Saturday night disappointment.

Saturday night, past.
Walla Walla University vs. Multnomah Bible College.

I am looking around the buttocks of three referees at my headbanded brother running warmups with the rest of the Wolves. He just ferociously sliced past an imaginary defender and dunked a layup.

Coldplay is crooning, loud. Step up from the glory days of 2 Unlimited a couple decades ago. Odd choice for pre-game pump-up jams though.

I have made clear that I do not come to see The Team play. I come to see Jonny play. And now Marc, being Jonny's roommate, because I have met him, and like him. Despite Walla Walla being my alma mater, I do not care immensely whether they win or lose, I just care to A) see an entertaining show, B) engage in verbal sparring with opposing fans who are smaller than me, and C) watch Jonny shoot as many halfcourt threes as possible.

It is halftime. Jonny racked up eight points, couple steals, and two fouls, then was inexplicably sat. Marc Guiplan, his 6'1 roomie, played tough & rough and picked up a few hard fought buckets.

After twenty: 48-47, Multnomah.

I used to care about basketball, and sports. It is so fascinating, and puzzling, how so many adults have an identity tied up in the fortunes of their sports teams. I root for the Blazers. Don't cry though when they lose, or get angry. To paraphrase The Jam, It's Entertainment.

Game over. Heartbreaker. Down 17 with six to play, and the Wolves come roaring. Jonny and his magic headband, and Marc and his Gibraltar Rock arms helped WWU fight back to a tie with a minute left. Alas, Marc was absent for those final minutes, due to committing the faux pas of making a three that helped keep them close (apparently he was not to be shooting?).

I remember getting yanked out of a game in high school for inappropriately scoring as well. More than once...

So. Lost by two, with five seconds left. 102-100.

Jonny was mad. I was furious, but then got hungry. So we drove home, and watched Man On Fire, one of my favourite revenge-to-redemption flicks. John Creasy (Denzel Washington) is a nuanced, formidable portrait of a man looking for forgiveness and peace (tortured with remembrances of his dirty deeds CIA days), and finds it as a bodyguard to precocious and adorable Pita(nine-year old Dakota Fanning). When she is kidnapped, he brings down the bloody wrath of the heavens on the Mexico City underworld. Graphic, stylized almost to the point of absurdity, but also redemptive and spiritual. Stay away if you are prone to seizures, it is a kaleidoscope poem for the senses. Jeremy and I ate chips, and salsa, and leftover Spaghetti Factory bread. Until two a.m.

Moral: it's better to lose a Game than lose your Life, or wedding ring. Which I am currently missing. Now I'm mad. I'll go get more Monday morning coffee.