Gus insisted he had to bring a towel to the game. Something not too big, not too small. Now he sits on the bench with the towel over his head doing his best Rodman imitation.

Out on the floor, when the play stops, he slouches and affects a casual attitude, a bored expression. Here in public, he doesn't quite know what to do with his passion to play. While the ball's in play, he tears up the court, stealing the ball and making fast breaks, shooting a lot, but never quite sinking it. He's a spitfire. But when the whistle blows, it's awkward, just standing there. He hasn't yet learned the macho banter of competition, it's not cool to want to win in this league. The kids are told it's not about winning, it's about having fun. Yeah but, the fun of games like this is in trying to win, isn't it?

I guess they'll figure it out soon enough. Meanwhile, Gus chews the inside of his cheek, stares up at the ceiling with his knees locked and his arms loose at his sides. As if it didn't matter. But I'm not fooled, I know, in his head he's thinking: "Yo Squirt, you think you can get past me? Think again buddy, cause I'm going to eat you up."