The room’s lights flicker from a yucky yellow to oily orange. The steps of players create the impression of a thundering herd coupled with the screeching sound of Nikes on a hardwood court that’s surface has been webbed together with scratches since 1956. A constant sound of buzzing fills the space, but there are no bees.
The lights have dimmed, scratches have cratered into the floor and the buzzing has turned the expanse into a hive of basketball activity. By 2 p.m., though, the Nike-wearing, basketball-playing bees have to leave.
David Stroupe will be there. It’s time for golf class in Gym 201.