I'm charging down the lane, a breakaway from the tower who was charged with defending me. He is pontificating about his new custom home being built by his wife. Evidently Great Aunt Hoodie granted his wish for riches. Now he is constructing an award-winning mansion.

I get the pass from Frannie Franklin. She didn't pass me the ball, but a sandwich bag with a cut Peanut Butter and Jelly for contents. As my shoes lift off from the bottom of the key, the sandwich careens through the scoring portal, my hands bend the rim down as gravity once more lays claim upon me.

Two points, and the game.

Proof Great Aunt Hoodie is a fickle fairy god mother: even aging white men can get a good vert off her blessing.

Thank you Great Aunt Hoodie.