xii · basketball
Indictment of the Pale Horse-Thief Who Dribbles Sideways Until the Sundown Horn Sounds
An open dispatch from the prairie dust on why the modern reluctance to pull the iron clean from leather is turning our hardwood saloons into quiet libraries.
The sun hangs heavy over Stillwater, baking the empty October asphalt until it shimmers like a dry creek bed, and there is not a single live cartridge to be found in the entire territory. This is the quiet hour in the conference, that strange stretch of the calendar where the arena doors are locked against the wind and the only sound is the hollow clatter of tumbleweeds rolling across the hardwood near section one-hundred. A man can stand out here on the perimeter of the campus, squinting against the glare of an afternoon that refuses to yield anything resembling a contest, and wonder what has become of the iron-nerved outlaws who once roamed these parts. They used to clear leather before the echoes of the whistle had even settled in the rafters. Now, we are cursed to watch modern guards tiptoe across half-court like nervous tenderfeet tip-toeing through a sleeping rattlesnake’s den.
It is an affliction born of hesitation and watered-down blood. Everywhere you look across this great dry expanse, players catch a clean pass on the wing, look down the barrel of an open gap in the defense, and immediately decide they would rather hand the ball off to a companion than pull back the hammer themselves. They are passing up clean shots to throw soft, floating invitations across the lane, as if hoping some benevolent stranger will take pity on their lack of courage. A true gunfighter knows that keeping the iron holstered when the dust clears is a fast ticket to a lonely pine box at the edge of town. You either let fly when the leather touches your palm, or you pack up your saddlebags and find a quieter line of work.
Down at the practice gym, the situation is no better. The boys are running through dry drills with unloaded six-shooters and blank cartridges, executing crisp little loops and delicate weaving patterns that look more suited for a cotillion than a high-noon showdown. They spend thirty-five seconds tick-tocking the ball around the perimeter, burning daylight until the shot clock looks like a dying campfire flickering in the dark. By the time someone finally decides to uncork a desperate prayer from deep, the defense has already dusted off their boots, tipped their hats, and walked away to lunch. There is no grit in it. There is no reckless disregard for the consequences. Just a parade of cautious cowhands worried they might scratch their polished boots on the hardwood.
We have traded the lethal, high-noon optics of the quick-draw for the dreary arithmetic of the ledger book. Every hesitation dribble is a confession of weakness, a white flag raised before the first shot is even fired. You cannot survive in this conference by nibbling at the edges of the defense like a prairie dog hiding in the tall grass. You have to step straight into the middle of the dust, look the entire opposing five dead in the eye, and let the iron sing. Until these young men rediscover the reckless bravery required to launch from twenty-five feet without checking their mirrors first, this prairie will remain quiet, dusty, and terribly short on outlaws.