Clipped

Blowin' Smoke

Damn, son. Shit was whack today. Smoke busted out some ill kinda move. Dribbled upcourt, crossed twice, and bounced that shit right up off my forehead. Straight up. Caught me dead up in the grill. Yea, he blew the layup, but Ima bet none o' the heads that saw the game remember that. They only goin' remember my dazed ass tryin' ta figure out what the fuck just happened. For damn sure. I ball. Can't say why. Ain't goin' try. Just do. Ballin's it, dawg. Fo' sho sho. Gets ya in with the ladies. Gets ya mad props from the fellas. One rule- Can't look bad. Cuz then yo' ass goin' be peepin' the game from the sideline, na'mean? This ball ain't left my hands since I was 7 years old- a real young'un and whatnot. I'd ball outside 'til it got dark and I couldn't see the rim. I'd come in and jet right to my room. Moms wouldn't let me dribble nowhere else in the house. I'd sit on the edge of the bed and handle the rock 'til Moms called for supper. Go around five times- start dribbling under both legs, then just left, just right, and finish up in front of both. I'd bounce the ball off the wall, droppin' imaginary dimes to no kinda end. Practice is where it's at. Smoke goin' be on the other end tomorrow. I been workin' on a new move. Special for him. Cross back to front, then put the ball around his back and spin the other way, picking up the pill on the other side with nothing but empty lane in front of me. Call it the Fan- Make Smoke disappear.