Wocky! Wocky!

The sun came out on a Sunday at long last, so more than twenty guys showed up to play plotzketball this morning. This meant a two game wait if you lost, and Plot's team got blown out in their first game. The wait was pretty nice though, because during the winter, and all the rain delays, several guys wives had their babies. Mike brought his new little boy and Kareem brought his new little guy as well as his older son Rakim, and Tim brought Quinn, as always, and Josh brought Clementine. Quinn was so happy to see his buddy Rakim walking in (Rocky) that he ran across the playground, shouting: "Wocky! Wocky! Wocky!"

Ivan was talking to Jesus about playing ball here at the middle school with the crappy concrete surface, versus playing at 24 hour Fitness or somewhere else, inside, on a nice gym floor. Everyone agreed: playing inside is a lot easier on your knees but not nearly as much fun as where you know everybody and have played ball with them for years, or for some of these guys, for their whole lives.

Plot spent a few disoriented months when his old ball game blew up, but now he's played in this one for several years and feels at home. It matters. It really does.

We get older and have our kids and soon our kids play in the game with us. At first we take it a little bit easy on them, but as they get bigger they get the same elbows, the same hard fouls as everyone else. The point is, if they're going to dominate us, which they will sooner or later, we're not going to make it easy for them.

Plottie has spent some pride-explosive moments on the p-ball court when The Great PD has been in town, or in Stiletto City when Plottie used to play in PD's old game at Marshall High. Nothing feels better, nothing gives you more of a sense that there is some order here, that we are doing what we ought to be doing, that if you just take life one jump shot after another everything will probably turn out OK.

"Wocky! Wocky!" Quinn cries out. Plot knows just how he feels.