Whenever I play pick-up basketball, I never call fouls.
I’m not trying to be macho or compare myself to Randy Savage; I simply don’t call fouls.
You could throw your shoulder into me as I’m laying the ball up; I won’t call it. You could shove me out of bounds at midcourt and I’ll play through it. I never call a foul.
So, imagine my chagrin when Look At My Arm shows up at the run.
You know the guy. Look At My Arm does not play through anything. He’s the guy that calls a foul on a hand check as the ball is being inbounded to him.
In Look At My Arm’s mind, he is Michael Jordan and no-call is not a part of his vocabulary. Nevermind that there aren’t actually any referees on the playground. Nevermind that calling a foul will only cause a re-set and disrupt the flow of the game.
And if you question him, he will look at you with contempt. “You don’t believe me? Look at my arm, man!”
There are all types of imaginary scratches and bruises on Look At My Arm’s arm. You’d think everyone on the court were Bobby Brown.
In reality, there’s nothing on his arm but a baby blue neoprene sleeve he got from Foot Locker.
Even his teammates get annoyed because it turns into such a disruption. The agony-filled “FOUL!” inevitably gets everyone’s eyes rolling.
And of course, his team can’t even freeze him out because he thinks he’s Allen Iverson. Oh, Look At My Arm, you win again.