“What do I know about basketball, anyway? I’m a guitar player, man. A four-and-a-half fingered one, at that. Man.
“Should I draw something? Use the pen to shade and cross-hatch, draw out the natural pebbling of the ball to create a picture of the moon, maybe? Edward James Olmos’ face? Billy’s scrote?
“Is this for a child? A child at heart? Should I prick the balloon, dare I eat a peach? Maybe my words should be about the inviolable hurt we all have at our core, the lonesomeness that will never lift itself from your shoulders, even in brightest light. Does he need to hear that? Do any of us?
“Christ, Garcia: it’s a kid. No need to inscribe ‘Life is a bowl of fuck and then Death fucks your ass using conch shards as lube’ on the kid’s ball. Jesus, man: maybe you should lay off the heavy shit, just dial it back a bit, ease it into low gear. Get your own place, away from Rock. Guy’s a bad influence and he keeps writing shit down for some reason and he won’t show me the pad.
“Ah, fuck, everybody’s staring. c’mon, Garcia: think! Umm, Umm, Okay, got it, got it AAAAAAAAANND:”