Smallball Is A Cruel Mistress

Dearest Diary,

Apologies if the following entry is less than clear... I write you with the uncertain, fledgling feelings of a man adrift. My recent days have seen sunshine and stormclouds alternate with shocking frequency. I can not say that my adventures have been dull; they have been numerous, and often vibrant. And yet I fear that the uncompromising might of the Thunder shall soon overtake the quiet pleasures of beloved Phoebus.

Every contest we wage of late follows a similar pattern. I take the field of play with Mssrs. Ellis and Watson, my fellows in diminution, and whichever two tall men have proven to be the most ineffectual competitors. And for a time, we ride, oh, ye gods, we ride! We small men flit about, hither and thither, absconding with basketballs not meant for us and running for our satisfaction... as the hourglass reaches its fattest, we have often been at advantage. And dear diary, you shall believe me when I tell you that these early triumphs count among my sweetest memories. To befuddle a larger foe with your quickness and aplomb -- it is a sweet taste few men in history have ever savored. At times, we think our glories shall last forever... we few, we happy, tiny few.

But as the hourglass dwindles towards its conclusion, our tiny attacks lose their potency. We grow fatigued from our unrelenting efforts, and our opponents learn to withstand our whizzes and slaps... my entreaties towards the selected basket fall cruelly short, and an patently worn Mr. Ellis begins to lose command of the contest ball altogether. Our larger brethren let their counterparts achieve freely, clearing paths to the basket with a determination that borders on polite. Our emulation of David falleth short; of late, only Goliath has drunk from the chalice of victory.

As I am still a freshly minted apprentice as of this writing, I know not quite how to interpret this whirlwind of excitement and failure. Will this undersized journey bear fruit, as we grow more skilled and confident in the wizardry of our midgetry? Is this more an edifying experience than an athletic strategy -- are our coaches of various shapes and colors trying to acquaint us with the gossamer nature of life's joys? Or is this, as several of my compatriots have suggested, just some really shitty coaching?

I know not, dear diary... I can not say from whence this darkness came. An apprentice has no answers. He has only his studies, and his faith, and a box of Belgian caramels that his parents were kind enough to send via post. Caramel, you heal me! My parents are wonderful, commendable, attractive people, and I pray only that my struggles will not bring shame upon their house. The Curry name hangs heavy around my swanlike neck, and yet there is no other weight I would more gladly assume.

We depart now for New Jersey, a land bearing a team whose miseries outstrip even ours. I shall write again once our next contest is completed. Diary, you are a torch on a chilly mountain pass, and if I do not thank you often enough for your unerring support and wisdom, the failing is mine.

I remain,

as ever,

Your Steph