Or in a local joint full of men and moms, we’ve sat down to eat our chicken Parm and look up and Bal’s at the bar next to a new babe and it’s difficult to say whether he’s chatting her up or vice versa. Regardless: The f--k she come from?
At a party out on the farm I watch the babes notice Bal and I can read the collective look on their faces: The f--k he come from?
Or out in the water and the boys are clicking full-rotator ‘oops off a perfect, albeit busy, little ramp and we look out and across the channel and Bal’s air-dropping into a slabby lefthander we weren’t so sure was rideable. Getting annihilated. Getting swallowed. Getting spit out. By himself. Wave after wave while everyone continues to wonder if the left is still a real thing. Wondering that, and where the f--k he came from.
I ask Bal about this understated, quiet cool and he is humble, shrugging off the question. “It probably helps that I’m from New York. It’s like a novelty, I think.”
But I disagree. Novelties are flimsy and without depth and Balaram is much more impressive and proven than “novel.”