White Men Can't What Now!?, <Synch>

[Cannonball]

CF: Sleeping Under The Stars

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There were some things in life that mattered more than the air one breathed. Pride, especially when it came to the male of the species was one of them. Sure, Sam was genial and kind, self sacrificing had been tossed around a fair few times too but it didn’t alter some primal, genetic facts. Sam Guthrie had been born male, and the instinctual reflex on bloodied ego had to be rectified. As a guy who preferred his sports to involve motion and contact he’d never really sat down and looked into the high tech wizardry of consoles gaming. Therefore, losing to the relative newcomer Synch on Halo 2 didn’t really irk him too much. Computer games were simply not Sam’s forte, however being brutally trashed repeatedly. Yea, that had been the kick in the gut. Back in the day, gaming was something that Sam had taken up to appease Tabby and whilst he had never really minded the smash and crash of classics like Street Fighter he much preferred being in the danger room chasing a holographic alien over a bunch of pixels on a wide screen. Least, that had been his story at the time and he was sticking with it until death do him part.

Standing in the door way, a wry smile curving on his tanned face Guthrie picked Everett out in the crowd. In his hands he held the ball, fingers curved around the orange rubber to enable it to rest lightly in an otherwise stalwart grip. It had been a long time, Heck it had been too long since the boy had been able to simply lean in the door frame of the common room and whistle shrilly through damp lips to get his attention. “Y’all ready for a rematch?” he drawled softly, excitement at doing something other than read or sit in front of the idiot box bringing forth the scratchy depths of his natural Kentucky accent. Dressed in a pair of pale blue jeans, the X man wore a pair of sneakers bright white and refracting light from sun that crept through window panes. Over the time spent on bed rest Sam allowed his honey blonde locks to grow out from the shortened buzz cut he had maintained throughout his life in the mines. Now strands stretched down over his forehead the ends of which itched at his eyelids. Truthfully Sam’s attire, down to the white vest he wore were not the type of attire he would normally consider. But today? Today was a day of celebration. Of freedom. No more getting ran out of the gymnasium or the danger room. No more staring out across the lawn at games as they unfolded and yearn to participate. It was like a new lease of life.

“Ev.” Experimentally he bounced the ball upon the flooring, “Whaddya say?” Again Sam let the ball drop onto the ground to nimbly pluck it from the air on the rebound. Basketball was not his best game, but the old adage, white men can’t jump. That one, right there, needed to be laid to rest.

This post has been edited by Cannonball on Jul 27 2009, 02:10 AM

[Everett Thomas]

Coming From: Late Night Murmurs With Devils

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The close of the semester and his last high school finals were fast approaching. The excellent student that he was, Everett was in the commons using the time he had set aside in the afternoon to study. Ever the multi-tasker, he was able to hold conversations with those around him, look up at the television from time to time, and read Paradise Lost for his British Literature course. He was dressed comfortable for the occasion, having decided long ago that one needs loose clothing to be comfortable while studying. He wore silkies, the slang word for basketball shorts, a beater and flip-flops. He turned a page in the book, writing notes in the margins. The synchronistic mutant had a hard time deciding whether he liked the book or not. As a general rule, English was among his least favourite subjects. He much preferred chemistry or physics or even a little calculus. The results of exams in that class were based on whether the answer was right or wrong – decidedly not how well the teacher thought you argued your point. That and he liked puzzles. A strident whistle brought him from the garden of Eden where Satan whispered evil somethings into the ear of a sleeping Eve.

“Y’all ready for a rematch?”

He black youth didn’t have to look around to recognize the voice. Over the past few months, he had grown rather attached to the owner of that particular accent and intonations; he knew them well enough that he could determine that its source had blonde hair that had grown out much longer than when he had first met the man. He remembered, in fact, the first time they had met merely a few months ago. Having been completely useless in the attack on the mansion, Everett had done all he could to help in its aftermath, which mostly meant just checking up on patients. His little bit of First-Aid knowledge wouldn’t help any of those held in the infirmary. So he brought them food, or the newspaper, a book, or whatever he could reasonably get them. Sam had stuck on him. The southerner had, in fact, convinced him that there was really nothing he could have done but die, which they had chuckled at and agreed was not the most positive outcome. After that, Everett had made a point of visiting Sam on a daily basis and the two fast became friends. He supposed he might have gotten enough visitors, considering all of his siblings that were at the mansion, not to mention other residents who were counted among his friends. Still, they shared their backgrounds, their interests, and their jokes, however bad they were. Almost naturally, Sam had truly become the big brother that Everett had always wanted. So, of course, when they had played Halo 2 a few weeks back, Everett had been sure to annihilate him. Over and over and over again. It had almost been embarrassing. He had never seen someone play the game so badly before – being killed in less than fifteen seconds three times in a row? It was just sad. So yes, he knew exactly what Sam meant.

“Ev, Whaddya say?”

Looking up from the text, he allowed a small smile to spread across his features. “I’m ready anytime, Sam,” he assured the blonde. “But you know you don’t have to do this right? It’d be real sad if you get beat even half as bad as last time.” He was, of course, completely bluffing. Everett’s games, beyond the X-box 360 Console, were track and football. What could he say? He knew how to run. He was more than capable of sprinting down a field or catching a ball and running with it. But sending a ball into a net? Well, it wasn’t that he couldn’t do it, but he certainly wasn’t the best. There was just too much involved in basketball for him to pick it up. The complicated dribbling and whatnot was something he only barely grasped. He figured the only reason he could even dunk the ball was because he did hurdles in track. Three pointers? He would just have to see where his luck led him today.

This post has been edited by Everett Thomas on Jun 17 2009, 07:56 PM

[Cannonball]

Now them was fighting words and both must surely know it… not that Sam Guthrie needed the extra push to sign up to a cruel and unusual punishment 101. He'd spent enough time in the company of the Missouri born male to realise some of his interests, strengths and weaknesses. There weren't anywhere near enough folks for a baseball game and Guthrie rather disliked the principle of having to share the spotlight after his team mopped the floor with the vastly under performing opposition and when it came to a straight out sprint or track race the matter would be over way too fast for Sam to enjoy his victory. Which was why he'd chosen b-ball, something where his talent for maths, angles and odds should come in handy and neither of them had any natural skill or steadied foothold in the game itself. A hoop, a sphere of orange galvanized rubber and by the looks of things a vacant court painted onto the polished, hard wood floor of the gymnasium. It took a few seconds for a wider, brighter smile to stretch across his handsome face, thoughts and plotting distracting Guthrie from his inevitable come back in the life and times of Ev and Sam.

"Ah aint doin' nothin' that Ah don' want to." Sam replied cheerily a little nod of his head indicating the pair move off in the direction of the court, stride slow and easy head tilted inwards to continue conversation. He'd taken a shine to Thomas early on in their encounters almost instantly recognising slithers of himself in the optimistic, well raised child. It was an odd sensation he supposed, having someone who mirrored some of his past mannerisms so closely and yet having not met them until they'd both attended the same school. Serendipity? Sam figured so. Coincidences were something that he didn't like to consider based upon the merits that they were just so crass. But the idea of fate and destiny and hands being tipped in just a way that two peas that had to have come from the same branch, if not the same pod, had the sort of romantic notion that Guthrie and his boundless imagination had plenty of time for. “Question is, are ya ready t’ getcha butt handed t’ ya on a plate?” Everett had opened with fighting talk and it was time for Cannonball to buck, block and parry. A hand lifted up to press into smudged brass plate used to open swinging doors in the passageway, holding it a jar for Synch to pass through. Sliding through the gap he followed after, the soles of his feet squeaking against the wooden floor. Had he worn newer sneakers to try and use the high pitched sound to toss off Everett’s concentration in play? Perhaps. Life was for living not for hanging around the sidelines and worrying when the next threat was going to waltz on into the grounds. Unlike others who had suffered in the aftermath of the Purifier attack Guthrie either had not paused to register the consequences or had acknowledged the devastation of the attacks and had found a manner in which to deal and with the length of time the X Man had spent lying upon his back healing it was quite possible that if he had not been driven mad by the ‘what ifs’ of the attack (something that he seemingly had not) then he had by all accounts dealt and moved on. Like so many things with Sam though still waters ran undeniably deep and what appeared still on the surface could hide a fatal riptide simply waiting to haul someone under. A troublesome problem for another day. Waiting to hear any kind of complaint or rejoinder Sam made an idle attempt at spinning the item on the tip of his index finger. Carefully he flicked the ball upwards towards the ceiling the apex of the digit briefly pressing against the uneven curved surface before feeling a lack of inertia cause the article to tip sideways. Without thinking he lifted his other hand and pressed the palm against the side of the toy, adding spin to it and giving it a moment where it managed to rotate. Moving his hand with the basketball it maintained three rotations before finally falling sideways to strike the ground. Blue eyes tracked the descent, tracing the path of the fall to the floor only to observe the arc of the ball arc back up again. An easy shrug rolled from broad shoulders …Ah well… It had been worth a shot. Off white teeth glistened beneath the lighting showed during a pleasant half smile, “So, Ah was wonderin’…” Guthrie began casually, the pair mere metres from the gym now. “Just how much ‘bout this game do ya actually know?” A part of pre-match preparation far more important that psyching yourself up for the game in hand or kissing lucky socks. Nah, this was the time where one sized up the opposition.

[Everett Thomas]

Without another word, he snapped the book shut and stuffed it into his bookbag, following his surrogate brother out of the commons and toward the gymnasium. Under most circumstances, he might have postponed the rematch, but with senioritis already settled deep in his psyche, he found himself procrastinating more and more often. What was a few hours really gonna hurt anyway? Besides, it was bound to be more fun that Milton. Sam seemed to be some sort of kindred spirit, coming from similar southern roots and a close-knit family. The only difference was that Sam had a multitude of siblings, where Everett had only one adoptive baby sister, and seemed to naturally fall into the role of big brother. He released a few amused chuckles as Sam continued to heckle him.

“Oh, so is someone else playing against me?” he asked, feigning confusion as he stepped onto the basketball court. “Because that’s the only way on this green earth you’re gonna hand me my butt on a plate.” It was then that he noticed the irritable squeak of new shoes against the hardwood and looked down to his own footwear. Cocky though Everett could be every now and then, he wasn’t foolish enough to think he could play basketball in flip-flops. Taking off the sandals, he jogged over to the lockers in his socks before spinning the dial right, left, and right again, opening the container and pulling out a pair of Jordan basketball shoes. He tossed the sandals of the same brand into the locker along with his bookbag. He realized they were overpriced, but as an athlete, he had never really cared about that. His parents had never been exactly wealthy, but they had always been far from poor and had been able to give Everett most of the things he wanted, and that included shoes that were well over a hundred dollars a pair. Lacking skill in that particular area of sports, he supposed he had to make up for it somehow, right? Having the best shoes for it was one way of accomplishing that. Eyes of copper watched as Sam attempted to do the classic trick of the revolving ball on his fingertip. He was almost impressed that he managed to keep it rotating before it fell and bounced on the ground with almost an almost taunting ping of air-filled rubber against wooden planks.

“So, Ah was wonderin’. . .. Just how much ‘bout this game do ya actually know?”

Everett smirked, hoping it might put off his opposition. Football had taught him that some of the best players could be intimidated if they even though someone might be better than them. Everett had often exerted himself much more than he probably should have in games, just so that the other team might feel some sort of dread whenever he came into possession of the ball. He had seen the light of excitement extinguish itself once he had secured the ball between his abdomen and his arm, not even bothering to go their full speed until it was too late. “Oh, I know enough,” he said casually, tying his left shoe, standing up, and doing a few jumps to acclimate his feet to the constrictive shoes rather than the freedom the sandals had offered. “Run circles around you, get the ball, get the points. Simple, really. What about you? You do know how to dribble, right?” Yeah, he was teasing, but he wasn’t about to tell the man that his skill was average at best. No, he’d have to find that out the hard way.

[Cannonball]

[[B’ball is not a big thing in the UK, so I’m BS’ing rather a lot]]

Tackling/gaining possession is perfectly fine.

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There were elements of Everett’s personality that Sam inherently recognised in himself; facets that went beyond the obvious comparisons and extended into arenas such as ‘quietly competitive’ and or ‘optimistically confident’. Even as the duo strode onto the basketball court, chests squared and idle chatter apparent Guthrie had to admit that he hoped Thomas’ playfulness as he bounced, postured and stretched was nothing more than pre-game amble otherwise … this could become another lesson in the fine art of whooping Guthrie ass. Across his face a grin stretched wide, good humour igniting to add a sparkle to icy blue eyes. “Oh Ah think Ah know a thin’ or two.” Idly the Southerner rotated his spine, cracking out vertebrae that had spent too long inactive. “’Nough ta keep ya busy.” Sam paced down the court the palms of his hands pressed into the rubber and gently batting the sphere back and forth. About half way down he stopped and turned head cocked to one side to return parry. “Who needs ta dribble when good ol’ geometry will bring it all home?” As little known a fact as it may have been the X Man had been abusing the application of mathematics for almost five years now. Sometimes for money, occasionally for fun but mostly he engaged in the exercise just to keep his wits sharp. The intellect that burnt beneath a tanned hide marked with premature worry lines and character wrinkles was not always apparent though forever there.

The man splayed his legs intent on giving himself a good firm base from which to go on the offensive with. Eyes dropped downwards to bounce the ball off the wooden floor – a sound that reverberated – and one thing occurred to Sam. This felt good. Adrenaline began to build within his system and a smile that was positively sly crept onto otherwise handsome features. Thomas was right of course in any assumption that this was his game; base ball was where Guthrie truly flourished followed closely by pool (a pastime that at times acted as a secondary sense of income). Catching the ball in his hands, Sam repeated the motion, eyes giving away far too much about where he was intending on going (left handed meant a right hand path) and after a short pause in which he checked he had something that approached a rhythm, Guthrie pushed off. The first two times the ball rebounded he was able to maintain control and possession, come the third bound with speed increasing and Synch on the approach it was by far and away ‘fair game’. In the youth’s minds eye he could see the hustle perfectly – a smooth turn on the balls of his feet so that his back crowded out the opposition’s arms (and boy could Ev reach) – a few more paces for clearance, a swift turn back and a shot at the hoop.

Of course, that only tended to work if you played basketball more than you watched it in movies or on TV, and that was where Sam’s masterful plan hit a mighty hitch.

[Everett Thomas]

Everett chuckled a bit at his last comment. So it seemed he would not be completely at a disadvantage here. The fact that his hand-eye coordination was not the most spectacular in the world, try as Remy might to improve it, would only be a minor problem here. Oh, sure, Everett could dribble and, for the most part, maintain possession of the basketball if he tried hard enough. It would be when he attempted to actually make a score that Sam would see just how untrue the famous stereotypes were. The athlete jogged down the court to catch up to the southerner. “Geometry will only take you so far, Sammy,” Everett said, taking a defensive stance. “I mean, dribbling’s an essential skill.” And some were better at it than others. But it was still the truth – unless Sam intended to be caught with travelling violations all game, he would have to show a bit of handiwork. Sooner than the youth had expected, and thus at a speed that caught him off guard, Sam passed him with an ease that, had he been prepared, would have been all too embarrassing. Shoes squeaking against the hardwood floors, he turned on his heel and began to play the game of hustle.

Feet planted, arms outstretched, eyes on the ball rather than on Sam (which, when he was first learning the game had always been a mistake), he guarded the goal as he had done on countless occasions with friends back home. Still, Sam was not a complete amateur either. He was able to push him a few paces back before turning smoothly and releasing the ball toward the hoop as if he were a pro. Of course, that was the hitch – Sam was not a pro and pulling off a shot like that required that one play fairly frequently. It required an intimate knowledge of the court layout so that one might know where to align themselves and where to stop their turn so that the ball would soar precisely into the hoop. It required that one not be on bed-rest for several months. So it was with relief that the ball rebounded off the backboard and fell back into the palms of Everett who immediately used the one thing he might have had on Sam – his speed. He ran toward the blonde and just when he might have run into him, he faked right, left, and right again, spinning on that shoulder so that Sam stared at his back as he sped down the court. His familiarity with the feel of the ball helped in that he was able to cover much of the space between backcourt and forecourt in a matter of seconds, ending with a lay-up. As the ball rolled off his fingertips, it rose just above the hoop before falling in with a slight swish. “Nothing but net, Sammy. Nothin but net!” Ok, so he had caught him by surprise and scored using probably the most assured method of scoring, but he had scored nonetheless. It’d be one of the few lucky chances he would get and he wasn’t going to skip out on a chance to rub it in his face a little.

Just a little.