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Pennies, Fractured Ribs
by Mac Callihan


        

    Hey, it’s me. Smith. That’s normally a last name. Not for me. Yes! Okay. Question time. Yep. Ever been dropped off by a heli at the top of a Californian redwood? Naked, without tools, nothing, just left there? What to do? Yell? I’m impatient. I can’t climb down. Lose hope after a settled upon number of days…jump? Write things, mentally? Solve a life long problem that you may not ever get down to fix? Laugh? I’d just laugh.

    Welcome dear listeners. My mind wonders. A lot. Relax. We’re moving. Don’t know where. But the moving is the important thing. I’m killing it. Really moving up in stakes lately. I know me. It’s time for some basketball!

    Moving parts. Moving parts. Hmm. Where to begin?

    The new NBA season is a month old now, boys and gals. Striver Roark scored 40 points last night and had 23 assists. I was there. It’s on ESPN right now. If you pause it you can see me own on Reporters Row!

    OHHHHHH my friends. You God abiding citizens (and attempters) tuning in now from Kentucky, anywhere, Norway, China, a warm beach, parts unknown…I’m not going to go into detail about what Striver has been doing. It’s unprecedented. He is breaking records, and for NBA standards—let’s face it—he is an old man. An old man proving his worth!

    Massage therapists are required for Striver. He said things at me last night after the game about his weariness and drainage. He doesn’t know if he can keep up the volume, the high level, the life. I told him to get his massage and sleep on it.

    That’s all for Striver…he is playing it all very close to the vest and I don’t blame him. He is maxing his body out and if the season ended now, after roughly 4 weeks, he’d unanimously be named League MVP.

    Enough said, let’s let the man rest. Now, what I want to share with you, Propheteers, is a bizarre side story from last night’s game in which I was the unlikely benefactor. No clue. Don’t know. Here it is.

    I was on the front “Reporters Row” commentating live on the game, and as you know, the front row can get…well, grizzly.

         Anyway, Striver dove head on straight into my chest/abdomen chasing after a loose ball. Thought I died. I didn’t. And it would’ve been okay if I had…Strive can’t help it; he has to play with all his heart. That means sacrificing everything. He’s a Northeastern Kentucky First Methodist Prophet after all. Man that’s a mouthful.

         Okay, so…he dives into me, knocks the breath out of me. I mean, I’m not one to exaggerate—Striver dove hard, at full speed, arms outstretched. Nailed me. He’s a dog who doesn’t know what death is. And that’s okay!

         So…last night I was gasping after being somewhat crushed, wondering if a rib might be broken or worse. Small price to pay for the life. I couldn’t really breathe normally as all this took place; I was utterly confused, and apparently grabbing a my stomach and reciting some wicked Psalms on the aisle floor.

         Striver was trying to help me up, but to no avail. It hurt. Still hurts. Anyway…I didn’t realize it, but I had the game ball in my hands. The ball Striver risked breaking his neck over. Hm. This next part is odd, and feels like a dream. Heaven, maybe it WAS a dream! Ha!

         Striver shook me, shook me hard, back to my senses. He said, “That’s your ball. Open it. And shake it off, I didn’t hit ya that hard. You’re fine. A penny saved is a penny earned.”

         He then popped up as if he felt zero pain, and I’m assuming he didn’t in the heat of things. He waved the ref off, saying, “…no, no. The ball has soda on it, let’s replace it. I’m fine, let’s play.”

         Striver went back out and killed it; he ran the table, and I sat there with a possible fractured rib or whatever, a basketball (gift?) in my lap, and a huge smile on my face. Striver was playing some meta game madness, as usual. He has a lot of different strategic plays rolling at once. One of the only ways I can partially understand his strategic methods is to just draw him—Striver, that is. I grab some crayons, construction paper, or just ink pens, ya know, doesn’t matter…and I try to draw what I think Striver is. It’s something, something, something: a wise old looking…thing…multi-tabling chess games, winnin’ every one. Wow.

         God help me. God help you. God help us help each other help you. The basketball Striver had apparently pre-planned to land on me is lined with pennies. Krazy glued pennies all along the inside of the basketball. I took a knife to the ball this morning, popped it as I had coffee. Lined with pennies. Makes no sense at all. Ridiculous. I don’t understand. And I can’t help but think Adam Silver had a hand in all this. He really is getting a kick out of this right now I bet…the fact I stabbed a basketball with a steak knife.

         The pennies are largely unremarkable except for two. I inspected them all closely. The two pennies in question are ultra rare, I’ve come to find. 1943 copper wheat pennies, valued at $60,047 if they’re in normal condition. These, though, are in mint condition, save for the Krazy glue on their backsides. Mints go for upwards of $83,000 at auction. They were a manufacturing defect; very few escaped to the public. It’s all real, bud I don’t know why. That’s a good thing. Abstract Dreams make more sense than my current reality. Everyone is genuinely smiling…can’t go wrong.

         Love ya! My broken ribs are sore. It hurts to talk so I’m shutting the Heaven up. God bless ya, Prophet Nation. I’m Smith Holbrook, and it’s Prophet Reporting.