|I can play the game. My picture on the front page of the Sunday paper. Going to the net. Behind-the-back pass. Swishing a three-point shot from the corner. If this were the man's game, I'd be graduating to seven-figures, rest of my life. Way it is, I'll make some money for a while.
In the classroom . . . I'm like an alien. Creature from another planet. Don't misunderstand. I'm not stupid, far from it. Mostly I get B's and A's. Mostly B's. But I'm like, I don't know, it's painful to be there. I can't pay attention. I'm always thinking about the game.
Now this. Son of a bitch might as well've jumped me. I'm like, Excuse me, Professor? We're supposed to be talking about my paper. He's like, I swear, there's drool coming out the corner of his mouth. He's looking at my chest like it's the promised land. I'm like, You son of a bitch. I go, Professor? Then, next thing it's like thump. If his head were a baseball, it've been one wicked line drive. Frozen rope, center field. He's like wobbling around the room, crazy legs. I'm, Oh, fuck. This isn't good.