One-On-One With Obama
By S.L. Price
Here’s the beauty of pickup basketball: You may be a U.S. senator, a living symbol of racial healing and perhaps even the next President of the United States, but if you’re gliding in for an easy layup and each point is precious, I’ve got no choice then, do I? You’re getting hacked. So, yes, I’m hammering that arm and crashing headlong into your whippet-thin frame; and, yes, it’s a foul so flagrant, so absurdly desperate, that all you can do, body buckling, is laugh. Hey, it’s pickup. Everyone, even you, uses whatever he’s got to win.
“Believe me,” Barack Obama says, walking to the top of the key, “you can get shot for doing that.”
He’s not serious. I think. But he wants me off his back, and invoking jumpy Secret Service men is a wise ploy. With the race for the Democratic presidential nomination whisker-close, Obama can’t afford to show up for some Dubuque meet-and-greet with a mysterious fat lip. His wife, Michelle, warned me, “Don’t break his nose, give him a black eye or knock his teeth out. Or I’ll have to come find you.”
No related posts.