After my friend Dj Afghan gave me a limited edition t-shirts, The Cage, the legendary playground in the Village of West 4th Street, T-shirt that had been given in turn by a crew of rapper Dr. Dre, my status within any playground in New York is incredibly high. Wearing that shirt, I do not become a great leaper and a great sprinter, always keep my game from Slavic eighties, but I enjoy a respect that I deserve, into which the crucible and me but I preening. Even turning the streets of Harlem at the corner sat a few homey greets me, a "hey, what's up?" reassuring, esteem, almost with envy, a mozzarellone cinghialone full of tattoos and piercing even to the elite is The Cage, gave him even the shirt. Obviously I do not dream any way to show me in the Village with the original Cage t-shirts, some of the senators might want me to challenge in a one-on-one to mark the territory, and certainly could not do it to survive this experience, then every time I go to south on the orange line on the blue line, or wearing any other shirt, but not that. On days when I felt particularly slakers and fancazzista, SCED stairs at home, on West 114th Street, and when I walked in the streets of Harlem, wandering aimlessly until you find a playground. Building on my shirt The Cage, I also permit snub a pitch on St. Nicholas Avenue at 119th Street, near Adam Clayton Boulevard, where some were confused ballers playing an unlikely three against three and never pass the ball and pulling without ever even touching the board. Arrival at Central Park North, where, just to orient yourself in the movie "Warriors" Warriors clash with the Baseball Furies gang, those clothes and baseball clubs, regularly massacred by our heroes at Coney Island. Within the park is a beautiful day and so it's nice stroll in the greenery of The Cliff, the hills that are on the left side of East Drive, one of the internal roads of Central Park. Almost without realizing it, after thousands of steps, I find myself surrounded by middle-aged tourists who photograph everything they see, including myself. They are in fact arrived on the Museum Mile, the stretch of Fifth Avenue with all the museums, and chock full of tourists up to eleven at night. Wriggling quickly, are now in the Upper East Side, just below the edge of the Barrio, a playground and then there should be plenty of them. Are up to the 100th Street and head west. I cross Park Avenue, follow your instincts and go a little climbing, 99th, 98th, 97th. Right on Lexington Avenue between 95th and 96th Street, I find a nice playground, two boards with two games seems very intense, followed by a large number of spectators. The 95th Street rises slightly on field, and also by the way many passersby stopped to look over the railing, a little raised, lots of playground. I feel fit, despite the long walk I want to play, so I try to show me on the sideline whenever the game ends. The Cage T-shirt also helps to dispose of the practices in the input field, and almost immediately I was selected for a game in spite of other people who were sitting there before me, full of dirty looks bad but at the same time fear and respect in my comparisons. The three of us we are big and not particularly athletic, I, the double of Mike Muir (Suicidal Tendencies singer), dark-skinned Puerto Rican cover 1 .90 a little overweight, and a play African-American is not exactly thin dribble from intoxicating for everyone, even for him. They are three composite and varied, a kind of yellow boy of 1.95, pocked with tank top and super-member of LeBron James, the double miniature Theo Ratliff, miniature 1.92 however, with the same shoulder, the same hands and same cheekbones, e. ...... Steven Spielberg. High just under 1.70, beard and glasses (glasses plays with ?!?), shorts and white T-shirt of health, he was. I swear that at least for ten minutes I thought it was really him, I tried in my mind to justify his presence in every way, "he is making a film about basketball," "That's why there are so many people to see" etc., but in the end I realized I could not be him, it was impossible. The game starts, and Steven Spielberg turns the player more and unfair bastard I've ever played, pinching, fists, holding football, not to mention the elbow and level crossings, all the while in a surly with everyone, friends and foes of any size. I clearly falls the task more difficult. In fact, the Puerto Rican big brand the big yellow boy, Steven Spielberg make the play little small, and I do is to just stay on the slopes of Theo Ratliff, jumping three times and I have not seen it for a millisecond when he decides to leave right. Some teachers of youth (Gallo?) Always told me: "if you free throws, "guessing at the dawn of my predisposition to shoot and my little predisposition to speed. Taking advantage of this teaching, I get the ball to the extension of the first free throw, with Theo not even considered me, shoot and score. Same fate in the next possession, free throw and score. From here on, my problems begin. Theo feels offended by my behavior and for some of my baskets ovation of the audience, and I massacred every offensive possession, once I crushes the head, once I try to advance, I can not find the ball, and he goes for Biman, once part of the elbow and it burns with a half step (also because of a lasso-like Californian Steven Spielberg), once I take the time in the post-low, largely the tow, there was also two-ball, but in the end they fail to score in the melee. I respond by pulling, not always sign, but at least tell him a little my way. In the end they win, and I'm a little frustrated defeat. I left with two rewards: having stood up to the great athlete that Marco, Steven Spielberg el'aver treacherously struck with a strong nudge in the cup. Daniele Vecchi, Playground in New York
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