Written By: cdot
May 12, 2015
In a small forgotten town in Missouri sat a primitive basketball gymnasium that stood the test of time. The bleachers were so old that each slight movement of spectators would make them scream for mercy.Inside, it smelled of team spirit and the familiar stench a grandmother's house you never go see. With each ball and sneaker that made contact with the court seems like lost souls and memories were revived for the hour long spectacle. But if you ask a current or former indian they would tell to you that that's just Indian basketball.
The team resembled the gym in every way possible. The jerseys were piss yellow with a line of navy blue running from the armpit of the jersey down to the shorts. The shorts looked like booty shorts rather than basketball shorts. The shorts were so short that as players would run and jump their boxers would look more like jerseys than the shorts themselves. The team looked like a team of uncoordinated unskilled John Stockens. The only modern thing the team possess were the mix of nike, under armour, and adidas shoes paired with their atrocious jerseys. But the team always some how happened to wear nike socks that didn't match their shoes or were mismatch with one sock begin longer than another.
The Indians were the life like version of the Flint Michigan Tropics in every way. The Indians always found themselves as the butt of every joke and the last score in the sports section of the newspaper. The Indians were the team that if you didn’t beat them by forty points your coach probably was going to make you do suicides until a bucket full of vomit passed through your esophagus and out of your mouth. If the Indians scored more than thirty points in a whole game they accomplished something special. Defensively if they only gave up less than ten dunks or managed to not get posterized it was a good day at the office.
With all the this lack luster; Indian fans were never phased one way or another. Fans would still fill those screaming bleachers as they chanted “ Lets go Indians”, at the top of their lungs. Even with fans knowing what the score will only be close until the first tip off they were still fans. That smelly gym was the fan’s gym. Those small piss yellow jerseys were the fan’s jerseys. The awkward players on team where fan’s players. Those loses were the fan’s loses. Everything involved with Indian basketball belonged mainly to the fans. No matter what the team never could achieve the fans never jumped ship. Indians fans cheered and loved their team as if they were the reincarnation of the ‘95-’96 Chicago Bulls. All the rags of Indian Basketball at the least belongs to the only people that care. “ When things hit the fan are you still a fan?”