“We’re playing basketball,” Red sang, rocking in the gaming chair. “We love that basketball.”
“You’re going down today, Blake Daniels,” I said. I was on my stomach lying across the sectional couch.
“We’ll see about that, Mason Irving.” Red’s eyes stayed on the flat screen.
Red and I play Xbox in my basement all the time, but Red can only play a few games, and he’s not very good at the games he does play. Except for Horse. That’s his game, and when Red’s locked in, I don’t stand a chance.
Red was locked in.
“Magic Johnson was the most valuable player of the NBA three times,” he said. He took the one-handed, over-the-shoulder shot from the top of the key. “Bam! Magic Johnson was the most valuable player in 1987, 1989, and 1990. He was also the most valuable player of the NBA finals three times. In 1980, 1982, and 1987.”
Whenever we play Horse, we play the “Legends” version. Red’s a different legend every time.
“Magic Johnson was an all-star twelve times,” he said. “He was the most valuable player of the All-Star Game two times. In 1990 and 1992.”
Any guesses who he was today?
I was Allen Iverson. I was always Iverson.
“Irving works the stick,” I slow-mo play-by-played, because that’s the only way to play-by-play Horse. “He slides Iverson into place, checks the arc, the one-handed, over-the-shoulder shot … it’s good! Yes! Oh, Irving is matching Daniels hoop-for-hoop this afternoon!”
“I’m still up H-O-R to H-O,” Red said. He rocked forward, grabbed his sweet tea off the Rubix Cube table, and took a drink. “Refresh the page,” he said. “See if the assignment’s up.”
“I just checked a minute ago.”
“Check again.”
I reached for the MacBook on the floor, paused the Let’s Play vid, and clicked back to the class page. There it was. The assignment. And to be perfectly honest, it sounded amazing.
“It’s up!” I said.
“What’s the assignment?” Red dove beside me. “What does it say?”
I read out loud:
“Explosive diarrhea!” I shouted.
“Explosive macaroni and cheese diarrhea!” Red said.
“Oh, nasty!” I clawed my hands against my cheeks. “Explosive macaroni and cheese and cotton candy ice cream diarrhea!”
“Cotton candy ice cream puke!”
“Hold on.” I minimized the page and pulled up a Sticky. “We need to get these down. Cotton candy ice cream puke,” I said as I typed. “Macaroni and cheese diarrhea. What else?”
“Wait.” Red pointed to Magic Johnson. “I haven’t finished beating you.”
“Beating me?”
“Beating you, Mason Irving.” He slid onto his chair.
“You’re buggin’, Red.”
At half-court, Magic held a ball in each hand. He tossed one into the air and as it came down, he punched it into the air with the other. The ball sailed across the court and through the hoop. “Bam!” Red waved his arms. “Take that, Mason Irving!”
“Rotten cucumbers,” I said. “Mushy rotten cucumbers growing alien-head white spots.”
“Bad chicken.” Red stuck out his tongue. “One time, we had bad chicken in the fridge. It stunk up the whole house.”
From half-court, Iverson batted the ball toward the hoop. It didn’t reach the foul line.
“Bam!” Red bounced. “H-O-R-S for Mason Irving, H-O for Blake Daniels.” He grabbed his bare foot. “Stinky feet!”
“Time for my comeback,” I said.
“Magic Johnson averaged 11.2 assists per game,” Red said, moving Magic around the screen. “In the playoffs, Magic Johnson had 2,346 assists, more than any other player in history.”
“Boogers,” I said. “Crusty brown-and-green boogers!”
“If you’re trying to distract me, it’s not working.”
“Not washing your hands after doing number two.” I grabbed the back of his chair and rocked it.
“Still not working, Mason Irving,” Red said. “In 1992, Magic Johnson was an Olympic gold medalist. In 1996, he was named one of the fifty greatest players in NBA history. In 2002, he was elected to the Basketball Hall of Fame.”
“Not washing your hands after explosive macaroni and cheese and cotton candy ice cream diarrhea!”
Red took a soccer shot from the parking lot outside the arena.
Swish!
“Bam!” He jumped up. “They’re playing basketball,” he sang. “We love that basketball.”