On Friday nights I sometimes take the kids to watch High School basketball. They love it at halftime because they get to shoot hoops. I, on the other hand, am so bored that I am actually checking out some of the sixteen year old players. Clearly I’m a bad person. I need to be taken outside for a medicinal shag by someone over-age. Or the barely legal genre needs to start including boys.
There’s one gorgeous kid with an Afro and I keep wondering what would happen if I ran onto the field (wait Diamond? Octagon? Oh come on I know it’s a court) and touched his hair. Would I be escorted out? Would I be banned from High School games until my kids are old enough to play? Might be worth it. Coolest hair ever. Also well over six feet in high school; maybe I should get his number and call him in a few years when he’s a little more seasoned a player.
I also love the cheerleaders (not like that, you perv!) I’m fascinated because I didn’t grow up in this country and they’re so quintessentially American. Do their faces hurt from smiling? Are they smiling because they’re so skinny? What’s it like to be that happy? I would need to conduct interviews to be sure, but I’d be afraid to taint them with my worldview. I suspect if one of these high school kids knew what life is really like they might choke themselves on their own Pom Poms.
It’s all so simple for them right now, and they may even be peaking. Some of these girls could be desperate drunk divorcees in twenty years, trying to get whatever attention they can muster by wearing a skirt the same length they’re wearing now, with less than stellar results. I picture one of them sitting at a bar slurring “Let’s go, let’s go, woooo team…” until some toothless old former quarterback finally bangs them in the alleyway.
Then again, one of these cheerleaders could end up being President. If they don’t fuck it all up by having children. Then they might be too busy attending their kids’ basketball games and lusting after the other dads to focus… Or perhaps that’s just me.