Lucid Slide On Meat Blood  A slick camera is filming an NBA game from close-up. A backboard is broken. Dennis Rodman is on the court. An orangutan is on the court, or I see one. It or someone makes fun of Rodman. I'm on the court playing. The court is made of finished white pine. It is very slippery. My shoes are slick, hard plastic or rubber. I spit on the soles to give them traction. My legs are stiff and sore: I'm rusty and very stiff. The ball is passed in. A teammate and I nearly turn it over, almost passing it out of bounds, but we save it. The other team fails to get back on defense and we get a two-on-one fast break. I'm one of the two, and I go in for the lay-up. I'm fouled. After the foul, as I fall, I grab the player who fouled me and drag him down with me. The referee calls an intentional foul on me. I know I'm guilty of this. I think it was my rustiness that made me commit the foul. I should have just realized I couldn't get away with it, and should have taken the foul and got the free throws. I am replaced in the game. Somehow, I get a shot, a lay-up that is an ally-oop, and is very out of control. It misses narrowly. Then I'm replaced. I walk off the court. I grab a tray of ground beer like one would buy at the grocery store, and dump it over the head of the other coach. I realize I'm in a dream. I fly, low to the court. I slide on my stomach on the court. The court is white plastic with meat blood on it, like a tray from the grocery store without the meat on it. I remember to look for the black and white cat from the Coverton neighborhood.