Leaves and Grass Like 0 Twitter Tom Sorrell Follow July 21, 2016, 9:11 p.m. in Creative Views: 613 Like us on facebook Pete Maravich and Oscar Robertson stand on a moonlit basketball court in the heart of the South Dakota Badlands. Two hardwood legends set for some one-on-one on pavement. Pistol Pete, from Louisiana, nods at his Ohio opponent, nicknamed Big O. He wants to say something, but a whistle blows. Chief Sitting Bull is tonight’s referee and he takes guff from no soul, alive or not. Both men turn and listen to his instructions and I take a quick trip around, looking at the crowd. Ghosts of living and dead people line the court. Hank Aaron’s there, 41 feet from Babe Ruth. The two of them nod, politely. Mean Joe Greene has a wheelbarrow full of jerseys, some his, some not. The natives refuse to accept them, fearing small pox or athlete’s foot or something. John Madden, Walter Cronkite, Howard Cosell and Gus Johnson are being led into a soundproof box, so no one has to hear them yell. Kobe Bryant and Shaq are separated by Aristotle and Sonny Corleone. Al Pacino and Meryl Streep want to speak with John Cazale, but he’s busy chatting with R.P. McMurphy and Ken Kesey. Vroom! Vroom! A line of motorcycles pulls up, led by Marlon Brando, Old Ralph Barger and Charlie Hunnam. Hunter S. Thompson and the Rolling Stones just ran for the hills. Bob Dylan and Joan Baez looked up for two seconds, then went back to whatever they were talking about. John F. Kennedy keeps glancing at Marilyn and Joe DiMaggio’s pissed. Mickey Mantle won’t stop dunking his donuts in coffee. The Chief is done talking to Pistol and Big O. He calls for the basketball. McMurphy smirks and tosses him a bounce pass under the pale moonlight. A loon runs past at full gallop. Geese soar overhead. Sitting Bull blows his whistle, and we’re ready. The ball is tipped. Here we are. A single star falls from the heavens above. Oscar controls the basketball. The crowd cheers, then falls deathly silent. The only noise is the steady WHUMP of leather on cold concrete. Robertson goes right after a crossover. Maravich blocks his path with his left knee. Tweet! The ref calls a foul. General Custer boos, a bit too loudly. The whole crowd turns and glares and old Custer just throws his hands up, like, “What?” One minute into the game and I feel ill. The wind picks up and I’m scattered away with… Share Mail Messenger Twitter Pinterest Linkedin Comments Related Article Creative I want to Creative That Queen, The Moon. Creative Let me fly away. . .