On the weekends, Robert ""Bo"" Lassner -- the nickname is black athlete's jivetalk -- commutes from the Bronx to dingy Western Pennsylvania to play minor-league basketball as a rookie second-starter (he's the team's token white). During the week, he nurses his perpetual drug hangover and the injuries fouled on him by Tarzan Cooper, who's almost as mean as he is stupid. After a bad acid trip at a Knicks home game -- hilariously told -- he needs to ""ream out my dogged ganglia with an aspirin fuck and a lye blow job"" and sits at the feet of dat ole philosopher teammate Foothead Jones where he realizes that the Game is a kind of ""low-grade communion. . . ."" What counts is all the dirty talk, both anal and genital, spade routines, ethnic jokes, fraternity-row humor, locker-room goofing. For all those athletes who, like Bo, don't die young, but instead fade into lecherous pot-bellied gym teachers, a first novel that's honest trashy funk.