From: oday@lobster.gsfc.nasa.gov  (Orin Day)
Subject: Brush With Greatness, Act IV
Reply-To: oday@lobster.gsfc.nasa.gov  (Orin Day)
Organization: Goddard Space Flight Center
Date: Thu, 12 Nov 1992 21:37:46 GMT


Warning: This, and the following post, is intended for the less
sensitive readers of the net, and contains in-explicit sex in a large 
Tarheel Blue stadium.  If you are easily offended by either, press "n" now.


ACT 4: The Act

She took me back to her place.  It was large.  It seated about 21,572
and was done up in a shade of blue.  Given that I had three sheets to
the wind, I didn't think anything out of the ordinary.  She showed me
the four corners, and didn't stall.  We took it to the hole, and didn't
leave it on the rim.  We cut down the nets and hit the boards hard,
grabbed the rebounds and chased after loose balls.  In short, she brought
me to 'Heel.  It was My Blue Heaven, and more.

I woke up sore the next morning, flat on my back, buck naked, looking
up at a sea of sky blue banners.  Immediately, I got an erection.
"Was iz dis," the Freud in me thought.  Next to me was Holly, also
naked.  And we were not alone.  Not alone in the room, that is, but
alone in our nudity.  I heard the noise of basketballs bouncing,
and loud whistles and sneezes, and the smell of sweat that wasn't
mine, or hers.  "Quick, hurry," she said.  "Put this on before my
father sees you."  She handed me a North Carolina designer #11 jersey
which I slipped on, and a pair of designer warmup pants which further
covered my nakedness.  "Let me introduce you to my dad," she said.
Grumbling toward us was THE MAN, Dean Smith!!  "Howja Do, young man?",
he said.

"Uh, well, sir," I said.  "Once I wrote you a letter, in Denver.  Did
you get it?"

"Yes, are you one of them Dook boys?  My appendage Boss Hogg's been
trying to chase you down for years!  Any idea how much damage you've
done to those po-lice cars!!!  Yes, son, I got your letter, and called your
room.  The guy there says 'Yeah right, and I'm the fuckin' pope' when
I said 'Hello, this is Dean Smith, is Orin there', so I hung up.  Good
folk don't say those words.  Did you spend the night here?  If so, you
know the RULE!!!"

"Sir, what's that?" my voice quavered, with the fear of UMASS!!! upon me.

"If you had relation with my daughter here on the four corners, and you
enter that Shit-Box Indoor Stadium again, except in an official capacity
with this great University, this fine school of the tobacco state (that casts
64 votes for the next President of the United States Jessie Helms), your, uh,
test-tie-kules will shrivel like a Billy King jump shot, never to score again.
And if you took the shot from Center Court, you'll have to marry her, or suffer
the consequences.  And if you didn't fill her to capacity, like the 91.8%
attendance we had in 1992, you'll have to be enlarged."

Having not realized that ALL triangle hoops coaches had slut machine
daughters, I had to weigh my options carefully.  On one side of the coin,
she didn't look so good now that I was within the legal limits of being
able to walk, much less sobriety.  She had her father's chin.  Then again,
Dean was from Kansas.

"Coach, may I marry your daughter, and be an assistant coach like Quin
Snyder, and suck up to you just like he does to Larry Brown, but not
do coke and look like Shawn Cassidy with AIDS, and fill your daughter
to capacity every night?" I sniveled, snivellingly.

"If she is willing," he replied, "And since she was last night, there's
no reason on God's earth that she won't be now, except maybe that she is
sober.  Plus I don't want those Montross genes in my family, and the Institute
of Geauxing and Kneauxing wants him and Zwikker for a cross with the Burge
twins anyway.  It's part of their breeding program to obtain a white O'Bannon.
Don't think I don't know these things, because I have friends at BWI and NSA!
Plus I like your husky voice.  It reminds me of somebody, but I don't know
who."