There’s visceral magic in a street fight or a pickup ball game on a summer evening.
Acquaintances going to a measured war.
We fall in love with sports on the playground with our friends.
The trappings and red tape that come with the big money often hang a dark veil over that spark.
On the street, where the cursing and scuffling of the players are louder than the crowd, we find a different type of sport—the real one.
The one we can all play. Where the rules are open to interpretation and trash talk is mandatory. Where everybody leaves their heart on the pitch, battling for the sheer hell of it. Playing for the simple joy of winning together and a large scoop of ego.
No doubt, the pros have reached the pinnacle of technical skill.
But out there on that lonely expanse of bowling green grass, I bet you they miss that street heat more than most.