what you remember," said Brent.

They threw words back and forth for a while, and Wayne finally threw the ball to Joe.

Joe made a basket!

"I'll be damned," said Wayne, Brent, and Cannonball in succession.

"There's two points," said Joe, "You saw the ball go through. Two points. We've got two points. Do you hear that? Two points."

They heard.

"Two to nothing," said Wayne.

"Yea - uhuh, you bet. Sure it is. Suuurrre it is. Suuurrre," said Brent.

Wayne looked kind of funny. Kind of bugged. Brent swallowed hard until Cannonball threw the ball to him and Wayne's thoughts were directed toward the sport of the game.

There was sweat, running, dribbling, panting, pouting, swearing, screaming. Wayne had a choke hold on Brent for almost five minutes. Cannonball thought he might be dead so he kicked Wayne off--bruises, lying, cursing...

Joe and Wayne made ten points. Ten more! Then Wayne shot one that pierced the air with a long high gentle arc, and there was a satisfying swish.

Cannonball and Brent packed in two, four, six points. Slowly. Then Cannonball got elbowed in the mouth and he got mad. Mad! He foamed at the mouth and made sort of a gurgling and growling sound and any body that was in his way wasn't there long. Ten. Sixteen! Twenty points were made.

"Twenty-two to Twenty," said Wayne.

"The four points, remember the four points?" said Brent. "The score' s twenty-four to twenty-two."

"Twenty-two to twenty."

"Twenty-four to twenty-two."

"The hell it is."

"The hell it is."

There was sweat, running, dribbling, panting, pouting, swearing, screaming, bruises. Cannonball tripped over Joe's long over reaching foot. He swore at Joe. Joe swore back. He grabbed Joe. Joe grabbed back. They wrestled. Hair was pulled. Hair was scratched. Arms were twisted. Bodies rolled. Cannonball finally got a body hold on Joe and squeezed and squeezed. Hard,

"Ya give?" said Cannonball.

"Hell no I don't..."

Cannonball applied more pressure and the last word just couldn't be excreted.

"Ya give?" Cannonball said again.

"I'm far from giving," Joe said in one grunt.

"Ya give?" Cannonball squeezed harder.

Joe bit his lip.

Cannonball squeezed harder. His arms were white from the pressure.

Joe's face showed a shade of purple. His eyes were abnormally large. Brent couldn't tell what color they were.

Cannonball squeezed harder. Harder. Harder!

A muffled crack.

Cannonball and Joe both lay on the floor pale and nearly unconscious. Cannonball was suffering from muscular strain, and Joe from being muscular strained on.

It was never determined whose rib was disorientated. Joe said it was his. The obvious cause was Cannonball's death hold. On the other hand, Cannonball laid loud claim that the reaction to the force he exerted on Joe, which as Joe's boney body on his bosom, forced one of his ribs to crack.

"Dammit!" said Joe. "Did you have to squeeze so hard? I think you busted everything."

"Well, why the hell didn't you give so I could let go. I think got three busted ribs."

"When I wanted to give up, I couldn't say it. I moved my lips but nothing came out."

"Next time give up while you got air or I'll bust all you ribs."

"Let's play ball," interrupted Wayne.

They started playing, lying, cursing...

When Wayne guarded he moved his arms like a buzz saw and after a while he had skin under his nails. Joe moved like a multi-jointed machine and his elbows felt like cast iron. Cannonball played like a bulldozer and when he fell over someone's foot he rolled like a steamroller. Brent seemed short enough to keep out of the way. He seldom did.

"Forty-four to forty," said Cannonball.

"Forty to forty," said Wayne and Joe.

"Th' hell it is."

"Th' hell it is,"

Cannonball looked extremely irritated. His mouth looked like an upside, down quarter moon. He wanted to settle the thing once and for all.

He charged vehemently toward the basket. Wayne got out of the way and Cannonball's momentum was assurance that, in one way or another, Joe would move soon.

In the next instant the basket was made and Brent lay on the floor, groaning, holding his forehead. Cannonball was holding his elbow as if it pained him, but after he saw Brent lying on the floor. it didn't hurt anymore.

"Gosh, Cannonball. You get so rough you kill your own man," said Joe.

Cannonball heard but he didn't hear. He leaned over Brent with the facial expression of a carp, apologized, and asked if he was all right.

Brent stopped moaning a second and screamed something kind of funny to Cannonball.

Cannonball assumed that Brent wasn't all right.

Wayne and Joe were shooting baskets, giving Brent the usual five minutes to recuperate when Cannonball's conscience started bothering him. He motioned to the two boys.

"Here," he said, reaching in his pocket. "Go to the store and get four bottles of pop. Two cokes, a root beer, and an orange. You can keep the change. Hurry."

The two boys wandered away slowly, staring at the money.

Brent got up and said he was feeling better. Cannonball asked if he were sure he was feeling better. Brent said he was sure. Cannonball asked again. Brent said he was sure. Cannonball asked again. Then Brent demanded they play immediately.

They continued playing.

There was sweat, running, dribbling, pouting, panting, swearing, screaming, bruises, lying, cursing (Brent repeated over and over as they played. "I gotta remember this is just a game. Just a dirty rotten game. Nothing but a dirty rotten ... game." Kicking, plunderings, contentions, assaults....

At first the points weren't made so quickly as before. There was just sweat, running, dribbling, pouting, and panting. Joe and Wayne played a bit more mildly and Cannonball had to in order to keep his social standing.

Then Wayne fouled Brent, Cannonball fouled Wayne, Joe fouled Cannonball, and Brent fouled Joe. The game was back to normal.

Cannonball was sweating like a soaker hose and his tee-shirt was sticky as wet tissue paper.

"Those kids sure are taking a long time," he said.

"What's the matter? You want to quit just because were ahead sixty-two to sixty?" said Wayne.

"Hell," said Brent. "Let's just remember the little matter of the four points."

"What four points?" said Wayne with a wrinkled brow.

The score's sixty-four to sixty-two. Our favor," said. Cannonball with a voice of authority.

"Sure it is," said Joe. "Suuurrre."

"You know it is," said Cannonball.

Everyone gnashed his teeth. Each wanted to settle the argument.. once and for all. Just six points ahead. That's all. Six points! Then the other team would have to concede.

Cannonball ran in for a lay-up.

"Checked" by Joe. Full force! Bodies clashed.

Cannonball hissed out swear words. He held an injured thumb. Joe laid on the floor, his hand over his mouth. There was some blood on his lips.

"Damned that elbow of yours!" said. Joe.

"Elbow hell," said Cannonball. "That was my thumb."

"Does it hurt?" said Joe.

"It sure as hell does," said Cannonball.

"Good!" said Joe. "It makes my mouth feel better."

"My mouth is sure going to feel better," said Brent. "Here comes the pop."

Pop.

Cannonball's eyes had a look of heavenly bliss. The fuse was lit and Cannonball was first to place his hands on the cool moisture of the bottles. He opened a coke and then there was a hollow gurgling sound.

Wayne grabbed a root beer. Brent got the other Coke and Joe got the orange.

"Orange!" said Joe in utter disgust. He said it again. Louder. He wanted everyone to hear.

Brent just about choked on his pop. He coughed for about five minutes in one breath and everyone wondered if he was going to live.

"Hell," said Brent. "Did you have to say that when I was in the middle of a gulp?" He started laughing again. "You had the damnedest look on your face." He was still choking somewhat, but managed to talk: "Your face looked like my mother's did when she looked through a bunch of Playboy magazines she found in my room.... Orange. You said orange so funny." He continued laughing. No one joined him.

"This is the worst damned thing you could have got," said Joe to Cannonball. Joe had an ugly look on his face. "The worst."

Cannonball had finished his coke all too soon. He was trying to shake the last drop into his opened mouth. "Damn!" he said. "I'm thirstier now than I was before."

"So am I," said Joe, and he continued in a tone that wasn't quiet: "And I hate this orange. You know I hate orange!"

Cannonball took the bottle of orange and scrutinized it with a look of an Englishman. "That's what you drank last time," he said.

"It wasn't that brand," said Joe. "I hate that brand. I hate it. It makes me sick. I didn't like that other orange either. I drank it because you bought it for me. It was free. I was thirsty."

"Oh," said Cannonball.

Cannonball then popped the cap off the orange and there was another hollow gurgling sound.

Brent counted three gulps.

"Tastes pretty damned good to me," said Cannonball. "Damned good."

Joe frowned.

"Ha-ha-ha," said Brent. "The laugh's on Joe. Ha-ha-ha-ha...."

"I'm ready to play again," said Wayne.

"I don t know," said Cannonball. "I'm still thirsty. Let' s go get some more pop."

"I don't have any money," said the other three in an ordered sequence.

"The hell you don't," said Cannonball. "I just got paid." Wayne didn't feel like playing basketball anymore either. He dropped the ball.

"You guys just remember the score is sixty-four to sixty-two. Our favor," said Brent on the way out.

"The hell it is!" said Joe. "The score's sixty-two to sixty. Our favor."

"Sixty-four to sixty-two."

"Sixty-two to sixty."

"The hell it is."

"The hell it is."

Then Cannonball remembered Joe's favorite brand of pop. Joe smiled and said: "It was one hell of a game anyway."

"It was," said Cannonball.

They started running toward the store, leaving behind the salty-sweat smell of the gym, turning stale now.

Cannonball's voice echoed something about drinking a gallon of pop and they were gone.

Two small boys left on the court...

A basketball.

Copyright © 2007 by JJ Dewey, All Rights Reserved