Ricky Ticky-Tac
Pete grabbed the rebound, spun, and fired a perfect outlet pass to Hollis, who was streaking down the sun-baked asphalt court for an uncontested layup, and the apparent winning basket.
Then, they heard the familiar voice. "FOUL!" Shoulders slumped; eyes rolled. It was Ricky who made the call. It was always Ricky who made the call. "Pete went over my back to get the rebound. I'm sorry, but that's the rule. He can't just go over my back like that."
This is what their games had degenerated into. You couldn't just call your foul anymore; you had to cite the rule, then give your interpretation of the rule, and perhaps even pantomime said violation.
You can't have a game where nine people call fouls one way, and the tenth calls them another. Ricky was the tenth guy, this game and every game. Everybody tried to be diplomatic about it; after all, they had been playing together as a group for almost seven years. But diplomacy had run its course on this hot day.
Sam lost it first. "Jesus Fucking Christ, Ricky. Every game it's the same bullshit. You can't call every ticky-tac piece of contact that happens. Besides, you're one of the biggest guys here."
Everybody knew what Ricky was going to say next; some even mouthed the words as he spoke them: "Just because I'm big doesn't mean you can foul me anytime you want." Now it was Pete's turn to lose it. "Ricky, I barely even touched you. And then you wait till Hollis gets all the way down the court to make a layup to make your call? What the fuck is that?"
"But you admit that you touched me. That's a foul. I took my time because I wanted to be sure I made the right call."
This same drama played itself out almost every week. It had to stop. Everybody looked to Tim in times like this, because it was Tim who had gotten everybody together back in the day. He didn't really see why that mattered seven years later, but as he usually did, Tim shouldered the burden of communicating the group's concerns with Ricky.
"Look, Ricky, we all like you. We all still want to hang out with you and stuff, but this basketball thing... I mean, it's just not working out. We spend more time debating calls than we do playing anymore. Do you even have fun playing with us?"
Ricky looked like he was either going to cry or punch something, so everybody gave him a wide berth as he stomped around fuming under the basket. They all kept one eye on Ricky, and one eye on the ball, now resting near half court.
None of this was new, of course. They had the breakup talk about once a year. Ricky always came back, and they always hoped for the best. Tim layed it on the line: "Ricky, if this is how you're going to play, maybe we just shouldn't play together."
Ricky walked off the court towards his car, kicking the ball as hard as he could on the way; it landed about 40 yards away on the softball diamond, and just kept rolling. He tried to burn rubber with his Chevy Cavalier as he sped out of the parking lot, but all he did was spray some sand and gravel around.
Nobody felt good about what happened. Somebody had to go get the ball, and now they had odd numbers. For awhile, anyway.
10:57:32 AM 
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