AP EXCLUSIVE: THE SPILL CANVAS TOUR DIARY (PART ONE)

The sun slammed down hard against our exposed flesh. You could already feel the sweat beads collecting on our foreheads. A deserted schoolyard would be the battleground for our patchwork attempt at sportsmanship and bragging rights. It's on...

The game was basketball. The players constructed from Spill, Yellowcard, and Treaty. No, not players, soldiers was a better word. We jumped the fence like army ants completing the daily grind. Almost every one of us clumsily cutting our hands on the metal spikes erecting at the top. With sting in our wounds and eyes, we pushed forward to the hoops.

Being the farthest thing from an athlete, I chose to observe and mentally document from the side. Which proved to be a great idea as I began to realize that these guys, these soldiers, were out for blood and I would be much safer on the outskirts.

Shirts and skins split the once tight group into fierce enemies bent on shoving the other into the soil and climbing atop the alpha dog pedestal for a victory scream.

No words, it just began. Hot thuds peppered the quiet air as feet darted back and forth on the innocent cement. Grunts and grabs set this soundtrack reminiscent of some ancient war.

Basket shirts. Basket skins. On and on. The warriors were neck and neck in a symphony of competition and testosterone. With each humid gulp of air, the bodies slowed gently until the reserve tank of energy was tapped and they burst back into the fight.

Some of them tagging out to gain control in this orange bouncy hell. Bent over, hands on knees vomiting in the corner. This was serious. This turned from game into a must. Must win.

Just as the events crescendo reached a peak and it appeared that skins would win, a sharp foreign sound ripped through the melodies of our game. A sound that made everything come crashing violently to a stop. A guard of sorts. Some rent-a-cop security type come to indulge in a pathetic power trip and break up this valiant effort of courage and force. He was yelling for us to come over across the entirety of the yard. Why didn't he bring his lazy ass over to us? In an instant it became clear what we had to do. His authority garble melted away as I realized we were all running full speed the other way. Every ounce of energy that was being poured onto the court was now propelling our feet away from "the man". Pumping hard over the thick blades of Florida grass we were almost a football field away in a blink. The defeated toy cop strolled back to his vehicle once we were out of view.

In some screwed way, the guard had won. He had put an end to our supposed trespassing. Squelched our competitive fire. But as we laughed and joked away from the court, we all kind of knew, deep down, that it was better left unfinished. The balance of life can remain in its conceptual loop of being the best you can be. Just another day on tour, killing some time.

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