Full Court St. Michael

It's different, it is. The biggest "whoa" being the full court, hoops on either side with a center line where tip-offs take place but rarely do. I once heard there was a neighborhood league 'round these parts but it is almost certain that there isn't one now. The sun strikes the pavement the way a stranger says hello; unfamiliar but willing. In San Jose over the eastside hills, the shining attack is direct: bombarding the driveway half-court without mercy, save for a very green and very leafy tree. If the leaves were a haircut it would be a Beatles' mop-top hideously mismanaged. Here at the St. Michael Village basketball court, however, the daybringer takes a different approach. It flanks the center line with an angle only the unholy commit to. A most cunning assault . . . if it weren't for the mighty tall green army at guard gracefully standing steadfast. As the day rises over, the court is saved from first morning dayfire by tremendous trees that stand with haircuts proper. Wild grass grows. Gravel strewn about on raw pavement. A small concrete stage sits on one side silent in this sunrise hour, life kept afloat only by the sound of a rubber bounce-bounce. Shoot. Miss. Bounce. Scattered about is a steel playground consisting of slightly rusted swings, slide, see-saws, and a minor jungle gym. It's too early for kids to play. Instead of the stale snails of San Jose leaving trails of ick as they sludge about through their prosaic existence, the St. Michael court is home to black and yellow caterpillars with more meaningful wriggles. Though they walk their usual walk, these eyes catch each step as a funky dance from here to there. By San Jose sandal or St. Michael slipper (no sneakers), from here to there, neither court is better than the other. It's different, it is. And that's all that it is.