Monday, March 19, 2012
The leaves on the beeches started blowing off yesterday afternoon, some of them brushing past a deer who was visible only when she moved, looking for bits of brush to munch and probably flicking deer ticks into the wood pile I'm working on getting stacked before it's too hot to move. (That Fiskars axe Libby had found out about last fall saved me 2K on a wood splitter, by the way.) We were practicing some music with Bryan and Barbara--got a nice gig with them later this summer over in Durham. I was sitting facing the slider, and watched this tableau unfold. They got back on the road to Glocester about 5:30 and we turned on the Heels, some concerned after their barely winning performance on Friday against a play in 16, some gutsy midgets from Vermont who could hit 3s. Creighton was another such team, but a lot better, with a big center who could shoulder and muscle. First thing that happened was a wack on Henson's sprained wrist, which most definitely annoyed the lad to the extent of getting a T no less, and which fired up the Heels for the afternoon. They looked like they did against Duke, second time around, to put it in a nutshell. They looked like serious contenders for the Kentucky freight train coming down the other bracket--and after all, they only lost to the Wildcats by a bucket early in the season, back before Christmas, back when the oak leaves had still been clinging to the upper branches and trying to stay green, which wasn't all that hard considering the days of 70 we were having off and on.
We watched the game. Unlike a lot of games, the Heels didn't let their opponents get a run going in the early second half. It reminded me of the Championship game against Illinois, although this one had bigger margins. It was called control. Nobody was bored. Every piece of the arsenal, offense and defense, was working. Need a 3? Barnes had one, or Bullock. Zeller had his inside game. Henson, who looked like a guy who'd found a glass of water in the middle of death valley, had both his typical great defense, and his shot. And Marshall was not only passing, but hitting shots--drives, 3s, whatever was there. There wasn't anyone Creighton could ignore. And that makes a hard situation. The announcers were saying he'd made his season high, 18 points, and 9 assists. He went out and White came in to spell him. The game was no longer in doubt. We were cooking and sorting out the room where we'd been practicing. I was getting my head around work a'comin. The light faded into a soft twilight. The Heels won. I switched over to see what was happening on Ax Men. Stanga was diving into some muddy bog and dredging up a sopping log he claimed was worth a K. Damn if I know. The son and pop fightin' duo down on the Swanee were arguing and had enlisted a shrink--I flipped it over to a bit of the Leigh game, hoping they'd win at least one more, deserving all they could get after taking Duke apart.
Libby came into the room and said Marshall had broken his wrist.
I wondered when the women's college softball season would arrive on ESPN. I wondered if the gas from last fall was still good, and if the mower would crank. I didn't take the battery out, like no one ever does. I had put stabilizer in the gas, and it's so expensive I hate to buy more if it is ok. It looks like the grass grew about six inches since Friday afternoon.