"No, I want to go overseas," he says. "Somewhere."
"What about college, say, an NAIA school?"
"College? Yeah, if I could."
"So for now," I offer, "you're just kind of hanging?"
"I'm kind of hanging," he agrees. "Staying in shape."
A spectator walks up and nods to Booger, holds out his cupped palm with a freshly rolled joint in it. "I know you want some," says the man. Booger shakes his head and walks away.
The game starts, and the action is lively. Neither team has a true center—the tallest men on the court are maybe 6'6"—so the emphasis is on ball handling and penetrating. As always, outside shots are risky, what with the wind, the tilt of the court and the uneven light.
Booger starts slowly, but at the quarter he already has six points and five assists. He controls the ball as if it were secretly hooked to his hand and couldn't possibly get away. He has a gift that is rare indeed for the flashy player: He throws the simple, expedient passes as easily and readily as the fancy ones.