Jane

Freezing day in early February. Northwest side of Chicago. Public high school full of black and brown kids. First round of girls’ basketball city playoffs. Gym filled with screaming coaches, players, and fans. Total chaos.

Panini’s team is down by one with ten seconds left. Other team is inbounding the ball while Panini’s team is in tight man-to-man trying to get a steal. Panini chases her girl out to half court and the inbounder throws a tentative, telegraphed pass. Panini steals the ball, dribbles down left side of the court with her left hand, and rises up for a left-handed lay-up with six seconds left...

___

Hold on. Let me back up a second. Panini’s team is 2-23. They’re not good. Panini is the best player on the team but I think I’ve made it abundantly clear over the past however many years that she is a good player but not a great one. She’s had a decent season personally and the team has had a terrible season collectively. The girls, however, are generally cool and Panini has enjoyed being captain. In sum, a relatively enjoyable season but certainly no shining moments.

This game feels different though. In her team’s first three possessions, Panini shoots three times and scores six points. She’s in a zone. Her fourth shot, which she misses by a mile, is a full-on “heat check,” so it’s all good. She plays okay the rest of the game and finds herself on the freethrow line with 90 seconds left and her team down by four. Panini is the best free throw shooter on the team but as she steps to the line, I can feel her nerves from the upper row of the bleachers where I sit in my perch of judgement, condemnation, and a hope that kills. She misses both. To the layman, she is not clearly upset. To her father, she is visibly distraught.

Panini’s team somehow scores a couple buckets and the game is now tied with 30 seconds left. A girl on the other team makes a wild 20-foot jumper but gets a technical foul for taunting. Panini is chosen to shoot the freethrows and, as she steps to the line, I can hear her trying to calm herself down from the upper row of the bleachers where I sit in my perch of pity, disdain, and a hope that kills. Panini swishes the first. The crowd goes wild. They’re down by one. She bricks the second and, for those of you keeping track, has now missed three of her last four freethrows. Her team has the ball though so there’s still a chance. They throw it in, dribble up the court, and somehow fumble it out of bounds. Awful, unforced turnover, and the other team now has possession with 20 seconds left and a one-point lead.

Panini’s team plays tough defense and forces their opponents to call a time-out with ten seconds left. And now we’re back to where I left off: Panini steals the inbounds pass, dribbles up the left side of the court with her left hand, rises up for a left-handed lay-up, and…

___

Hold up. Let me back up a second. You may remember a post from a couple years ago which is ultimately about my dad but also tells the story of the only shining moment in my mediocre basketball career. As I’m sure you remember, I stole a pass, dribbled up the left side of the court, and sank a game-winning lay-up as my dad rose from his seat, swelling with pride, arms lifted in the air, fists clenched in triumph. Suffice it to say that 40 years later as I watched my progeny steal a pass, dribble up the left side of the court, and rise up for a potential game-winning lay-up, it was kinda cool.

___

So there she is, dribbling toward the rim with a defender draped on her right shoulder. Panini rises up for the left-handed lay-up and softly, sweetly, smoothly kisses that shit off the backboard. The ball gently falls through the net as Panini’s team goes up by one and the seconds start to tick away, 6…5…4…

___

Neurodivergence is an interesting word. And when I say “interesting,” what I really mean is: vague, unclear, broad, loose, euphemistic, inane. Its denotation is “divergence in mental or neurological function from what is considered typical or normal.” Shiiiiit, by that definition, I would be considered neurodivergent. Alas, my doctors tell me I am not entitled to medical treatment and that I should just stop all the whining.

A young lady on Panini’s team named “Jane” is neurodivergent. Jane is not autistic but she has significant learning disabilities, some of which manifest on the basketball court. Jane laughs after she commits violent fouls. Jane drives to the rim and takes five steps instead of the legally allotted two. Jane throws 60-foot baseball passes that end up in the wrestling room. When a ball careens off the rim toward Jane, she spikes it 30 feet out-of-bounds like a volleyball. Jane plays really hard but she is super weird. Apologies, I rescind that statement. Jane is not weird; Jane is neurodivergent.

This is all just background and, until now, I’ve avoided the question I want to ask: To what extent should neurodivergent players be forgiven for their mistakes?

___

When your team is up by one point and there are four seconds left, there is one, and only one, thing you must not do: foul. Play tough defense, protect the rim, get a hand up, hope they miss, and don’t foul. Despite this universally agreed upon imperative and despite the fact that the other team is inbounding the ball on the far end of the court, Jane fouls. Way too aggressive. Way too physical. Easiest call the ref has ever made. Was it a bad foul? Absolutely. Was it the dumbest foul I’ve ever seen? Pretty much. Was it completely and utterly inexcusable, reprehensible, and unforgivable? Well, Jane is neurodivergent so I refer you to my question above.

A girl on the other team now has two freethrows with four seconds left and it looks like Panini’s one shining moment is dimming. The girl swishes the first so now the game is tied. But she bricks the second, Panini’s team gets the rebound, and it looks like it’s going into overtime. Panini and her team will have one more shot at redemption, and Panini’s sad, lonely father may still fall asleep tonight with a smile on his face.

But the ref has blown his whistle and called a lane violation on Jane. A lane violation??? Panini told me later that she heard the ref say something about Jane trying to distract the shooter. To this day, it’s unclear exactly what Jane said or did but we do know that the girl got another freethrow, made it, and put her team up by one with a few seconds left. Panini’s team was unable to get up a final shot as the clock ticked down, the gym erupted into total chaos, and Panini’s previous heroics were all for naught. Jane is Forrest Gump, Panini is Lieutenant Dan, and Jane stole Panini’s destiny.

Jane stole my family’s destiny.

___

I wasn’t even mad; I was confused. How, for the love of neurological inclusivity, could Jane have committed not one, but two, terrible mistakes? Should I be angry? Should I try to understand? Jane ruined what was about to be Panini’s one, singular, solitary shining moment, but should I absolve her of her crimes? Michael Phelps is neurodivergent and got two DUIs. Bill Gates is neurodivergent and cheated on his wife. Hitler was neurodivergent and killed the Jews. I’m not saying Jane was as bad as Hitler; I’m just saying it’s hard to forgive.

As the Boss and I stood in the halls waiting for Panini to finish up with her team, we found ourselves under a sign which, if you’re ignorant enough to believe there are no coincidences, was “there for a reason.” I don’t hate Jane but if she and I ran into each other at a Starbucks or something, I might become violent. But I also might be kind because empathy, compassion, and understanding are, I’ve been told, virtues.

An Open Letter to Donald Trump

Dear Mr. President,

You may know my identical twin, Saul, from whom I was separated at birth. My name is Paul and I am not like my radical leftist brother. He lives in that wasteland known as Chicago with his psycho-babble wife and his Charmin-soft children. I live in the Free State of Florida with my tradwife, Molly, our four heterosexual children, and our dog, Charlie Kirk.

Saul has said some crazy things about you, Mr. President, including but not limited to wishing you were dead. But he doesn’t know what the hell he’s talking about, sir. Saul is a 1%er who has never done a hard day’s work in his life. I get my hands dirty every day, digging ditches, cleaning toilets, and fondling Molly. Saul has a Master’s degree in absolutely nothing. I have a G.E.D. and a tool belt. Saul is a bald fem-bot who wears $120 designer Nikes. I have a thick goatee and steel-toed Timberlands. Saul is a secular Jewish conspirator. I am a God-fearing Christian patriot.

Saul sits in his ivory tower, pontificating on the merits of political violence. In fact, he and I were FaceTiming the other day, and he suggested that if someone killed you, this country would be better off. I, however, am here to tell you, sir, that I do not think you should be assassinated because you have done great things for the United States of America, you are a man of integrity, and you have a very large penis.

I’m not sure where to begin with all the great things you’ve done for this country, Mr. President, but I’ll start with the economy. The DOW Jones was at 43,487 when you took office and today it’s at nearly 50,000. I don’t own any stocks myself, Mr. President, but I sure like seeing the number on that ticker get bigger. Sometimes Molly and I make an over-under bet on where the stock market is gonna close. If it’s under, she gets to slap me around a little but if it’s over, I get to take her outside to the toolshed. I saw that some of those fake news people were saying that the tariffs are keeping prices high but honestly Molly does most of the shopping, a six-pack of Miller Lite is still $5.99, and I can’t wait for those increased estate tax exemptions to help out us blue-collar workers.

Mr. President, I also love how you’ve sued so many fake news networks for trying to get that black Indian lady to be president. While Fox News exposes harsh truths such as the rigging of Dominion’s voting machines to steal the 2020 election, CBS deceptively edits its interviews, absurdly claiming it needed to cut hours of footage down to 60 minutes for their show 60 Minutes. But my favorite thing you’ve done, sir, is to make those Bolshevik colleges pay up for the liberal propaganda they’ve disseminated and the anti-semitism they’ve allowed on campus. Mr. Kirk, may he rest in peace, had every right to publicly express his concerns about unqualified black pilots but no one should ever criticize our white, Judeo-Christian saviors of democracy in Israel. (Personally, I’m trying to keep the Jew’s hand out of my own pocket but I do think those money-grubbing Jesus-killers should feel safe at school.) Oh wait, Mr. President, there’s one more amazing thing you’ve done for this country: I just love that you changed the Gulf of Mexico to the Gulf of America. I would’ve preferred you named it Gulf of ‘Murica but we’ll take what we can get, especially if it’s from those border-jumping rapists.

It’s not just all the things you’ve done for the country, Mr. President. It’s the type of man you are. I remember way back in 2017 you sat down for an interview with that Afro-American gentleman Lester Holt who asked you if you fired James Comey because he was investigating you. You looked Holt straight in his Heart of Darkness eyes and said, yep, sure did! Men with integrity tell the truth, Mr. President, and you sure told him. The Washington Post (more fake news) says you made over 30,000 false or misleading claims during your first term but Sleepy Joe falsely claimed he used to drive an 18-wheeler, so who’s the real liar?

And, of course, Mr. President, there was the dignified way in which you responded to the election getting stolen right from under you. My cousins and I went in full camo gear to that hell hole Washington D.C. to stop the steal and you did everything you could to keep things peaceful and calm, saying things like, “Fight like hell.” Some of my brethren were arrested but then you got them that Get Out of Jail Free card with that January 6 pardon you issued. You know who should be in jail, Mr. President? Those liberal conspirators who created those AI videos of those spineless congressmen barricading themselves in their office. I mean, I certainly don’t promote violence of any kind, but I wouldn’t be opposed to that California lesbian Nancy Pelosi gettin’ her wrinkled face kicked in. We were just defending democracy on January 6th and you were right there with us, Mr. President! Saul says there’s no evidence that the election was stolen but he clearly doesn’t understand that those bastards who stole the election destroyed all the evidence!

By the way, sir, those 34 felonies you were convicted of are downright silly. Hiding salacious information, falsifying business records, and all those other fancy words are just noise to me because I know that someone who promised to drain the swamp would never try to make himself rich or powerful by screwing over the working man. Hunter Biden lied on a federal form about his drug use. Hilary used a personal email account to handle classified information. But sure, Mr. President, you’re the criminal. The liberal media is so jealous of you, sir, that they’ve even accused you of using your position as president to make billions from crypto. That’s just smart investing if you ask me, kind of  like when I invested in my neighbor Wilbur’s small business, which makes truckloads of money selling white bed sheets with three holes.

Finally, Mr. President, it’s obvious to everyone that you have a very large penis. Only a man with a very large penis can grab women by the pussy and get away with it. Only a man with a very large penis can humiliate the Ukrainian presidant on live TV in front of hundreds of millions of people. Only a man with a very large penis can cover the White House in gold trim. Only a man with a very large penis can make fun of a retarded reporter for being retarded. I heard Saul’s cock-blocking psychologist wife saying that all these things were you just compensating for having a small penis but you are clearly well endowed, sir. You know it, I know it, Melania knows it, and, between you and me, I’ll bet some of those Epstein girls know it too, amirite?

Mr. President, my G.E.D. teacher once told me to finish my writing where I started, so here goes: Someone who has done such great things for our country, someone who has so much integrity, and someone with such an outstanding penis should most definitely not, I repeat not, be assassinated. I know that that Green Party Antifa madman Thomas Crooks felt otherwise but he didn’t realize you’re invincible.

Political violence is never the answer, Mr. President, even for those woke commies who are crazy enough to think you’re destroying our country. Lincoln violated the Constitution by freeing the slaves, but he shouldn’t’ve been killed. Kennedy made Castro look like a hero, but he shouldn’t’ve been killed. MLK Jr. cheated on his wife, but he shouldn’t’ve been killed. Malcolm X said white people are the devil, but he shouldn’t’ve been killed. You’re a million times better than all those fools, Mr. President, so I can’t even begin to understand why anyone, even my long lost brother Saul, would want you dead.

Stay strong, Mr. President, and God bless America!