“Dad, I’m pretty sure this isn’t how they play basketball in the NBA.”
Mario’s dad stopped playing defense and looked at his son. “Yes it is. Sure, they use something called a ‘ball’ instead of this seal head, but the idea is the same.”
“No, dad. I’m talking about how hard you’re fouling me.”
“Rio, if you’re going to make it to the NBA to rescue me, your mom, and your siblings from the uninhabitable ice plains of Alaska, you’re going to have to learn how to take contact. There’s just no way around it,” replied his dad.
“I’m pretty sure getting picked up and thrown five feet through the air is beyond even the tactics of the Bad Boy Pistons,” Mario responded defiantly.
“How would you know how the Bad Boy Pistons play? There’s not a TV for two hundred miles, our radio only picks up military weather reports, and the one newspaper we ever owned was used to make a fire. It didn’t have a sports section anyway. Now come on, let’s see if you can get the head in the snow-hole before the early-afternoon darkness once again envelops us in a shroud of cold, bitter despair. Remember, you’re our only way out of his hellish existence.”
“I know, dad,” Mario responded tiredly, picking up the seal head for another attempt.