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~~~~~~An Ode to Defence - Post #100 ~~~~~~~~~~~
The one they call the 1, is the smallest, but not his heart. He will hold his ground in the paint when twice his weight comes down barreling at him for the charge. He shall hold firm. Incoming freight trains in a fearsome combination of mass a speed. No matter. That lane shall be denied. Bodies hit the ground. He’s up for another. Out of 400, no one does it better them him.
The one they call the 2 once never thought much of this end, but inch by inch, bit by bit, summer after summer, he hungers to get better. That end of the floor needs him, and now he’s close to the best of his career at it. Sure, there are assists and three’s putting him on ladders of MVPs, but this ain’t about that. What his doing on the hard-hat end gains strength, for they need him there.
The one they call the 3 is only 19, but he was born there. He is, simply put, the embodiment of it. Can run laterally as fast as you can run straight. Length, focus, high up, down low. Like a snake. Impossible to blow by. Hips squarely in front you, a nightmare to get through. He will take the toughest assignment night-in-night out, like a vet, then calmly deliver it.
The one they call the 4 has his presence constantly felt. Shots altered. The denial. He will find you. He savours it. Galloping strides on a fast-break, you think you’ve beaten him? A fraction of a second later his finger is wagging and you wonder what just happened, as the crowd erupts.
The one they call the 5. The gentle giant in beast mode. They much doubted him there in the beginning, but like the 2, he’s reached new heights. Hedging. Vertical. Moving. Feet smarter and smarter. You shall not back him in. Taking angles away, right place at the right time. We’ve never seen him like it now.
They start you off, but when they seat…here it comes. The mob. A symphony of grit, speed, long arms, and all things vertical. Like a rubber gasket you can’t break the seal.
They say they’re 4th best out of the 30 on this end. Few do it better. If only they held it there. For the long haul. You know, there, where switches are yelled, lanes are clogged, screens are fought. Where helpers help the helper. You know, there, where the crowd chants and the shoes squeak. It will take them places they’ve never been…
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The one they call the 1, is the smallest, but not his heart. He will hold his ground in the paint when twice his weight comes down barreling at him for the charge. He shall hold firm. Incoming freight trains in a fearsome combination of mass a speed. No matter. That lane shall be denied. Bodies hit the ground. He’s up for another. Out of 400, no one does it better them him.
The one they call the 2 once never thought much of this end, but inch by inch, bit by bit, summer after summer, he hungers to get better. That end of the floor needs him, and now he’s close to the best of his career at it. Sure, there are assists and three’s putting him on ladders of MVPs, but this ain’t about that. What his doing on the hard-hat end gains strength, for they need him there.
The one they call the 3 is only 19, but he was born there. He is, simply put, the embodiment of it. Can run laterally as fast as you can run straight. Length, focus, high up, down low. Like a snake. Impossible to blow by. Hips squarely in front you, a nightmare to get through. He will take the toughest assignment night-in-night out, like a vet, then calmly deliver it.
The one they call the 4 has his presence constantly felt. Shots altered. The denial. He will find you. He savours it. Galloping strides on a fast-break, you think you’ve beaten him? A fraction of a second later his finger is wagging and you wonder what just happened, as the crowd erupts.
The one they call the 5. The gentle giant in beast mode. They much doubted him there in the beginning, but like the 2, he’s reached new heights. Hedging. Vertical. Moving. Feet smarter and smarter. You shall not back him in. Taking angles away, right place at the right time. We’ve never seen him like it now.
They start you off, but when they seat…here it comes. The mob. A symphony of grit, speed, long arms, and all things vertical. Like a rubber gasket you can’t break the seal.
They say they’re 4th best out of the 30 on this end. Few do it better. If only they held it there. For the long haul. You know, there, where switches are yelled, lanes are clogged, screens are fought. Where helpers help the helper. You know, there, where the crowd chants and the shoes squeak. It will take them places they’ve never been…
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