I watched them play, in the streets, in the fields. Obsessed with courage and tenacity, singleness of heart to move the ball. Showing off their skills, outwitting each other in a game of dares. A group who teased each other about putting Globetrotters on the bench.
I wonder if there was ever a superhero team of ball handlers with all the skills of the Black athlete, football, baseball, basketball, soccer, tennis, pool, etc. They move balls with agility from the green pea on a plate to planets. They hit, kick, throw, bounce through walls and heads. They use the science, calculate the angles. They perfected the thunder dribble, the torpedo backhand blast, the whirlwind overhead kick, the ricochet rocket shot. All their skills are weapons to move the ball.
The balls are like marbles, every kid has played with. The ball handlers seem to pull them out of the air, pass them between themselves and fire them according to their skill. They shrink or grow to meet the challenge, they float and hover, they snoop, they explode, they envelop and contain. Technology and mentality.
The city streets are locked down, no guns for citizens, yet as usual the thugs have guns. The ball handlers were just in the hood on the way to the field of play lugging their grips of gear. Maybe they should be open, maybe they should have secret ID's or a metamorphic change into ninja like warriors, uniforms. Nah, they were kids in the street who stumbled upon of all things the original Globetrotter. An ancient ghetto derelict they found living in a musty room behind the stores. A blind alley, a forgotten lot, there were stories about the bum who mumbled and stumbled in and out. He talked of legends and myths and stellar games. An ancient soul the likes of Stick in Daredevil and Electra, but more ancient. They snooped on him, a dare and a prank, dazed in trance he was, ping pong balls hovering around his head. He was humming a Motown tune. They burst out, how you do that old man. The little white spheres drop, roll across the floor. A tiny bit startled, he chuckles to recompose, five bowling balls rise up out of the mess and hover around his head. He says back at them with the same taunting air, don't mess with me, I'm a baaaaaad dude. He breaks the silence in a more obliging tone. I didn't think you'd get here. Been waiting to train you how to handle the ball a long time. The bowling balls spun off in five directions, one bouncing off landing in a bucket, one smashing a wall, one softly touching the ceiling (it's still there), one spinning on his finger and one circling the head of one of the kids. A bunch of kids become street warriors with special skills to move the ball.
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