Mein Swish: A Dirk Diary

So many swishes. I hear the sound in my sleep, in my dreams. The rippling sound of a round ball dropping perfectly into a round hoop, so perfectly that it makes no contact with the ring of metal surrounding it, protecting it from those who are unworthy. One swish, two swish, red swish, blue swish. It doesn’t matter. In the end, I swish them all. So many swishes.

The scream of an 18-inch swish is more penetrating than the boos from the opposing team’s fans. Let them go on with their booing. In the end, they will beg me to stop. They will wish for the end of swish. Little do they know I cannot stop, no more easily than they could stop drawing in air through their non-swishing lungs. Swishes are my oxygen, my lifeblood.

It wasn’t always this way. Not until my fourteenth or fifteenth year did I begin to come across the word swish with any frequency, mostly in connection with basketball discussions. There were only a very few swishes in Wurzburg; many of the local population were clearly of the non-swishing variety. Over the centuries these people had grown from the twisted, monstrous creatures they no doubt started off as into something that passed for human, even European. At the time, I even saw non-swishers as Germans.

The deeper I’ve probed, however, the more I began to abhor these people, a word that must be used loosely in this case, for if a man does not swish, is he a man at all? It can truly be said that the personification of the devil as the symbol of all evil assumes the living state of a non-swisher. Were they to pick up a basketball and fire it at the target, it would not drop into the net at all — or worse, it would dare to enter the net’s sacred territory despite having come into contact with the metal on top. I believe I am acting with the will of the Almighty Creator: by defending myself against the non-swisher, I am fighting for the work of the Lord.

There is a war being waged quietly behind the scenes, a war between the swishers and non-swishers. I stand and fight against these blasphemers, one swish at a time. There aren’t many of us; our kind is few but proud. It is our duty as swishers to seek each other out, to find solace in the company of one another, to spread our way of life, and to root out the evil that lives amongst us. As long as the non-swishers can roam this world freely, our work is not done. Our work may never be done.

But take heart, swishers. We will never quit. Every time you see my one-legged pose on the battlefield, listen for the blessed sound of the swish that is surely soon to follow. Let it serve as a battle cry that ignites the fires within your heart. Take your shot, and let the resulting sound of the swish wash away all your troubles — and spell utter doom to your disgusting foes.

To swish or not to swish? That is not a question. I swish, therefore I am. I can’t do it forever. One day I fear the swishes will leave my body, and that time may be soon at hand. I pray there is someone who can take over for me so that my work does not go to waste. I pray that this fight turns our way. I pray that all those swishes weren’t for naught.

So many swishes. I see them when I close my eyes, hear them when I close my ears. So many swishes.


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