THE pick-up games at the 13th Street Mosque have been one of the few things that’s kept Dick sane since he and Jane self-exiled to Columbia Heights.
A year without work takes a toll.
Although Dick has a platinum pedigree and a BMW to match, he was welcomed on the courts as one of the guys. Friendships were in the works.
The nightly matchups can get competitive but fouls go uncalled until they cross an unspoken line.
One Friday evening Dick limped back to Kenyon Street after taking more than his share of hits.
After several nights he realized he was being singled out. Blindsided by screens and clobbered on the boards by both the shirts and the skins.
He still plays but is mostly frozen out of the action. He misses being part of the trash talk about physical prowess and erectile dysfunction.
No one’s told Dick what’s going on. Or why.
