Yesterday evening saw perhaps the most extraordinary episode of my professional tenure. I must be brief, diary, as another game approaches with undue speed -- no rest for the weary, as the aphorism has it -- but I felt compelled to canonize a few memories before our next series of calisthenics.
Our opponents: the Mavericks of Dallas. Fearsome foes indeed, captained by a giant Teuton with feathery hands. For the first half of the contest, the advantage was evidently theirs, not least because of my wretched performance. Each time I sought to equip a compatriot with the game ball, some Maverick or another would snatch said ball away, with the precision and ferocity of a finely trained hunting falcon. My mistakes were many, and regrettable... as we marked the halfway point of the game in our appointed salon, I could hope only that my legendary father and fetching mother were not witness to my failures.
The second half? A different story altogether! Unbowed, we shrank and then altogether eliminated the advantage of these Mighty Mavericks. Mr. Ellis, our stalwart captain, attacked the relevant rim with the remorseless intent of a baby-snatcher. Mssrs. Morrow and Randolph employed defensive techniques with fearsome aplomb. And in the final moments, who should have cast the fatal blows but the very author of this diary? Happy, happy day.
Our coach pro tem (far more awake than the usual fellow) says calisthenics are beginning. To be continued, dearest diary.
I remain,
as ever,
your Steph
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