After the third time of Gene
running into the wall, a collective groan simultaneously escaped the
throats of all those present. It would have been funny if it weren’t so
obviously painful. But Gene simply got up adding took off running on the
opposite direction.
This was supposed to be a basketball game, but when Gene emerged from the locker room wearing his shorts on his head and only his jock strap on his nether regions, the game never really got started, the immediate comedy of the situation prevented any modicum of order.
At the start, when teams were being decided, Gene grabbed the ball and started running, and hadn't stopped since. Except for the time the corner of the bleacher caught him at groin level. But within a moment, Gene was running again.
Initially, the others were shouting things like, "put your shorts on right, uncover your eyes, watch where your going", but Gene insisted that there were no shorts and that he could see perfectly fine.
But it was the backboard pole that finally did him in. Gene had just picked himself up from tripping over the first step of the bleacher, when he had reached top sprint speed and run square into the post. The hollow bong the emanated from his head stopped everyone in their tracks, including Gene. He had finally done it. Gene stopped running.
Four of his friends, each on a limb, carried him off the court.
This was supposed to be a basketball game, but when Gene emerged from the locker room wearing his shorts on his head and only his jock strap on his nether regions, the game never really got started, the immediate comedy of the situation prevented any modicum of order.
At the start, when teams were being decided, Gene grabbed the ball and started running, and hadn't stopped since. Except for the time the corner of the bleacher caught him at groin level. But within a moment, Gene was running again.
Initially, the others were shouting things like, "put your shorts on right, uncover your eyes, watch where your going", but Gene insisted that there were no shorts and that he could see perfectly fine.
But it was the backboard pole that finally did him in. Gene had just picked himself up from tripping over the first step of the bleacher, when he had reached top sprint speed and run square into the post. The hollow bong the emanated from his head stopped everyone in their tracks, including Gene. He had finally done it. Gene stopped running.
Four of his friends, each on a limb, carried him off the court.