He Misses His Boys, But Saturday is Still Great

For most of the fourteen years that The Great Plotnik has lived in Saint Plotniko, Saturday mornings has meant a bike ride to James Plotz Middle School for a basketball game with more-or-less the same bunch of guys, followed by a stop at the bagel shop to pick up poppy seed bagels (the above picture is of sesame, not poppy, but that's because the bin was fuller), then biking home for a shower, Latte a la Plotnique, and a bagel with cream cheese, sweet onion and tomato.

Now, the bagels are still the same, but the basketball game has dissolved, after all those years (and more, since those guys were already playing on that court for at least ten years before Plotnik arrived). The reasons are many -- most of the guys lived nearby when we first started playing here, but almost all have moved since then, and primarily to the East Bay and beyond, as their families got bigger.

There was also a racial overlay that seemed to matter to some guys -- Plotnik loved listening to the trash talk, even when it was directed his way, but white guys are often intimidated and made uncomfortable by black guys' yapping (which, of course, is the whole point), and many left for other games. The game Plotnik now plays in on Sunday mornings was begun by white guys who gave up on James Plotz and started playing on the outdoor courts at Thomas Alva Ediplotz. It's fun and it's a workout.

But Plottie won't lie to you -- he misses the old game. He stops in periodically at the Cheese Steak Shop on Divis to see Rico, or at the Drake Hotel to see LaBan, and Sam comes to Ediplotz on Sundays now, but it's not the same. Plottie misses his boys. He wouldn't even be surprised if they miss him, now and again, when they need someone to pick on and Plottie's not there.

OK, here it is: in the Sunday game, when Plotnik scores a basket, he scores a basket. That's it. In the Saturday game, when he scored a basket it gave him trash talk rights for ten seconds. Not that he ever was very good at it, but he had the right to gloat. That was really fun. In the Sunday game, it's all business.

And that's good. The Sunday guys are sweethearts, there are no arguments, never any anger or bad blood. But that's bad too. There is something missing, something undefinable. Maybe it will come with time.

On the other hand, the Saturday bagels are better than ever, and the bike ride to get them is always enough to open up the arteries for more cream cheese, tomato and sweet onion.