Back in his car, Sydnor checks his photo again to make sure, and then radios a description: "On the sideline, red shirt, white visor. I think he's coaching or something."
At the game, Stringer isn't pleased, and barks, "Who is this fucking midget?" Indeed, Prop Joe's ringer is short, but he's kicking basketball ass despite his height disadvantage. Avon takes off his sunglasses to glare at Prop Joe, who smirks, as well he should. Come on, Avon. Rookie mistake.
Detail office. McNulty shakes up a loon snow globe. Prez alerts him to a call coming in, which McNulty interprets: "That's it, we're on the stash." "We are?" asks Prez. McNulty grabs a log book and writes in Sydnor's name with the time. Prez asks how McNulty can do that when Sydnor wasn't on the roof. "Yes, he was," says McNulty. Prez duhs that Sydnor's with Daniels. "No, he isn't," says McNulty, handing Prez back the book. Prez blinks as his innocence is lost. Again.
Game. The Eastside ringer gets another basket, and the score is 75-77 for Prop Joe. Avon and Stringer are already pissed, and things don't get any better when the Westside ringer goes for another basket and gets knocked down. Avon screams for the ref, but play continues, with the Eastside kid getting another basket almost immediately. One ref blows his whistle, ending the game, and then the other stalks off, to angry protests from the Westside fans. When he's made it to the end of the court, Avon gets in his face: "The boy was fouled -- clear, straight up! How you gonna not call that?" The ref, getting scared, starts to back away, offering to put time back on the clock so they could replay it. Avon is disgusted at the idea of "a fucking do-over," saying, "That's not how the game is played! You can't do that!" From the sidelines, D'Angelo sadly watches his uncle losing his shit. The ref, backing even further away, says that he doesn't want any trouble, and an avuncular Prop Joe smirks, "Ain't gonna be no trouble over no ball." Avon's not so sure, though, as he gets practically nose-to-nose with the ref and spits, "Why don't you stand up for your fucking self? You pussy. You can't just let any old motherfucking nigger get in your face, you understand? Now, walk away." The ref, totally confused, does so, and Avon returns to his bench. "We cool?" asks Prop Joe. Avon says they are, and invites Prop Joe's "people" to come to the park for the party on Saturday: "Of course, you come on the Westside again, baby, without a ball, I'm gonna light your ass up." Prop Joe ambles off smugly, secure in the knowledge that only he knows how to deploy a ringer for maximum effectiveness.