A man's wisdom gives him patience; it is to his glory to overlook an offense (Proverbs 19:11).

It is a sweltering July evening.  I look out over the basketball court, at the various men and boys stretching their legs, practicing their shots.  I find myself sighing and say, "Dude, there are some serious players out today."

"No kidding.  Do you see that guy over there with the red T-shirt on over there?"  Jeremy says, "He looks like an absolute animal."  The man in the red shirt appears to be in his early 20s, tall, powerfully-built, with shaggy brown hair.  As we look on, he drains six consecutive three-pointers before swooping to the hoop with a two-handed slam-dunk to finish his warm-up.  "I hope that guy gets to be on my team!"

I nod and then finish my silent count of the assembled group.  "Sweet!  There are just enough people for a full game of five-on-five.  We're going to have some fun tonight!  Are you ready to run with the big boys?"  I smile and zip a sharp pass at Jeremy, just as he's getting back on his feet after tying his shoes.  The two of us have been playing basketball with each other since we were in junior high school.  We both know that our skills are average, and we're just in it for the fun and the exercise -- but the bluster and bravado of "sizing up the competition" is a never-ending part of the game.  As Jeremy toes the three-point line for his first shot of the evening, I say, "You can take the dude in the red shirt, Jeremy.  I want to play with the guy in the black shorts."  I points to a shirtless black man at the other end of the court, completing his own warm-ups.  He seems to be in his mid-30s, with a short black goatee and his head shaved clean.  His movements with the ball are smooth and natural, cutting to the hoop almost as if it's a dance.  Reverse lay-ups, 15-foot jumpers, running hook-shots -- they all fall through the net effortlessly.

Jack, one of the Thursday evening regulars, calls everyone together, says it's time to shoot up teams.  Each person gets to take one shot from the free-throw line.  The first five to make it are on a team together.  After five of the first seven make their shots, it's decided.  Jeremy and I are on separate teams.  I'm the one who gets to be teamed up with the guy in the red shirt, along with two teen-age brothers who play for the local varsity team, and a middle-aged accountant-type wearing safety goggles.  Jeremy is on a team with the guy in the black shorts and three tanned college students, home on summer break.  The teams seem fairly evenly balanced, but Jeremy growls at me:  "We're gonna kill you.  You're gonna be sorry you ever stepped out on this court tonight."

"I thought you wanted to be on the team with the 'Absolute Animal,'" I say, with a sarcastic lilt.  "I wonder what it's going to feel like when he dunks it in your face."

The game starts out as something of a two-man show:  Red-Shirt and Black-Shorts trading baskets at each end of the court.  But after the first several points, everyone settles into their defensive assignments.  Jeremy scores on a lay-up off a beautiful, behind-the-back pass from Black-Shorts; but on the next posession his shot is powerfully blocked by Red-Shirt, who then thunders to the other end of the court for a spectacular dunk.  Over time, Red-Shirt becomes more and more dominant, asking for the ball every trip down the court, putting up shots from every angle.  But his opponents start to play more and more as a team.  Jeremy scores again.  Two other teammates get in on the action.  The team's leader is still clearly Black-Shorts, who patiently sets up their offense and works the ball around the court for the best shot; yet his scoring diminishes even while the team manages to keep pace with Red-Shirt.  Me and the other players teamed with Red-Shirt become more and more frustrated, watching the game as running spectators.  But Black-Shorts, Jeremy, and the rest of their team are enjoying themselves thoroughly:  joking, laughing, slapping high-fives.  They don't even look winded.  Finally, our team starts falling behind.  Red-Shorts starts forcing his shots more and more, now double-teamed, even triple-teamed.  My teammates and I just stand by, watching with looks of incredulity.  We're wide-open, but he still won't get us the ball; he's always looking for the quickest path to a basket for himself.

And then he starts to get really desperate.  He's calling fouls, like a little girl who's had her pigtails pulled.  Little ticky-tacky stuff that nobody ever calls in a pick-up game.  When Black-Shorts nails another three-pointer from the arc, Red-Shirt vehemently argues that his foot was on the line.  I tell him, "Enough already, man.  Give him the stinkin' three.  It was good."  Red-Shirt responds with a huff and a glare.  I'm not on his good side anymore -- though being on his "good side" certainly wasn't getting me any passes.  I can live with the inter-team snub.

Finally, the other team is about to finish us off.  Black-Shorts brings the ball up the court and passes it to Jeremy.  Immediately after releasing the ball, he makes a quick cut to the basket, and Jeremy feeds it to him perfectly:  the classic Give-and-Go.  Black-Shorts goes up for the game-winning shot, and suddenly, out of nowhere, Red-Shirt clobbers him with a forearm across the face and arms.  It's a nasty foul, the kind of fight that can easily cause a team brawl.  But when Black-Shorts comes up off the ground, he dusts himself off, pats Red-Shirt on the bottom, and just jogs off towards the other end of the court.

"Dude.  Seriously?" I say to my muscular teammate.  "You're not going to call that?"

"Huh?" Red-Shirt sniffs.  "That was totally clean, wasn't it?"  His grin clearly indicates that he knows otherwise.

"I can't believe you, man."

The next trip down the court, we're all watching to see if Black-Shorts is going to return the favor, dishing out another hard foul to make up for the one that rattled him down at the other end of the court.  But he plays Red-Shirt straight up.  When the flailing "superstar" pulls up for a jumper, Black-Shorts puts his hands up but does not make contact with his opponent.  Even so, when the shot falls short of the rim, Red-Shirt is quick and nonchallant:  "Foul."

Back and forth, for the next four or five exchanges, it's the same story.  Red-Shirt calls ridiculous fouls when he's on offense, then commits the most egregious acts of aggression against the other team on defense and claims innocence.  Our entire team is on him about it, but what are you going to do with a 225-pound baby like that?  Black-Shorts, miraculously, is actually helping his team keep its cool.  They're taking the fouls in stride and buckling down on defense.  At last, the game is brought to a merficul conclusion when Black-Shorts takes the hit from our team's resident madman, while calmly passing the ball to Jeremy, who drains a shot from the right corner.  The game is over and we're all glad.  All except for Red-Shirt.

Me and my other teammates are quick to congratulate the other team.  Truth be told, we had actually found ourselves starting to cheer for them instead of for our own team.  But when Black-Shorts walks up to Red-Shirt and extends his hand, the gesture is ignored.  Instead of blowing the jerk off, Black-Shorts simply shrugs his shoulders and says, "Good game, man.  You've got some mad skills."  And then he walks off the court for a drink of water, one of the most amazing competitors that I've ever seen.