"No," snorted Justin, "But I am the best."
He picked up his carbon composite Dunlop and put it in its case. Then he flicked up the collar on his Pink Izod shirt and stalked off the court.
There was too much fabric softener in his boxers and it was irritating his crotch.
From his judging tower, Coach Dillon could see Cantrell in the high school parking lot, unlocking his moderately impressive Toyota MR-2. Cantrell squealed out of the lot.
Later, in his basement room, he lit up a "J". He was watching TV on the couch underneath a cheap blanket. You could see its too-hot polyester filling through the splitting seams.
It was the eighties, and everything stank.
"Suck this whole mother down," he murmured to the joint while flicking through channels.
On television, Heather Locklear was dressed in a baby blue vinyl jumpsuit that looked like it would make things start to smell. Cantrell pressed the play button on his VCR's remote and watched ABC's touching after school special about teen homosexuality, "The Truth About Alex".
"Doesn't mean I'm gay or anything like that," Cantrell murmured.
Good and stoned, he though about his irritated crotch, the baby blue jumpsuit, and his MR-2.
An idea about odorlessness presented itself to him, but he turned away.