My opponent Direct is damn nasty. I can not fix it, neither the good nor the bad. I put all really, for the first time in my life I find myself seriously to engage in defense, my opponent excites me. He has a flying start in both right and left, if I close the left is a giant slide for a fade-away from the corner, that brings with extraordinary calm, while the right can never close it. I try to wait for him to stay five feet farther back, the problem is that the elbow and three punishing me systematically, with percentages well above seventy percent. In attack I try, the few times that I have the ball, to attack the front, more What else to make them understand that and I'm not afraid to give him some trouble defensively. The result of my effort is quite poor: the first time I go in the third leaves little time, while later, looking slightly the ball and finding much in my arms, I settles a series of violent level crossings. I also leads in post-low, just over 1.90 is high, slender but very toned, I try to keep up front and to guess the trajectory of the lob that overrides me, but he absolutely wants to get back to the basket, and I slips everywhere receive the ball in front. I try to play dirty, do the knee in the thigh just mentioned to move with the ball hand, the push with your wrists in the sides when he tries to turn around, and wait for his final move to make the pair on the cleaver. Does not make life easy, you have to commit a bit to get rid of me, but bad story is that we can always, I feel a little bit of Craig EHLO situation (which still has nightmares about Michael Jordan), great effort but zero results. I'm terribly frustrated, because I understand everything he does, and although it is very strong, I would still be able to stop or at least limit it significantly. While there are somehow trying to make my effective defense, I can think of Dennis Rodman, in his early years in the NBA, that was continually being massacred Adrian Dantley, absolute and undisputed master of the post-low, however, failing to understand what he was doing, and feeling unable to stop it. The first time we do not understand anything, the second time we knew even less, but the third time he understood too late, but he understood the fourth time in a different way, the fifth at last managed to combine something, and by the time the application Worm has become the greatest rebounder and defender of all time. Given that I'm not Rodman and that my opponent is not Dantley, I'm almost in the same situation every time I seem to understand, but every time I regularly beaten. We are not in Detroit in the late eighties, there are professional players billionaires Television is not waiting for training to finish, no yelling at Chuck Daly Kelly Tripucka or Cliff Levingston. We are in Harlem and in the third millennium, there are only me together with another fifteen aggressive ballers, all African-Americans, with little money, probably with many family problems and some legal problems, but with an immense love and respect for basketball. We are the playground of 113th Street at Lenox Avenue, 116th Street at 7th Avenue stop of the metro red 2 and 3 in the direction of 148th Street. This is Harlem, slightly annaccuata some mozzarella here and there, but still the same, dangerous and alluring, charming and dilapidated. Not just arriving at the playground, two tennis semi-covered with concrete sloped trees, I am soon hired to play, and the game lacks a must start, in my heart that I must just be desperate to immediately put in place a non-white ever seen them. Four against four in the field near the road, someone outside the network looks at us, it immediately starts strong. My opponent "nasty" is the same Rodney Buford at a reduced size (for this I have already beaten at the start), great elevation and, as mentioned, since the first possession aggressive towards me. I hold the head enough, but they are systematically beaten, always without a shadow of a help. Ends the first game, we lose badly, I just two points on the first possession of the race, the aforementioned entry in the third period without being considered, and I suffer, I suffer terribly-like Buford. In the second game for myself closest rival and the same fate offensive and defensive, a basket on offensive rebound (costatomi a very strong "Coppino" traffic), one out of three attempts, and much, much, much suffering in the end contenimento.Alla the second race I take to force a break, they are not fit enough for this defensive intensity. I am comforted by a firm that gives me five "Rodney," a sign of respect for him worried or a sign of sympathy for having massacred? Sitting on the floor with his back leaning against the wire mesh that gives up Lenox Avenue trying to catch his breath, I begin to chat with a guy sitting next to me, a yellow-boy shorts with yellow-purple number 32 by Magic Johnson, a little pock-marked face and to be good. Halysson is called, is Brazilian, and I am a billion compliments the game I had just finished playing. He tells me that my opponent is very strong, no one can mark it, and that even at Rucker Park is of extraordinary performances. I also said that is a very strange and mysterious, that he never talks to anyone and no one really knows who he is, comes to the field, playing in the subway and walks away without speaking and never socialize. Halysson is running at, I got him good, he tells me who lives in Harlem for twelve years, her younger cousin plays in the NCAA, is called Diego Aguiar, who grew up in Brazil, who has lived in Harlem with him for a couple of years and then managed to get a scholarship to the college of Campbell, North Carolina. Halysson Diego fervently hopes that one day play in the NBA, especially to go with him to always watch the games. My partner is called on an emergency field for a temporary injury and I see on Lenox Avenue the Mr. Softee truck, took advantage for a tasty ice cream in the heart of Harlem.
Daniele Vecchi, Playground in New York
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