Last night I beheld a spectacular show in the midst of watching the NBA finals. I was in a room with seven men, cheering raucously, in that wonderful let-it-all-hang-out way that only men in a room with no women can be, every point a raft of raised fists, cheers and hoorahs. No worries about how loudly we were cheering our green team, just the wild yelling and carrying on that makes team sports a communal and visceral affair.
In the midst of this exciting game, all of us jeering Kobe Bryant and cheering Paul Pierce, a storm rose up from the west. Bill’s farm is located on a flat plain, one of few areas in the Valley where you can really see a long way in the distance, and the storm clouds and lightning loomed. We all went outside to view the approaching fury. The energy that was being produced almost made your hair turn up, it was a palpable display of raw power in the surge of the coming storm.
At first it was dramatic flashes and nothing but distant murmurs of thunder. Then a piercing crack, a bolt from far up in the sky, all the way down into a far-away field. The lightning danced, spitting down, yet still the thunder just muffled, no rain but an ominous wind. The wind picked up, and finally spatters of rain pelted down, and the thunder finally came to accompany the slices of lightning.
We ran inside, and I stashed my scooter in Bill’s shed, as the deluge finally came forth. But by then we were back inside refilling our beers and resuming our yelling and cheering in front of the TV.
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