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fandomhighdorms2005-09-21 06:26 pm
cantgetnorelief.livejournal.com) wrote in fandomhighdorms2005-09-21 06:26 pm
In the Gym: One-on-None
Anders has been in the gym for three hours now. He's staked out a corner of the basketball court and rigged an odd-looking oblong frame about eight feet tall, with a bucket suspended about five and a half feet up. The makeshift goal stands between him and the rest of the gym, forming a triangle: one third of a Pyramid court. It's quiet except for the squeaking of his shoes, an occasional grunt, and the muted thud of a Pyramid ball ricocheting off the walls and floor. Every now and then a metallic clang echoes across the gym when the ball lands in the bucket. Normally it would be a more frequent sound, but it's tough when the goal is a jury-rigged mess of broomsticks and jumpropes instead of the standard solid panel.
He does a spin-move around an imaginary opponent, throws the ball hard into the corner, then cuts sharply to make a dash for the goal. The ball ricochets off the wall and into his hand, and then it's just a stutter-step to the left and a flick of the wrist.
Clang. Ball into bucket, and that's goal. He retrieves the ball, wipes his forehead, and starts all over again.
There's not much challenge in this kind of practice; it's more like self-gratification, really. Playing with fancy moves that might or might not work in a game situation. Nobody to trip you up or nudge you just enough to send your shot offline. The impossibility of reading the moves of an opponent who just isn't there. But it's familiar, and it's comforting; he knows these sounds and these moves so well, which is more than he can say for so many things about this school. If he can just get into the rhythm a little bit more, crank up the energy a notch, ratchet up the difficulty level one more time, maybe he can shut off his brain and imagine he's back home.
Well, except for this frakking substandard excuse for a court.
He does a spin-move around an imaginary opponent, throws the ball hard into the corner, then cuts sharply to make a dash for the goal. The ball ricochets off the wall and into his hand, and then it's just a stutter-step to the left and a flick of the wrist.
Clang. Ball into bucket, and that's goal. He retrieves the ball, wipes his forehead, and starts all over again.
There's not much challenge in this kind of practice; it's more like self-gratification, really. Playing with fancy moves that might or might not work in a game situation. Nobody to trip you up or nudge you just enough to send your shot offline. The impossibility of reading the moves of an opponent who just isn't there. But it's familiar, and it's comforting; he knows these sounds and these moves so well, which is more than he can say for so many things about this school. If he can just get into the rhythm a little bit more, crank up the energy a notch, ratchet up the difficulty level one more time, maybe he can shut off his brain and imagine he's back home.
Well, except for this frakking substandard excuse for a court.