A hard fought game long done, the dragging squeak of tennis shoes betrayed the passage back into the stadium of one weary athlete. In the shadows of the concession stand counter sat a dirty fellow, unshowered, still clad in the school’s proud green and white.

“Didn’t see you in the locker room, dweeb.”

“Just wanted to be alone…savor the moment. It’s not every day an intellectual has the opportunity to shine on the field of battle, as it were,” with that he gestured to his thoroughly muddied uniform.

“That’s one of the few things you’ve said that I’ve understood.”

With a dramatic clearing of his throat the seated player recited, “Rarely have you understood me, and rarely too have I understood you. Not until we both found ourselves did we promptly understand each other.”

“What…was that?”

“Heinrich Heine from Buch der Lieder.”

His fellow sighed, “If you’re done geeking out, and if you take a shower…well, party at Dale’s house, alright?”

“Is that a formal invitation?”

“Don’t push it, dork.”