Shots stroked anonymously, baskets rendered by footprints in the air. An almost predetermined outcome in their movements, the economic posturing, the deviated passing that took the orange rock from one life to another. Maybe the spectators see Greek symposium set in the violence of a colosseum. They see figures dashing, back, forth, line to line, with vigor in their stone faced eyes. Sleeves, wristbands, man in high socks, kid draining in sweat. He escapes his flooded context through the pursuit of the brazened nets. Those watching don’t know the players. They only know the faces. This is where they find hope and institution, in the nameless faces, pacing and peddling, from end to end. Such response and fervor is found in the suspecting eyes, words hailed in wrath, lust, desire, lost motion and immobile language.