I tell you a tale of a man unaware
Who was blossomed to ball up from Delaware
Whose fiery hair hath led the way
Into Bud's heart to let him play
Of his praises galore I won't cease to sing
His dunking and shooting and denying the wing
How he'd soar for a block then into our hearts
Into the rotation, then into some starts
So sit back and listen and clap if you must
Who now is above average is no longer bust
Who can play Naismith's game better than me or you
I tell you the tale of the Big Ragu
Selah
In a land far away, in a place called Newark, Delaware, a young man was born. He was no ordinary man. As a young boy, his parents could see it. Anytime his older brother would try to toss something in the garbage can, there would be little Donte, denying the wing and deflecting it. They noticed his tenacity when he would play tug of war with the family dog and how personally he took the defeats. His brazen courage and fearlessness in trying to engulf any shot attempt his brother would put up on their Nerf hoop. In a last ditch effort to try and hide their son's abilities, he was exclusively enrolled in soccer in hopes to bring pride to his European roots.
So the boy played soccer, and he was good. Little Donte had excellent footwork that could rival anyone in the tri-state area, but still the boy could not hide his love for basketball. Late at night when he would toss and turn in his sleep, Donte would slip out of bed and tip toe down to the basement and dribble a ball on some couch cushions so as not to wake his family. In the morning he would continue the footwork drills his father would give him and go to school without any inclination of defecting towards the sport of "wannabe Jordan prima donnas" (his father's words not mine).
Time passed along and Donte was in high school. His talent could no longer be ignored. He was pressured left and right into trying out for the team. He declined. They would never understand how his family would disapprove. Every once in a while he would stumble into Varsity open gyms where they would be scrimmaging. He joined in a few games. No one else would touch the ball. He never lost. Again they would plead, "Donte you must try out, for you have been given a gift that none of us could ever dream of fulfilling". Donte could just scoff and retort, "It's not my destiny. My father wills I be a FIFA-baller, and a FIFA-baller I will be, so enough of this silly hoop-ball nonsense". It wasn't until his older brother, a senior at the time, told him late one night after picking him up from soccer practice.
"Donte" he said, "soccer will bring you nothing. It may be big in Europe, it might make you feel more cultured and thereby culturally superior to other people, and it may make Mom and Dad happy, but it will bring nothing else. I can see into your heart. You must play basketball".
And play basketball he did.
Donte would go on to tear it up in high school. Every time on offense he would have the ball on a string, dangling it in front of defenders waiting until the precise moment they would give into their desires and lunge for the ball, only for Donte to flick his wrist and rein it back in like a yo-yo. His constant barrage of ankle-breaking moves would leave defenders crying on the bench, "Please coach don't put me in. That man has taken everything from me. My life, my happiness, my health. Please let me keep my dignity". From anywhere on the court he had the green light to shoot. One game he dribbled up and shot a three. It went in. He kept taking a step back and shooting. He kept making. Soon the crowd was on its feet, yearning, pleading for him to keep extending. He hit from the volleyball line, then half-court, then dribbled into the opposing three-point line. Then he hit one with his feet right against the end baseline. The other team came down and hit a jumper, then the crowd started rumbling. Everyone knew he must take it. Donte was quiet. Was this really his path? Was this honorable to the game? Yes, this was his destiny, for he was the chosen one. The crowd was ravenous, dripping with anticipation for kill about to happen. His teammate went to inbound the ball but Donte calmly walked up to him and took it. He starting walking back with the ball until he hit the wall about 40 feet beyond the baseline. The ref blew his whistle for Donte had taken longer than 5 seconds, but he kept walking for this was his mission. He hits the wall, turns, takes one dribble and pulls-up. The crowd followed anxiously as the ball floated through the air almost as if it was attached to an invisible wire. 124 feet later it swished. A thunderous applause went out as the crowd rapidly panned to see their champion, but his was gone. He had made his point. And thus the Big Ragu was born.
Blessed be the Big Ragu
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