I Believe I Can Fly. No, Really, I Can.

Considering my last double dribble was at Dairy Queen and the only traveling I've done lately is to Alabama, I suppose the saying would normally dictate that I say (in the hoop head vernacular, anyway), "Yo, I've got to get the mothballs off my game." Today, though, it seems my shoes could have indeed used the mothballs, having attracted a new winged friend for most of the afternoon (on the heel).

I'm really looking forward to the upcoming season and to the opportunity to defend 'the Chip' as Fat Joe would say. Not that I really give a damn what Fat Joe says. But then, I don't want to end up looking like him, either. And if I don't play, particularly as the tennis season sets, my body will do nothing but prepare itself for hibernation. As great as bears can be, that would still just be wrong. Of course, any aerodynamics-hindering-ness would have nothing to do with that non-drug-user version of the speedball: chips and chocolate. Mmm, performance dehancing drugs.

Eventually, the little guy grew tired of the odour emananting from my sleds and decided to do as the rest of us do: admire the traffic wandering through campus. I think he just needed to air out. Or maybe, he was looking for his mother.