The game moves at breakneck speed. There's an actual commentator. I didn't know they did that for high school games. There's Peyton, who in addition to liking punk music also seems to be a cheerleader. Well, good for her, I hear you need to be well-rounded to get into college these days. Anyway, blah dee blah Nathan's got the ball, blah dee blah some sort of lay-up, blah dee blah stealing the ball, something about an offense and wham, he shoots, he scores. Wait, wrong sport. Nathan does a "turnaround jumper" and scores again. So far, he's scored seventeen points, and I'm in the Land of Nod. The announcer makes some reference to the team not being this good since Dan Scott played for Whitey. Does no one except me think it's funny every time they call him Coach Whitey? Heh. No one should have a nickname for a real name. Peyton waves her pom-pom. Coach Whitey's team is called the Ravens. Please don't let them ever make reference to basketball and Edgar Allan Poe. I might just have to hang myself with a basketball net. Nathan's dad smiles widely as the prodigal son sinks another three-pointer.
Back on the wrong side of town, Lucas arrives at an outdoor basketball court near the river. The back of his hoodie reads, "Keith Scott Body Shop." Nathan takes off his hood and starts throwing some practice shots. There are commentators here as well: a couple of Lucas's friends who, I'm guessing, make calling the local games a part-time job. Lucas smacks hands with a couple of his b-ball brothers, points, and then sends his cocksure smirk at the "commentators." Apparently, Lucas is 137 and 3 going into tonight's contest. He's a regular wrong-side-of-the-hoops superstar. No one has missed a basket tonight. What kind of stats do these kids have? Shouldn't they already be recruited by the Toronto Raptors and be making a bazillion dollars with endorsement deals if they're that good? Hell, even Superboy misses a basket every now and again. Anyway. Some kid named Junk will be playing Lucas tonight. Junk busts out the obligatory trash talk on the poor commentators by telling one of them that he's got bad body odor. Lucas hasn't taken off his earphones yet. He's so cool; he can play with the headphones on, pumping up the jam as he clears the net again and again. Um, if it's not glaringly apparent, after recapping one episode of this show my name might be Whitey.