"I feel they have to roll the dice. It might be tough, but I feel we've got a great opportunity. But they've got to roll it." -- Dwight Howard, 48 hours prior to the 2012 Trade Deadline.

There was a general outrage at this comment, a persistent thread. Doubt, confusion, denial. Could Dwight Howard have really been so flip with the future of his franchise? With the emotions of his fans? It defied logic. Much like everything surrounding the Dwightmare that consumes us as we find ourselves barreling closer to the penultimate act in the sordid demise of Howard's everyman image. Nobody as nice as Howard portrays himself could've thought it wise to publicize that kind of a challenge. Unless, of course, it's an act -- a ruse not unlike that of every NBA General Manager in history.

You see, this comment is not one-of-a-kind. It's the latest in a long line of superstars asking their front offices to take a leap of faith. There is a secret handbook that every GM receives upon their ascension. It details many of the commonplace pitfalls and risks inherent in their new position. It tells of the failures of GMs long past, and the successes that they could emulate. It tells of the lines they cannot cross and the lines they can freely ignore. Most importantly? It contains a litany of warnings. One of them, word for word? "Thou shalt be forced to roll the dice. (Or, more likely, pressured into it by an unhappy star.)" True story. Otis Smith is not the first GM to be forced into taking his personal roll in the history of the league.

With this in mind, let's take a walk back through time and examine some prior rolls.

• • •

8:23 P.M. June 15, 1975. Milwaukee, WI.

Cigar smoke hung around the room. The lines in Wayne Embry's face told a story, if you knew how to listen. Unfortunately, the artist formerly known as Lew Alcindor did not. He sat across the desk, nose upturned with a bemused expression. Wayne was not as amused. "Come on. You can't be leaving me out to dry like this."

"I'm being honest. I'm not going to resign in Milwaukee. You knew that all along."

"I always thought you were joking, and besides, I'm your GM now. We have a different partnership."

Kareem sighed. "Look. I'll say it again. I want out. I told Sports Illustrated I hate Milwaukee. I'm doing everything I can to ruin my reputation with our fans. And if you don't trade me to the franchise I want, I'm going to go from the NBA to the ABA and jump ship to the Nets. You don't think that our new Commissioner might be a bit... say, mad at you if I do that? Might want to make you the fall guy? After all, it's a rare GM that damages the league so much as to let the league's reigning MVP -- and one-time champion -- jump ship to the rival league. And let's be honest. With me in the ABA, they'll be the better league."

"This is depressing."

"To whom? Me, or you? I think it's cruel to keep the best basketball player on the planet -- and arguably the greatest ever -- cooped up in this hell-hole. Let me out. Stop this nonsense and trade me. You can roll the dice, Wayne, and see if I follow through. Try for one more title, hoping it'll save your job. Or you can do the right thing and make the trade. Everyone will understand. I've given you more than enough deniability for the board of directors. You'll keep your job. I enjoy your company that much. We're still friends, Wayne."

"Do I really need to take this terrible Lakers offer? You're worth much more."

"You can't trade a star for a star, Wayne. Especially when everyone knows how the story ends. Just take the peanuts. It'll pay off later, I'm sure. The Bucks will be back. But it won't be with me, it won't be with Oscar, and it sure as hell won't be with Dr. J. Why did you draft him, again? You really thought you'd pry a man like him up here if I can't take it?" Wayne motioned for Kareem to leave. He shrugged, took a cigar for the road, and left.

The next day, Kareem was a Laker.

• • •

11:31 P.M. June 10, 2000. San Antonio, TX.

R.C. Buford paced the halls of the Alamodome. When will he call? He'd been waiting for hours. Just a few days prior, Tim Duncan had returned from his all-expense paid trip to Orlando. Grant Hill had bought in days ago, and agreed to sign in Orlando as a free agent. This terrified the Spurs war room. They had plans, but no piece on their roster was nearly as attractive as Hill. In his scant 6 years, Hill had already become the Pistons franchise leader in triple doubles. He was arguably the most talented wing still playing, and he was young. He was improving, even. The Spurs had an aging David Robinson, a sick Sean Elliot, and the hometown advantage. But that was essentially it, and with Duncan making a living out of being laid back, it was impossible for any of them to get a read on what he was thinking.

Buford had met with Popovich and Robinson shortly after Tim's return. David had taken a detour from his family's long-planned Hawaiian vacation. The break infuriated his wife, but he had to do it -- the big man felt a kinship with Duncan, and while the Kobe-Shaq Lakers looked to be a strong challenge, he had faith that his talents with Duncan's could overcome them if the franchise drafted well. Robinson had met with Tim, and though he couldn't tell Buford of the decision, he said things looked hopeful. But Buford wouldn't be optimistic until he heard it from the man himself. Popovich said the same.

There was a tell-tale ring, and Buford jumped. Damn nerves. He answered. "Hello?"

"I am in your office, R.C." There was a click as the other line went dead. Buford looked around nervously and went for his office. He rattled the handle, knocked and opened the door. The room was too dark to see. He flipped on the light switch. There was fog rising from the floor. Tim Duncan was sitting at his desk, enrobed and besmocked with a large wizard hat. There was a game board sprawled across Buford's desk and a stack of papers he could've sworn weren't there before. Duncan was flipping idly through a book. Behind him sat Mike Brown, eating licorice.

"Hello, R.C."

"Tim... excuse my french, but what the fuck?"

"I would like to play a game of Dungeons and Dragons with you. In my experience, it's the best way to reliably gauge who a man really is. It's second only to killing a man, and as I am not in the business of murder, I prefer wizards and Renaissance fairs and that sort of stuff. You know. That's how I operate, as it is."

"... does this mean you're going to re-sign with the Spurs?"

"Oh, yeah. No, there was never any actual doubt about that. I mean, Orlando is nice and all, but it doesn't have a beach. That's a serious problem for me. I'm from the Virgin Islands, remember, and my real passion is surfing."

"Uh, San Antonio doesn't have a beach either."

"Oh. Guess I'm going to Orlando after all, nevermind. Mike, let's go."

"Tim! Wait!"

"That was a joke, R.C. I'd like to be known as a jokester from now on. I think that will improve team morale. Anyway, pull up a chair and do your roll check. I've got a great game plan. It's really a pity David and Pop couldn't make it, this was gonna be so much more fun with all of you."

Buford pulled up a chair and pointed to Mike Brown. "Why is he here?"

"Because he inexplicably owns a fog machine. I wanted some licorice, too. Roll the dice, R.C."

• • •

7:38 P.M. June 25, 2009. New York City, NY.

It's draft night at Madison Square Garden. A lot of strong talent in this class. A wealth of great prospects for the team administration to salivate over. Jay Bilas, there to wax philosophical about everyone's length. Fun times were had by all. Except, unfortunately, for David Khan. He sat alone in the Timberwolves war room. He'd kicked everyone else out, you see. This was the time for David to make the decisions. He was feeling very high on his capacity to make decisions on this night.

"Someday, this town is gonna be mine, David." He paused for dramatic emphasis. "Yes. You have made the moves. You've done the dirty work. And now you're on the precipice of a revolution. Or is it a revelation?" Khan twirled around. "It's both. Both, David. You know this. We know this. We're working together. You traded Mike Miller and Randy Foye for the 5th pick, which was probably the most egregiously one-sided trade since the Pau Gasol deal. You are picking 5th and 6th in the draft. We have scores and scores of talent ahead of us. But what will they be expecting?"

Khan pounded his fist on the table. "A BIG MAN! FILLING A NEED! Gross! They think we'll take Jordan Hill! Or DeJuan Blair! Or Terrence Williams. Someone who fills a need. But little did they know... oh... little did they know." Khan laughed. "I've solved the puzzle. I know how the Timberwolves can contend. I have scouted all of these players, through the power of my latent telepathy. I need not watch the games when I can feel them. And I know that Ricky Rubio is the second greatest point guard in the history of Spain, behind only the late Miguel de Cervantes. This pick is obvious. He has fallen to me, and I am going to take it." An intern knocked on the door. "ENTER!" A mousy college freshman entered timidly. He was scared. "Speak."

"Uh, sir... we only have 1 minute to send in the 6th pick."

"Boy, I have chosen Rubio. That is done. It's soliloquy time, now."

"Mr. Khan, we already picked him with the 5th pick. This is the pick after the 5th."

Khan gasped. "No! My dear intern, what have I done! I have retreated too far into the realm of fantasy and forgotten that I -- David Khan -- had already chosen Ricky Rubio with the 5th pick in the NBA draft! I must guard against such self absorption in the future."

"That's cool. We have like 30 seconds to pick a guy now, sir."

"Oh, uh... hey, who was that one guy from that great six overtime game that Syracuse won?"

"Jonny Flynn, I think."

"Khan's will be done. Roll the dice, young intern. I'm picking Jonny."

(Khan took 4 point guards in the first round. Jonny Flynn has shot under 40% in his NBA career.)

Fin.

Everyone give a warm welcome to Jake Harmon, one of our two newest contributors. Jake will be contributing odd fictional tales and reflections of an NBA fan living in the depths of the United States, also known as Alabama. It's tough out there for an NBA fan. He's a political science major who'd much rather major in "deep thoughts about basketball." We enjoy those thoughts, so we'll endeavor to give him the platform to do that. Have at his first piece, an excellent muse on a dreamlike Bobcats game, and the last part in our trilogy of independently written Jordan posts that were -- somehow -- happened to all be connected anyway.

Sometimes I fall asleep at night, and I dream about watching a Bobcats game. And they're just getting blown out, the camera cutting around looking for the perpetually visibly frustrated Jordan. The camera finds him and fixates on him, and he just looks livid, wringing his hands, tongue out a little bit, eyes intent. The Bobcats turn the ball over and get dunked on again. The crowd is silent, the only noise in the stadium the low murmur of disinterested small talk between the odd fans scattered around the arena's stands and the squeaking shoes, the pounding of leather on the hardwood. There's no talk between the beaten Bobcats, they shuffle up and down the court seeming mentally checked out. Going through the motions. Another botched possession, fastbreak, dunk. Bobcats down 30 in the third. And just then, Jordan knows he can't take it. The camera maintains its focus on him, seemingly for an inordinate amount of time. As though the cameraman senses the man in the stands will be more significant to this game's outcome than anything currently taking place on the floor. As I sit and become transfixed by the prolonged shot, that surreal mixture of timing, imagery, and silence, something magnificent happens. And somehow, much like the cameraman, I watch it unfold and question if I ever really thought it wouldn't happen. Jordan is overwhelmed, he stands up from his seat; not in anger or exasperation, but with an intense focus and steely gaze that, while different cast upon his now aged visage, seems somehow intrinsically right. As true and compelling as phases of the moon, not a mask of indifference but a revelation of passion that millions and millions of people around the world forever have burned into their memory.

He moves sleekly across the stands to the stairway, somehow more graceful than I expect him to be. More graceful than I remember him looking in a long time, but it's unmistakably him, toes straight, shoulders squared and forward, head at a slight tilt but eyes as straight and sure ahead as a cresting ship breaking the waves of a tide that cannot stop its advance. He reaches the bottom of the stairway to the court's edge, and accelerates slightly, a slow jog towards the bench, arms bent 90 degrees, swaying back and forth rhythmically as though on an elliptical, that undeniably perfect form and grace visible on this aged body, seeming both entirely alien and entirely appropriate to my dreaming eyes. As though the rust has been shaken off, some sort of inevitably temporary weight has been removed, and the man is who he must have always been. And as he approaches the bench, gliding slowly to a stop beside the coach, he leans in, eyes narrow and fiery, barking something quietly. The coach nods, gestures. Time-out. The listless bobcats players take their time collecting on the sideline, but only momentarily. Jordan doesn't seem to regard their approach, as he accelerates and glides away and down the tunnel towards the locker room. The coach and the players discuss something, there's a still in the huddle. Not the still that has become routine here in Time Warner Cable arena, one of broken hopes and spirits, of meandering thoughts seeking stimulation before the inevitable time that the uniforms can be removed and they can go home, disappear into their private lives. Deny the world the chance to take any more away from them than what is already being taken night after night on that court.

No, this still is different. It's not excitement, so much as it is looks of confusion, some perhaps of alarm. But not disconnected, all engaged. And then it happens, as the timeout is nearly at its end. It's as though all the energy is somehow sucked out of the room. He emerges from the tunnel. Older, face more haggard and wrinkled than I remember it, even having seen it only moments prior. But it doesn't matter. It's in his eyes, the way he moves, so effortlessly despite his age and increased frame. He is not conditioned, yet somehow moves as though there is no one more athletic on the planet. His arms swaying in that rhythmic motion, head at a slight tilt, eyes ahead, jaw edging from side to side, a piece of gum narrowly visible through his pursed lips as he chews. And on his body a Bobcats uniform. Michael Jordan enters the space, gliding forward. All grace and physical power. And the arena is silent. Not the dull murmur of disinterested crowds, or jeers of bandwagon fans of the away team. Absolute, utter silence. And then, as Jordan slows to a stop next to his teammates, everything explodes. How could it not? It's thunderous, all-encompassing. Somehow the stands are no longer half-empty, a smattering of fans. Every seat is filled, the lights seem somehow brighter, everything has changed and it is imminently, immediately, different. Thousands and thousands of fans, every seat in the house packed, every man woman and child off their seats screaming in enthusiasm, excitement, and wonder. The Bobcats players' alarm and confusion replaced by what can only be described as awe. They seem bigger somehow, their backs straighter, their chins higher, their faces energized and filled with emotion. In a moment, everything has changed. It's 1989 in 2012, where the lights cannot shine any brighter, the people cannot possibly scream any louder, and the inevitability of Michael Jordan taking over this game, his eyes filled with that familiar fire, his body moving with all the litheness and strength that it ever had, only the wrinkles around his eyes and mouth belying the truth in my haze. The timeout ends, Michael Jordan takes the floor and catches the inbound pass, and the din of the crowd in that arena becomes so deafening and so powerful I'm forced out of reverie. Back to reality, where I sit and watch this same familiar scene.

Watching a Bobcats game. And they're just getting blown out, the camera cutting around looking for the perpetually visibly frustrated Jordan. The camera finds him and fixates on him, and he just looks livid, wringing his hands, tongue out a little bit, eyes intent. The Bobcats turn the ball over and get dunked on again. The crowd is silent, the only noise in the stadium the low murmur of disinterested small talk between the odd fans scattered around the arena's stands and the squeaking shoes, the pounding of leather on the hardwood. There's no talk between the beaten Bobcats, they shuffle up and down the court seeming mentally checked out. Going through the motions. Another botched possession, fastbreak, dunk. Bobcats down 30 in the third.

And even though I know how this will end, I still want to believe. I see it so clearly.

Obsolete! Obsolete! Obsolete!

With Basketball-Reference stepping it up, our old post ideas are obsolete. Have you seen that Twilight Zone episode with that librarian? So - in light of this development - I thought it would be fun to give away all our old post ideas so that someone else could find something to write from them.

• • •

January 2011 - The Small and the Powerful

It's 2015 and there is unrest in the forwards (and trouble in the threes). You see, Richard Jefferson and Tim Duncan may have been besties on the Spurs, but with their recent retirements, who knows what will happen to their friendship? Making things worse is that they unwittingly booked the same outdoor shelter to host separate barbecues! You see, Tim has invited every significant big, and RJ has invited all his small forward friends. Wacky antics ensue as the two - clad in gigantic toques and barbeque aprons bearing slogans* - compete for the tweeners and point guards that have tagged along! Culminates in a living chess game which ends badly for the wings when RJ can't see the entire floor because he is four inches too small. Checkmate!

*"Kiss me, I'm from the U.S. Virgin Islands" and "RJBBQ"

• • •

January 2005 - Jeremy Lin Will Dominate the NBA

Who saw it coming? I did, way back in January 2005. But I punted and didn't write it. This was a fictional tale, set in February 2012, and written as a factual article discussing and analyzing the impact of "Lindemondium". In my version, Lin cycles through every single team, even the Knicks, and is rejected by every one of them. Finally, just before moving out to Europe, he meets Mike D'Antoni (of course, as coach of the Suns) in a parking lot and challenges D'Antoni to a pick-up game. D'Antoni protests, "Why, there isn't a basket!" Jeremy Lin points to a small hole in a chain link fence, 28 feet up, and D'Antoni nods knowingly. Lin wins 30-5, and D'Antoni pegs him as a replacement for Steve Nash, and Steve Kerr signs Lin on the spot. But Robert Sarver - without even consulting his management - trades Lin to the Melo-Amar'e-Tyson Chandler Knicks for nothing but cap space. D'Antoni gets upset and follows Lin to New York. The rest is history: Lin dominates the league, Steve Nash gets pretty upset about the whole matter, but thinks Lin's story is pretty inspiring, and then the Spurs win the championship for their eighth consecutive season.

• • •

January 2003 - Kwame Brown Will Dominate the NBA

Who saw it coming? I did, way back in January 2003. But I punted and didn't write it. This was a fictional tale, set in February 2012, and written as a factual article discussing and analyzing the impact of "Browndemondium". In my version, Kwame cycles through every single team, even the Knicks, and is rejected by every one of them. Finally, just before moving out to Europe, he meets Mike D'Antoni (of course, as coach of the Suns) in a parking lot and challenges D'Antoni to a pick-up game. D'Antoni protests, "Why, there isn't a basket!" Kwame Brown points to a small hole in a chain link fence, 28 feet up, and D'Antoni nods knowingly. Brown wins 30-5, and D'Antoni pegs him as a replacement for Steve Nash, and Steve Kerr signs Brown on the spot. But Robert Sarver - without even consulting his management - trades Kwame to the Melo-Amar'e-Tyson Chandler Knicks for nothing but cap space. D'Antoni gets upset and follows Kwame to New York. The rest is history: Kwame dominates the league, Steve Nash gets pretty upset about the whole matter, but thinks Kwame's story is pretty inspiring, and then the Spurs win the championship for their eighth consecutive season.

• • •

January 2001 - Richard Jefferson's Internet is Down

Richard Jefferson - fresh off an appearance in the NCAA title game -is far and away by general acclamation the best player in the upcoming 2001 draft. But he also has a bad Internet connection, and a big research paper due tomorrow! Bear down, RJ! As RJ strolls around town with his laptop, dribbling a basketball looking for an Internet connection, he meets a bunch of GMs auspiciously along the road, and he tells them of his troubles. But all they can seem to focus on is his terrible handle! RJ gets his research paper done on time, but in doing so has lowered his stock to a mid-first round pick! His little Internet problem has cost him millions on his rookie contract! He ends by wishing he had just bribed the school with the huge donation he was going to give them anyway. Or, better yet, had simply asked his reasonable professor for a weekend extension on his paper! Dag namit!

Note: Yes, I predicted that Duke would beat Arizona in the championship two months beforehand. But - again - I punted and didn't write about it! Dag namit!

Story based off Dave Murphy's Sager series, most recently Blue Velvet.

"So, this is my station." Craig Bartholomew Sager gesticulated with one hand while loosely adjusting the wheel with his other. "My jams, so to speak. I've never gotten a chance to talk about them with anyone, and I'm glad you're here to listen. Now, that's kind of funny. 'Here to listen' is just one word from 'hear' to listen. That's how listening works!"

Robert gave Sager a sidelong glance. "Isn't that the same word?"

"Hah, no, one is location-dependent and the other is something you do. You know? Here versus hear. They're homophones... Shaq always laughs when I use that word. But I learned it back in elementary school when things were different. It's a good word."

Robert raised an eyebrow. "Okay, Mr. Sager."

"Call me Craig. Anyway. You'd think this is any old local radio station, right? That's what you'd think. Right?" Robert nodded. "Well, you'd be right. Because this is my radio station from back home."

"Is it a tape of a radio station? I noticed your tape deck is on. I got kinda confused."

"You're smarter than the average bear, Robert. Yes, this is a tape of my local radio station I made back in the day, in the lean years. It's wearing down, but there's something comforting about it. I'd make a new one but I can't bear to give up Jim, here. He's the radio personality. He's dead now. But this, back when he was with us, is simply a great tape. Closest any man can get to perfect. Listen." Beaming, Sager turned up the dial.

The sound was cracking to an almost unlistenable extent. Atop the degradation by time inherent in any old cassette, the tape had an incredible amount of radio interference and random forest sounds. Which confused Robert, but not enough to ask why. As for the tape's true owner, none of that really mattered. He'd listened to the station his entire life. If there was interference, it was only covering up a catchphrase he already knew. He didn't need crisp audio to get it all stuck in his head. And that was the point, to let it stick. For Robert's money, though, it was virtually impossible to listen to. He winced at the volume.

"Isn't this a bit loud? And scratchy? Your tape has to be dying by now. You should tape a new one."

"Whoa now, Robert, don't be rash. Just because the tape is fading doesn't mean it's dying." Sager smiled his toothy grin as he turned the knob down. Robert prepared to riposte, but Sager interrupted him with laughter. "Hah! You hear that, Rob? It's his catchphrase. 'Yesterday is history, tomorrow is a mystery, and today is a gift. That's why it's called the present.' Untrue, you know, but I think it's a lot deeper than it sounds. Always have. It's a great line, really, and that's what Jim is known for. Er, was known for. He's dead now." A song started playing, with a telltale drum beat. The organ started. Sager started bobbing his head.

Robert knew the score. "One of my favorite one hit wonders. Brandi, right? Looking Glass?"

Craig turned it down a touch more, so he could speak. "Yes, sir! Such a great song... 'and there's a girl / in this harbor town / and she works / laying whiskey down / they say Brandi... fetch another round, she serves them whiskey and wine...' hah, man. Those were the days. I usually sing along to this one. I'll refrain for your benefit. But lord, the memories. Back in high school, there was a girl named Brandy. I used to tell her, you know, 'you're a fine girl' and nudge her. She always rolled her eyes. The song is beautiful, though, I never understood why she did that. If I knew any songs about a faceless Craig that were this good, I'd be blaring them to the world as a constant reminder. How about you? Ever listen to 'Me and Bobby McGee'? That was a great Robert."

"That wasn't a Robert. It was a girl named Bobby."

"Oh. Well, did you ever hear the song? I've always loved it."

Robert had. But he shook his head, and took great pains pretend he hadn't. Sager frowned. There was a few minutes of discomforting silence between them as the song proceeded. It stopped abruptly, a commercial break. "You know, Kenny always wondered why I didn't just burn a CD with these songs on it. I don't think he really gets it. There's something impressive about the radio experience. The commercial breaks are always so perfect. They keep you from getting too wrapped up in your song, they keep you grounded. They're what I imagine home would be, if I had one." Sager chuckled uncomfortably. Robert sighed. "I mean, I guess I have a house. But it isn't a home yet. Someday it will be. You'll see. And I imagine it'll be just like these commercial breaks. Is that what your home is like, Robby?"

He bristled. "Not really, no."

"Oh. That's... disappointing, Robby."

"Mr. Sager, my name is Robert. Don't call me Robby. Please."

Sager sighed. He turned the stereo back up. Eventually, Sager told the story of how he'd made the tape. As a young man he'd taken a radio out into the woods, unbeknownst to him on the edge of the station's reception. He'd placed the radio next to a tape recorder, and left it there for the requisite forty five minutes as he hunted. He'd return, flip the tape, and go back on the prowl. There were birds chirping at irregular intervals, distant gunshots, and a deer ambled by on crackling leaves. The tape's quality -- so distasteful to Robert's ears -- suddenly made a lot of sense. And as it turned out, Sager hadn't simply made just one. This was one of many tapes. He had gone through the process of making the tapes at least thirty times.

He would tape the station, listen to it, and if a song he didn't like came on he'd throw the tape back in the recorder and tape over the whole thing with a new recording. It had taken him months to find that perfect one and a half hours, completely absent any song he couldn't stand. Robert wanted to note how crazy that was, and how absolutely strange it was that Sager would go through that in an era where he could game to perfection the quality of a compact disc. He would've liked to. But something told him he shouldn't. Instead, he allowed his uncomfortable silence to make his point for him. Eventually, Sager stopped talking.

The interference that every man about to die understands came on the radio. Sager lit up. "Aha. So, we have the coup de gras of the cassette. Suzanne, by Leonard Cohen. Robert, have you ever ha--..." Robert cleared his throat and tapped the window, wholly interrupting Sager's reverie. "Oh, is this your stop?" Robert nodded. Sager pulled over to the side of the road, stopped the car, and looked at his driving partner. He handed him a business card. "Well, thanks for the company, Robby. If I can call you that now. One can go a little stir-crazy on the long drives, apologies for the chattering. Good luck out there, it's a rough world. Keep in touch."

"Goodbye, Mr. Sager. Thanks for the lift."

Robert was a hitchhiker. As Sager merged back onto the highway, he found himself alone once more.

At a Bobcats home game, a father and his young son are sitting in decent seats:

"Watch that one," the father points at a player, "He's Gerald Henderson. Gerald plays good defense, and that doesn't always make it to SportsCenter, but he wins games for us. He's our unsung hero. Watch how he stops that frivolous chucker, Jamal, from moving past him."

"Wow! That's great!" the child says, as the jump-shooter Henderson is guarding (whom the father correctly believes to be Jamal Crawford) jacks up a terrible fadeaway three that by a miracle of chance goes in. "Was that supposed to happen, dad?"

The father grinds his teeth a little bit. "No, but sometimes it happens anyway. The point is that he's not going to do it too many more times like that. He's inefficient. He can't keep that up. Gerald's defense is great. Watch, pay close attention." But Crawford has the hot hand and - after a Bobcats pass goes literally nowhere - seconds later hits another contested three to the muted disgust of the crowd. The father rubs his temples. "I guess you could say that basketball doesn't always mean the good guys win," the father says grimly, looking on at an increasingly lopsided Blazers blowout.

"Are the Bobcats the good guys, dad?"

"I would say so, yes, more often than not." As the father says this, Gana Diop is at the line. "Except for him, son."

• • •

The game was growing tiresome. "They may be the good guys, but the Bobcats don't seem very good at the game of basketball. This is kind of boring."

"You're right, son. They don't hit too many shots. But a lot of them try really hard, and put their best foot forward. That's important. Listen, I can't make you like the Bobcats, son, but I can tell you why I like them and hope you follow in my footsteps." The son's ears perk up. "Now, there aren't many things that are great about our Bobcats. Not much right now. But a few years ago they had a wonderful basketball team, my boy. Did you know that once there were other Geralds that were even better at winning games than Gerald Henderson?"

"Like who?"

The father - being by trade a fantasy writer in the mold of a cheaper and less reasonable Tolkien - now chooses to structure the tale of the Bobcats in the only way he knows how. "Once there was Cr'azhwals, called 'Crash' by the masses. But his full name was Gerald Cr'azhwals and he was known as a fighter around which could be built a great army. Truly, he was a great Gerald."

"Wow. Were the Bobcats a great army once?"

"Yes. They were amazing. See, at one time, basketball was far more important to the people of Charlotte, son. Our whole lives and families depended on being able to put the ball into the hoop."

"Whoa!"

"Yes, and back then they didn't use basketballs. They shot arrows with poison tips and every warrior had a quiver of flaming arrows. The best archers got more arrows. They didn't use hoops; they used their opponents. Their opponents were their targets."

"Cool! Why don't they do that anymore, dad?"

"Well, because the world is changing, in some ways that are good and others that are bad."

"Oh," The child said with disappointment. "So then was this Crash the best archer?"

"No, not at all. In fact, others usually had to stand in the line of fire so that he could pull his bow taut. But that's not what he did. See, the other armies would live and die with their best archers. These were the aces of an army. And through the dark magic of grit and hustle, Cr'azhwals made these aces into braying goats."

"Wow!"

"The people in Charlotte would rejoice as Crash - on gilded wings - would take the rations of intruders and make them their own. We called those steals. Crash would take the weak arrows of intruders from the sky and split them in two. We called those blocks. If the arrows had foul poison, he would avoid contact with the poison. If the arrows were aflame, well, all the better to cook his newfound rations."

"So wait, Cr'azhwals had wings to fly with? Is that right?"

"Yep. Of course, he could jump so high he didn't need to fly. They were for show."

"Whoa."

"Yeah, some of the aces like Piers the Devil or the Snake Lord Kobe would come to intrude upon the fort. Cr'azhwals would fly down to them, and when they would outstretch their arms, he would outstretch his arms in kind. When they would move to their left, which direction do you think he went?" The father moved his hands in parallel to convey the question.

"To his left?"

"Haha, no. Crash went to his right, like a mirror on his man. Crash was a mirror for the best archers, sending their best shots back, and if one of those great archers from the other armies had a weakness, Crash would pummel them into dust."

"Wow! Crash was great, wasn't he?"

"Yes. The masses of Tcharh Lott were safe with Crash on our side."

"... what? Do you mean Charlotte?"

"Yeah, Charlotte.... but that's just basketball. What made Crash truly great was that he gave us in Charlotte some hope and made the other Bobcats feel like they were part of something. Sure, Cr'azhwals' army was feeble in spirit but with Crash at the front they had no fears."

• • •

In the stadium, the PA announcer tries vainly to get the crowd back into it with the obligatory chants of "DE-FENSE!" and "Go, Bobcats, Go!"

"Son, do you hear that? Do you hear those chants?"

"Yeah. But no one's chanting."

"Well, when Crash was here they did chant. They came to the games and they chanted, because they knew that they could always have a chance to win with Crash. 'Bobcats! Go Bobcats!' they would cry, as Crash led them from their sleepless coma of fear into the restful power of triumph. Say it with me."

"Bobcats! Go Bobcats!" they cry out at once, to the amusement of nearby spectators, who join in with one part irony and two parts masked yearning for Cr'azhwals. Just then, Gerald Henderson seems to get badly injured. The trainers help him leave the court. The crowd is silent for several minutes as the ballboys clean up. "Not another Gerald..." someone behind them mumbles. The father sighs.

The child is undaunted. "Were the Bobcats the best army around? The best army in the world?"

"Haha, nope. There is no one in the history of the human race who would ever say that, son." The child finds some unmistakable disappointment in this, so the father tries to mitigate his statement: "Oh, but the Bobcats were the best at something back then. They held the fort of Charlotte like no other. They defended our city from arrows, and Crash was at the center of it all."

"So... how do you know so much about the Bobcats, dad?"

"Well, the truth is very simple: I was once a Bobcat, but they sent me down and told me I would never see combat for want of ligaments in my knee and tenacity in my heart."

"Really?"

"That's what they told me. But it was really just my knee," the father shakes his fist slightly in anger, "I loved the Bobcats and fought as much as I could. I was once a Bobcat and I watched Cr'azhwals in the sky and drew strength from his energy that flew like his hair in all directions."

"Like Goku or something."

"Close. That's close," the father considers, poring through his mental catalog of small children's programs to find the Saiya-jin hero, "but remember that Goku never had to fight other people. At least not as an adult," the father says, surprising himself with this bit of context, "No, Goku always fought aliens or something. Cr'azhwals not only had to fight, but he had to make things right on Earth afterwards. His teammates sometimes despaired, but he brought them back. Always did."

"Whoa."

"Yes, I hate to say it, but our home in Mint Hill - just outside the sacred fort - doesn't feel quite as connected to Charlotte so long as the Bobcats suffer without Crash."

"Huh, now that you mention it Mint Hill is pretty boring."

"Boring but peaceful. There is peace in our little town, son. Never forget that. Don't take it for granted."

"Yeah, but it sounds like Crash was pretty awesome. I love the Bobcats."

"That's more like it!"

• • •

"So, like... did Crash ever get beaten?"

"Yes. When the Bobcats were on the prowl, the fort of Tcharh Lott would weep from news of afar: For when he was away from home, Cr'azhwals had only his Bobcats to feed and to feed from, and his power waned, son. The legions of archers he could neutralize shrunk to but a single able-bodied soldier, and the legions descended on their intruders the Bobcats."

"That's... too bad, dad."

"Yes, it was. But we knew Crash would get 'em back when he was defending our home. The people of Tcharh Lott learned not to despair of news of Crash from afar, and to wait for their hero to return. For he always did."

"What happened to Crash?"

"Nothing, for awhile. It was good, for a time. Flanked by General Felton and the yeoman Emeka Okafor, they held their fort against armies of strength and numbers. When Crash cut his wings on a certain devil's sword (we called the devil Byeh'Nom), the Bobcats gained power from Crash's encouragement."

"So Crash got hurt really bad?"

"Yeah, but he got better after that. He wasn't quite as fast, but Cra'zhwals recovered." The son nods in understanding and subtly alters his mental image of Cr'azhwals from that of Saiya-jin to that of an Android. After all, Saiya-jins like Goku only got stronger after recovering from injury. "Crash was such a tremendous warrior, though, and one year he even got us to the Tournament of Armies, reserved only for the upper echelon of great armies."

"Did you win?"

"No. But we showed them that we belonged. Ten Bobcats strong," the father says, a tear in his eye, "But then the darker days came. Then came the Lean Years... I cannot finish... No, it is too painful."

"What happened in the Lean Years?" the son asked, recognizing his storytelling father's feigned reluctance to finish.

"Well, since you insist...," the father continued without further pause, "Oh, how I remember the election with despair! The people of Tcharh Lott yearned for power in the wake of The Tournament of Armies. Seeing numbers and strength that they felt had been denied them, they elected a new admiral."

"A new admiral?"

"Yes. The new admiral was a great, aged warrior that had seen the days of wine and roses, had seen more armies before the great Bobcats, had decades ago ended a drought in Tcharh Lott's province (North Kyral) by filling vats with opponents' blood and asking of his fellows "Now, will you have drink?" and they had laughed."

"Who was the admiral?"

"His name... was Jordon."

"Was he a good leader?"

"He was a great leader. Great and powerful, like the Sith. Great and terrible," the father said with trembling voice. The child quivered with fear. "Jordon said that this would be a lean time and rationed his men and horses and food. For the greater good."

"Oh no!" cried the child.

"Jordon saw that - in his vision of constant intrusion and constant defense from intrusion - Cr'azhwals would not fit."

"Nooo! He killed Cr'azhwals! Why, Jordon?"

"Well, no, he just sent him away. See, Jordon saw a port on the Placid Sea and said you may have 'Crash' for no fewer than a thousand horses and Nic Batum."

"Who's that?"

"Oh, Batum's alright. Not as good as Cr'azhwals, that's for sure."

"Damn!... Darn! So they did it. Jordon traded Cr'azhwals away for nothing but the greater good and Nic Batum?"

"Yes, precisely. Well, they couldn't get Batum, actually. So they just settled for the horses, but the port refused to send them. So for naught but flotsam, Jordon sent him away. And in one day - or how it seemed! - Cr'azhwals departed from our fort forever. I can still see the Placid Airship, flying him away as we waved until Admiral Jordon would not have us wave again, and suddenly our warriors - our precious Bobcats! - seemed as depleted as our souls would feel in the terrible Lean Years. Suddenly, in his mad rush for frugality, Jordon had made our army into Lean Bobcat$, spelled (in secret vulgarity, under cover of friends) with our common currency."

"What?"

"Dollar signs. We spell the Bobcats with a dollar sign for the 's' sometimes."

"Oh...."

"Because Jordon only cares about money. Get it? Eh?"

"Oh. That makes some sense. So... what happened to Cr'azhwals in the Port on the Placid Sea, dad?"

"Portland? Oh... I mean, he fought very well for them. They say -- when the Bobcats' arena gets quiet - that you can almost hear Cr'azh, blocking another arrow."

"Whoa. I think I can hear him."

"Yeah. You might even say he's right there," And the father pointed to the Blazers' Gerald Wallace, laughing with his teammates in garbage time of a massive and completely uncontested Portland win.

The son instinctively saluted Crash.

• • •

"First off I hope I make the Olympic team," Durant said recently, humorously humble as ever. "But if I do make it, I won't worry about that, man. I think I do a good job of taking care of my body. So if I'm there, hopefully I can push through it and make it a good season and a good summer."

--ESPN's Weekend Dime, Marc Stein, 1/20/12

Gee, reading that quote really brought back some memories! See, I know Kevin Durant from back in D.C. During the lockout he and a couple of his NBA friends would play on a neat pavement court. Being an intrepid, ruthless basketball journalist disguised as a baby-faced 16-year-old, I seized the moment and asked to join the game, right when they were shooting hoops early in the morning.

"Hey, Kevin," I said, casually as possible.

"Hey, kid. What's your name?" Kevin Durant had a really jumpy, curious voice.

"I'm John."

"Hi, John. Are you by any chance a point guard on the Minnesota Timberwolves?" Kevin and his friends kind of chuckled at that. As did I. Kevin Durant had jokes.

"Nah, they waived me right before the lockout ended. The Spurs signed me, at a reduced salary, as a mop-boy," This last part was true. Only mopping afforded me the insider journalistic access I sought.

"Wait, really?"

"Yeah, seriously. I'm from San Antone. We be chillin'," I said, briefly putting on my aviator's shades before removing them, slowly, while glaring at Kevin.

"What brings you to D.C., then, John?" Kevin asked, a bit on edge now.

"To mop up the streets. With my intense basketball skills. Game on," Alea iacta est. The die is cast.

"What position do you play?"

"Well, I'll play point guard here, KD. But back in school, I'm the starting center. I take the tip and every play after that I anchor my team on both ends," I said, gaining confidence with every word.

"You can't be more than 5'9'', John!" Kevin laughed.

"I'm by far the second-tallest person in my entire school," I countered.

"What about the tallest?"

"Oh, she blew a calf out in the sand in beach volleyball."

Kevin Durant made a shocked expression.

"I'm sorry to hear that!" he said with such enthusiastic sympathy that I nearly cracked up right there. His eyebrows arched intensely, like he was a character in a cheaply-drawn anime.

"Ah, it's not a big deal. She'll get better in a couple of months. And besides, it doesn't matter all that much because I crash the boards like Rodman."

This line sealed the deal, and with some laughter Kevin told me to wait for a few more players (from nearby colleges, I gathered) to join in his pick-up games.

• • •

When everyone had arrived, we all drew lots to see who would be the first captains. There were only 12 of us, so the players that didn't get picked for one game would be captains in the next game. Simple as anything. Kevin Durant actually drew one of the captains' lots and picked me with the tenth choice, obviously out of sympathy. One of the two that didn't get picked was NBA player T.J. Ford.

Now, T.J. Ford was a gangly, awkward experiment with wireframes that had seemingly tumbled out of a graphical computer at the University of Texas and stumbled to the gym where the coaches realized he was a fully-formed college point guard and a future lottery pick. I knew a bit about him from his college days, and he would actually sign with the Spurs after the lockout, but now he just looked... eerily foreign in person. I felt like a scout discovering Nyarlathotep at a Nike camp or something. He also seemed kind of pissed Kevin hadn't picked him. He brooded on the sidelines and leaned against a chain fence, sitting on the ground.

But now I had bigger concerns: Because of the logic of the matchups, I was guarding a 6'10'' PF from a Division I school. Now, honestly, I'm not sure if this was truly the logic of the matchups or just an excuse for physical comedy, but I'm a big fan of physical comedy anyway, so I went with it. It was pretty entertaining, and - as a journalist - I was discovering empirically why Tim Duncan wasn't quite as fast as he was in 2003, and it wasn't just age. Have you ever been in a (playful but physical) fight where you hadn't been eating but where you had been drinking, and had also been running? Do you get what I'm saying? Well, if you haven't, here's the summary: you feel a little bit sick, but more than that, you feel like you're 70% of the way to unconsciousness, and 110% of the way to fainting. And that's exactly what playing the post on both ends was like. Despite the intensity and height difference, after our 12-minute game I had torched my counterpart for 5 points and 7 rebounds. I mean, my counterpart got 15 points and 20 boards, sure, but... it was progress. I had scored, legitimately, and I held my head up. By the end, I really felt like I could play him to a draw. Then they untied his shooting arm, money was exchanged, and the captains started the second draft.

For the second draft, the captains were still sitting against the chain fence, and so those of us that had just played were just talking among ourselves:

"I hope I get picked. If I do, I think I can do better this time. I think my team will win, if we just put the work in." Kevin Durant said. Everyone just looked at him, some concealing smiles, some rolling their eyes. I was astonished.

"Kevin, you're a marginal MVP candidate in the NBA. T.J. Ford is the second-best player here, and he's nowhere near as good as you. I'm an undersized, underage point guard here that plays small forward in a high school for tiny white people. I am in the 80th percentile, height-wise, in my school. We found out in math class. That's why I'm on the basketball team. Because I am relatively tall at my school. I have played literally one-thousandth the basketball that you have and I'm a foot shorter. You're going to get drafted, Kevin."

"Hmm, I don't know. Wait, did you say small forward? I thought you said you were a center!"

"Nah, that was a joke."

"Was the volleyball girl a joke? With her calf?"

"No, that really happened. She's hurtin' in the calf, definitely."

"Oh."

"Dude, my point is, you're being too humble. You're easily the best player out of the twelve of us! No one here would dispute this! Who among you would dispute this? Why wouldn't he get picked, for real?" I addressed the others. No one answered. I was astonished. Kevin Durant was honestly this humble. He honestly thought he had to earn a starting spot where you just had to be the 8th best out of 10 to get one.

"Listen, I just have to do my best and prove that I can make the team. That's all there is to it. Just go out there and compete, and if I get picked, all the better."

"Alright, just, uh, just don't sell yourself short," I could hear the faint echoes of commentators complimenting Kevin's humility, oblivious to how deep it apparently went. I could only smile and make my eyes wide as the others had done. "Is this guy for real?" I asked rhetorically.

T.J. Ford spoke, "Alright, the red team is ready to select. With our first pick, Red Team picks..."

I heard Kevin Durant whispering, "Please, please, please, please."

T.J. Ford finished, "...John!"

Kevin was incredibly disappointed by this turn of events. I had no words, and the other captain immediately chose Kevin Durant.

Despite his disappointment, Kevin delivered a monologue thanking his captain for the confidence he'd shown in selecting Kevin. "...and team blue shirts are going to win the championship this game if we can just execute and act like a team, from the top to the bottom of the lineup," Kevin pointed at Royal Ivey as his captain chose Ivey with the last pick. "Don't get me wrong: Team red shirts are great. We know they're great. They're tough on both ends. We all know this. But we think that we're better."

• • •

T.J. Ford took me aside after the draft. "I hate that guy."

"Who?"

"You know, that tall guy. Long arms. Anime eyes."

"... Kevin Durant?"

"Yeah, exactly. I hate that guy, kid."

"How can you hate Kevin Durant, TJ?" I said, genuinely curious.

"Ah, I mean, it's not hate. You know, I just don't think he's as humble as he acts. I think it's, like, an act, you know? I'm pretty suspicious."

"An act?"

"Like, a put-on for the media and his team. I know it don't make much difference if it is, but I'm curious. And we're, you know, going to test that, right now. In this very game."

"... What in God's name?"

"Why do you think I came here, kid?"

"To play basketball when your league of professionals is locked-out?"

"Well, yeah. I guess. But also to test Kevin Durant's humility. That's a close second, in terms of goals."

"Come on you guys, we're playing in a couple minutes!" Kevin called to us from afar.

"Listen, kid."

"Yeah?"

"I want you to play against Kevin Durant... Then..."

"Uh... okay, T.J. But that's a nightmare match-up..."

"Kid."

"Yeah?"

"Shut the hell up and let me finish."

"Oka-..."

"First I want to deliver an impromptu press conference, as coach and captain of red shirt team."

"What?"

"Do you have a microphone handy, kid?"

"Yes. But I don't s--..."

T.J. at this point started talking loudly enough so that Kevin could hear him as he fed me questions from index cards hidden under his giant white headband.

"Mr. Ford, how do you feel about Kevin Durant? How do you plan to match him up with your defense?"

"Well, John," calling me by my first name for the first time in 10 minutes, "I don't think he's a very good player at all, so I will be matching him up with my worst player... John. I have contempt for Kevin's playing ability. Utter contempt. A child could beat him, if that child had ever been in a fight, because that fight alone would make that child tougher than Kevin Durant."

"Is that why you didn't draft KD in the first place for your team, Mr. Ford?"

"No, I didn't draft him because I didn't think he DESERVED to be on a team, John."

• • •

"Well, KD, I guess you learned that you aren't as humble as you thought! You know you're the best player here, and you were just putting on a show of humility."

"T.J., I'm surprised at you," Kevin said, "The difference came down to front office acumen. Blue shirt team knew what it would take to build a contender, and realized that I could be a valuable contributor to that contender."

Ford just shook his head at the insult. I was laughing.

"Well, T.J., if it makes you feel better, that was the best game of my life! I got 8 whole assists."

"Aw, shaddup. You're not even a real point guard, kid."

"Well, to be fair, neither are you, T.J. But you have some good games."

"That's... that's kind of true, actually. Thanks, kid."

Kevin Durant shrugged and untied his right arm. It was time for the third draft.

After years in the Association, stately, plump Richard Jefferson inevitably slid over from the bench to the scorer's table as a color commentator. By the end of his career, at the end of the bench, constantly making amusing, self-deprecating chatter, he had practically already busted his chops as a commentator. On the bench he'd say things like:

• "Tim Duncan still runs like a deer. Now, can someone get me the license plate of the guy that hit him?"

• "Ah, the starting small forward. I remember when that was me! President Reagan was in power, and we were all bemoaning Reaganomics at the end of the bench, when Red Holzman tapped me on the shoulder and said, 'Kid, you're starting tonight.' I was 35. I was three years older than Red. I was actually a shooting guard but I had been eating ice cream all summer because I'd thought I'd never play. I played 20 minutes before I nearly had a heart attack. I never started again."

• "LeBron James is still the most athletic player in the league at 30. He never developed a great perimeter game like Jordan or Kobe, but he never had to. He can just steamroll his way down the lane and bank it in for an and-one after drawing two fouls on every starter on that one single play. And then he can rest for the rest of the half while his team builds a lead. Then he does the same thing in the third quarter and steamrolls over garbage time and gets a triple-double in 15 minutes and his team wins by 30. It's sick. It's not even basketball. But you gotta respect the champs."

And so on. His teammates laughed, but they also noted that whatever he said rung of truth when they looked back at the game. And so it was that when he called a game as a test run for his alma mater, Arizona, they hired him on the spot, finding him funny, reasonable, and knowledgeable. Eventually, of course, it was these same traits (and the vetting experience at Arizona) that got him a spot calling color with the local professional team, the Phoenix Suns. After the offseason (filled, for Jefferson, with research on the newer players he hadn't played with), Jefferson was ready to show he could cut it as a commentator in the big leagues.

• • •

His first game - on opening night of the regular season - was to call a game between the Suns and their hated rivals (and his former team) the San Antonio Spurs. The Suns' organization - under new management - was excited about Jefferson and the new direction he'd be taking their color commentary, and even brought in legendary retired commentator Gary Bender to give Jefferson some tips before tip-off.

"Now, Richard, it's important that the fans like you from both ends of the court. You understand that?"

"Of course, Mr. Bender."

"Please, call me Gary. I mean, do you really understand that half your audience on TV is rooting for the other team? That a third of your audience comes from Europe and China? Do you understand that you are representing your country, your family, and all that sort of thing, Richard? Do you get it?"

"Yeah, I do. It's a total honor. I get it, Gary."

"Well that's good to hear, Richard. A lot of you guys just want to push your own favorite players, favorite teams, and so on. But there's more to it than that."

"I know. But of course, I'm glad to hear you tell me so."

"Well, anyway, I was at my home a few months ago and I just happened to catch your first game between Arizona and the Oregon Ducks."

"Oh, yeah, that one. Any tips?"

"Well, you made me laugh, Richard. That's important."

"Cool --"

"But you made me laugh only because I'd been talking to athletes for 40 years, Richard. As a fan, it didn't work so well. My wife didn't like it all that much. She's the harshest critic, of course. I'll do the best game of my life and she says "I switched over to the Portland network because I just wanted to hear someone competent call the games." "

"That's hars --"

"She's joking. It's a joke, Richard. It's very funny."

"Oh, haha."

"But she seriously, honestly didn't like your style that much, and she knows her stuff."

"Darn. Well, what can be done? Do people just naturally get better?"

"Not really on their own, no. It's not something where with practice you're suddenly good at it. Every sport has its own rhythm and every game has its own beat, and you're working for the fans on that beat. The more considerate you are of what people want to see and hear, the better you'll be, but that doesn't come with repetition."

"It's tricky, isn't it?"

"No, it's not hard at all as long as you have concentration. It's the most natural thing in the world. React and respond, over and over. Sometimes you'll surprise yourself with your response, but don't think about it in the moment. You're from Arizona so you've heard of Vin Scully, right?"

"Yeah, I wasn't like a Dodgers fan, but it was kind of hard to avoid hearing him and hearing about him. And then, when I'd been a pro for many years, I lived in San Diego. Vin came out of more cars than the Padres game, and if you listened to it for a few minutes it was obvious why."

"That's what I'm talking about. He uses a sense of humor, and a personality, and a voice, and the crowd noise, but at the end of the day he's just giving the fans what they want to hear. You've got funny, you're a likable person, you can think on your feet, Richard. Now put it all together and deliver for fans. Don't just make jokes. I can't really tell you more than that. But I wanted to tell you the problem you have to figure out day by day."

"Well, thanks, Gary. How's retirement, anyway?"

"Well, we have a garden, and it's been nice to slow down a little bit. But... put it this way, I was going out of my way to catch a Wildcats-Ducks basketball game, you know? It's a little tiring, and I'm glad we got out of the house for a little bit. Overall I like it, though."

"Haha, yeah. It is relaxing but sometimes you just want to be busy."

"Oh, that reminds me, Richard. One last bit of advice: One thing you can do to really reach people is to point out things like tough effort. I know you guys think of energy as just another variable, another plus or minus. And that's fine, but to fans? Effort or its lack really speaks to people. It's kind of poetic and brings the game home to people. It's one of those big questions in life, and you can see it right on the screen. You know what I mean?"

"Yeah, I didn't really think about it, but you're right, Gary, and it's important. Thanks."

"Okay, well, we're going to go sit in our box, Richard. Best of luck."

"Thanks, Gary. Give your wife my regards."

And then Gary Bender departed, and Richard felt the powerful tension of a stimulant now, as tip-off was less than a quarter-hour away, and Suns-Spurs games always had decent ratings. A lot of people that he could make happy, a lot of people he could impress, a lot of people that knew him and what he was about. Many of them, as Gary told him, were Spurs fans and he felt the powerful, anxious weight of responsibility. But he thought he could carry it.

• • •

The Spurs were an organization steeped in class and tradition. So Jefferson - still reasonably well-liked by the management and coaching staff there (who'd liked his character even before they brought him in) - received a warm introduction before the game and the ring ceremony. Now mic'd up for the game, RJ began to talk a little about the Suns roster, largely an undersized group of scrappy vets that weren't going to win more than twelve games probably. An aging Anderson Varejao suddenly brought to mind what Gary had said. The words flew out when his play-by-play man gave him a lob.

"I want you guys to watch this Anderson Varejao, tonight, if you aren't excited about the season. Suns fans might not be familiar with the new signing, but he's hardly new to those of us that played in the Eastern Conference. He does so many good things for a basketball team, and over and over in his career he's sacrificed his body for the good of his team, not just his team as in the number of wins they get, but in terms of his team as people that have to get up every morning and bang their knees 10 times a week, which is the reality for an NBA player. Because they look at Andy and they see someone that bangs his knees 20 times a week and gets a little slower every year, and they know that if Andy can give twice what they're giving, they can give an extra 10%, and so they do. And if in 20 years they don't move quite as sprightly because of Andy, it's because they'll have done more and they'll have more to be satisfied about. That's gone unnoticed, and maybe that's something I can call your attention to."

His play-by-play man looked at him during the commercial break with a mixture of awe and astonishment.

"Was that alright, Jim?"

"That was more than alright, Richard, but we have some superstitions here so I won't say much more. Keep it up."

• • •

And now the ring ceremony was beginning. The Spurs (now in their second year without him) had been relatively busy, having won their fifth title in staggering fashion the year before: Each of their four playoff series went the full seven games (that had never happened in the league), and in every series they were outscored by their opponents (which only happened rarely for one series, much less four_)._ But the Spurs made up for it with the tenacity of warriors and the clinical intelligence of surgeons. Now the Spurs' "Big Three," certainly (and finally) too old to contend at this point, were taking one more half-year on the payroll at the minimum salary, largely as a victory lap through the league and the franchise that that they'd dominated for so long. The gold, beautiful rings were unnecessary ornaments; the five rings were the halos of respect and dignity around whatever lineup they had in at a given time, and those would last for many years.

After the ring ceremony, an intoxicated Spurs fan two rows in the stands said, "RJ, you're my hero, can I get an autograph?" and RJ obliged. When he got it, the fan proceeded to rip up the autograph and say, "No one idolizes RJ. No one. This is worthless to me! Ha ha ha," to which the surrounding fans mixed mocking support and classy jeers. After all, it was true. No one idolized RJ. But it still was pretty weird to say.

Things might have been different, and it's the funny thing about these Spurs and Jefferson (known to players and coaches alike by the childish initials "RJ"): Several years ago and on the good side of 30, RJ was once touted as the player that would bring the Spurs "over the edge:" In other words, the player that would take a very good collection of talent and inject it with the youth, intelligence, and experience that would grease its path towards a title (or at least toward contention). But it never happened: RJ's first year was lost and disjointed, and for the rest of his tenure RJ become associated (a little unfairly, a little justifiably) with the word "disappearing," especially "when it mattered." And despite his Spurs continuing to post very good records and getting into the playoffs as a real threat, they never seriously looked like the best team in the league come playoff time, and when the fans looked for answers they saw in RJ an $8-10 million albatross hogging the salary cap space, they saw upstarts (on the same roster) with more upside and talent than RJ. Most of all, they saw someone that was likable, reasonable, and nice as a front for a non-entity that made bank by saying all the right things and never putting the insane effort in that was expected of him as a highly-paid professional athlete. And there it was and RJ had probably heard the drunken fan's sentiment a hundred times in various media.

But suddenly, perhaps from pride in his defense of Anderson Varejao, RJ (unlike the previous hundred times) suddenly got really prickly and angry.

"I've never wanted to be your damn idol, and if I ever had, I'm resigned to where I am. But did I ever hurt you? What gives you the right?" With muscles tensed from anger as much as pride, RJ suddenly realized that the post-ceremony commercial break was ending in a few seconds. So he waited, and his grimace turned into a smile as the camera focused on him and his play-by-play man. And RJ continued his thought on Anderson Varejao.

"You know what? I just had somebody rip up my autograph telling me that no one idolized me. Well, you know what I said about Anderson Varejao? Maybe Anderson Varejao was nobody's hero. No one in their right mind would want to grow up to be a tenacious, clumsy interior presence wide by a seven-footer's standards and whose grace and tenacity were obscured by a funny-looking mop of hair. Nobody grew up wanting to be Anderson Varejao. And yet everyone that played or practiced with him tells me he's a great player, tells me he makes them want to work harder. Doesn't that count for something? All I wanted to do for people was make my teammates laugh, and, on occasion, win a few games! And dag namit, I did it! Sometimes I was injured, sometimes I was ineffective, but I was always there for them, and I wanted you guys to laugh. Tell me that's not worth an autograph, if you're already collecting the inscriptions of heroes and gods."

But they'd already cut to commercial long before RJ had ended, and he noted that the play-by-play man looked like death on the other side of him.

"Nice try, RJ, and you can say that again if you want, but try to be a little more... self-deprecating..."

"Aw, dag namit! Self-deprecating? Dag namit. Crap."

"Perfect. That's great self-deprecating humor, right there."

"Damn it! I mean, I just wanted people to know how hard someone like Andy works. I didn't mean to build myself up. But I want them to watch Varejao tonight, is all I meant."

"That's fine. But it has to be in the rhythm of the game. Prove your point by pointing out when they do something worthy of respect. As you know Andy's going to at least once. Then give your whole spiel. And even if he doesn't give you an opening tonight, he will sometime later in the season. He'll get his if you're willing to give it. It's a long season and you'll find the time to say anything you care to. Gary always found time. Everyone I've worked with - play-by-play or color commentator - found the time to say everything that was in their head. The problem is that it's not enough to fill 48 minutes. It's filling the time that's hard."

"Well, then, we just had a ring ceremony, can I talk about my Spurs for a few minutes? Size 'em up, talk about what they mean, and so on?"

"Go for it. You'd better, in fact. It's a good idea. We're live in 10 seconds!"

• • •

To be continued...

Mike Brown and Kobe Bryant Hash it Out

Mike Brown and Kobe are walking towards each other in a large gym. Brown speaks.

Mike Brown: So uh... Kobe, I know there's been talk about us having troubles in the paper. Idle speculation, of course, but considering we're more or less both on long-term contracts, I thought we'd hash it out right now.

Kobe Bryant (shaking hands): You know, you're right. You guys really had our number in those last few years with the Cavs, and a lot of the credit goes to you. You honestly outcoached Phil Jax, and you brought the Cavs at least as far as Phil Jackson brought the Lakers for a few years, arguably with less talent. I think most of the problem with you was LeBron, not vice versa. I want to work with you, not against you.

MB: The same for you. Kobe, your moves are as sophisticated as any offensive player. I know you aren't as physically capable as in your peak, but you're still a top 10 offensive player. And I may be a stodgy defensive coach from way down south --

KB: Wait, Coach, didn't you grow up in Germany?

MB: ... -- but that still means something where I'm from. Offense matters. You matter. We all know that.

KB: ... okay. Uh. Well, this conversation is going pretty well, I think. It's clear that we respect one another's abilities and the winning mentality each of us brings to the table.

MB (brings two swords from behind back): Good. I think we're ready to hash things out, then.

KB: Wait what do you --

MB: Maybe "hashing" means something different where you're from, Kobe. Go on, select your sword.

KB: I'm... absolutely not! What the hell?

MB: Select your sword, motherfucker. This first one is big as shit, could kill a deer from 10 meters. A 33 foot sword!

KB: I thought you meant that we'd talk about our --

MB: Motherfucker, let me finish. This second one is tiny as fuck, but it's heavy and sharp as all get out. Could slice a goddamn human like a potato. Hell, could slice a boulder like a potato.

KB: I don't want to wield a sword. Coach, I don't wa... --

MB: Yes, this tiny sword could cut a boulder of diamond like a fucking baked potato. So which you want?

KB: Coach, just... just stop for a second! Let me ask you something.

MB: Alright, Kobe, what can I do for you?

KB: I don't want a sword. If one of us gets killed or cut up by one of these swords, that would be terrible. Our season would be ruined, almost immediately. What the hell is wrong with you?

MB: That's true, but these swords are safe if you've ever handled one. I can show you how.

KB: No, dumbass, I mean, it's not handling the swords that matters, it's getting hit by the sword in a duel that matters. It's inherently unsafe. I'm not made of diamonds and invincible super-fluid, even if most of my fans think so.

MB: Haha, you thought we were going to fight? That having a sword fight with my most talented, beloved player would be my first official act as coach? Hah. Hahaha. Kobe, I've always thought you were intelligent.

KB: Then why did you have me select a sword? Goddamn, man! Tell me this, then, what were you planning on cutting, coach?

MB: Potatoes.

Mike Brown pushes a button. The other half of the gym is instantly filled with gigantic potatoes.

KB: What the... what the hell?

MB: Oh, sorry, Kobe. Where I went to high school the best way to get to know someone was to cut a gym full of potatoes. It's a custom that's followed me ever since, and with good reason: Teaches you everything you need to know about a person. LeBron gave up after five minutes.

KB: That's stupid.

MB: Let me just repeat that: LeBron gave up after five minutes. On the other hand, I still invite Delonte over to cut potatoes sometimes. Shit works.

KB: Okay, haha, that's awful. Five minutes?

MB: To be fair, he chose the heaviest sword.

KB: I've never heard of this potato-cutting custom before, but I already love it.

• • •

2 hours later.

KB: Well, coach, I had my doubts, but that was a great experience. I learned a lot about you, including this strange potato custom, but I hope you learned a lot about me. We really "hashed" it out, and I'll never be able to think of potatoes without thinking of you, coach.

MB: Yeah, I'm just surprised Phil Jackson never did this with you. It's a pretty long-standing tradition between players and NBA coaches.

KB: Really? I've never heard about it before today.

MB: Well, it's a bonding experience. There's nothing more to say.

KB: Oh, gosh, look at the time. I have to go. Thanks, though.

MB: No, Kobe, thank you.

• • •

5 minutes later.

MB (on the phone): I got that shipment for you, Tony.

Tony: Haha, already, Mike? But that only took you 2 hours! What, did you hire some migrant laborers or something? That's amazing.

MB: Yeah, I think he was from Italy. An Italian immigrant, yeah. Built like a steam drill, Tony.

Tony: Well, I'll be right down from the dock to pick it up. Thanks again, Brownie.

MB: Hey, anytime, Tony. You'll give me a check, then?

Tony: Cash only. That's how we roll at the dock.

MB: Cool.

• • •

That night.

KB (crying, on phone): You know, Phil, I don't know why you hate me, but we're going to hash it out tomorrow if you care at all about our friendship.

Phil Jackson: Okay, Kobe... I'm not sure what you're talking about, though.

Chauncey Billups: the Memoirs of a Cancer

A story of Chauncey Billups' amnesty demands, told (almost) firsthand.

Chauncey Billups in George Karl's office, trying to convince Karl to pick up his option.

Chauncey Billups: You know, George, I once turned the Nuggets inside out, just to see if I could. I'm bad news. I'm a bad dude. Don't take me on waivers unless you're willing to deal with hell on Earth.

George Karl: No, Chauncey, that was Carmelo. You were the guiding force that we fucked over to make our trade balance work. On the one hand, we'd love to have you back. We have a starter-quality point in Andre Miller and a promising young guard in Ty Lawson, but with Miller aging, and the compressed season, it could work out quite well, actually...

CB: You know what, wow, that makes perfect sense. In that case, I would--

GK: It's too bad we're not even interested in you.

CB: Wait, but --

GK: Chauncey, I have to ask you to leave. We're really short on players, and I've been really busy getting everyone ready.

CB: Wait, I could be one of those players! That would be great!

GK: Do you really want it?

CB: Yes, actually. I'm a veteran presence, and my leadership would be perfe --

GK: Tell me what you want Chauncey, and I'll do my best.

CB: I just want a vet min contract, a stable place to stay and raise my family, and no hassles caused by goddamn superstars that think they're above the goddamn system. That's all I want.

GK: Absolutely not. Get out of my office. Try the Clippers. I'm sure they'll never trade you.

CB: Damnit!

• • •

CB: Hello, Robert Sarver.

Robert Sarver: Hello, Chauncey.

CB: So I was wondering... maybe you could NOT pick me up, if you had any such intentions.

RS: I did not, in fact, have any such intentions.

CB: Oh. Well, why not?

RS: Tell me what you earned last year.

CB: Well, it was right around $15 million.

RS: And are you, say, a tragically undertalented player of a D-League caliber that I will overpay heavily while passing on legitimately solid free agents despite a stated commitment to frugality?

CB: No.

RS: Aww...

CB: I mean, I'm a little bit older, but I play just fine. On the other hand, it would be tragic to acquire me for that kind of money when you already have Steve Nash to start, who is still a franchise player, even though you have no intentions of trading him. You'd make no one happy, and spend the same amount of money as your rivals.

RS: Oh. That's a good point. I'll think about it.

CB: Wait, what?

• • •

CB: Daryl... Daryl Morey?

Daryl Morey: Welcome to D.A.R.Y.L., the automated GM supercomputer.

CB: Man, that's some weird humor you have going on there. Every time I meet with you it's always this weird, isn't it?

DM: Humor, of course. Improves riditory capacity by 14% while diminishing AT Fields by 15%. I am familiar.

CB: Right. What's an AT Field?

DM: The barrier between souls that no one should cross, once merely but a thought experiment from psychology, now manifest in all our models. Have I shown you our models?

CB: I'm good, thanks. so I've heard you guys are into advanced statistics, and I wanted to tell you not to acquire me. I'm bad news.

DM: Want is, but an illusion... of weaker minds. So desu ne~

CB: ... Anyway I, uh, take a lot of bullshit contested threes, and I thought you might want to hear it from me before you think about signing me on waivers. Watch FIBA from last year. It's all in the tape.

DM: "Before"? Ha. Did you really think I hadn't calculated your utility using multiple metrics? Did you think I didn't see the amnesty provision months, nay, years before it happened? Do you really expect me to think that these contested threes were anything more than an elaborate (albeit wily) ruse hatched against my very interest in you?

CB (crying): I'm...just not a very good player, man. I'm sorry. I know you've done all your analytics and made your conclusions, and I respect your intelligence. But I have such a gimpy knee, and I'm not as tough as I like to project. I'm really a soft guy at heart, and I'm sick of competing every night and getting traded around. Please, just don't pick me up.

DM: Alright, gosh. I mean, don't lie to me but yeah, I was just kidding. I wasn't really interested in you in the first place. Some players I can absolutely slay with that mecha-Morey routine, though. Too bad.

CB: Like who?

DM: Actually, it's just Shane Battier. And Ron Artest. They love that shit. Anyway, do you want to know where you'll end up?

CB: No, in some ways, I don't want to know. Your all-seeing, all-knowing gift is one that such as I-

DM: You're going to the Clippers, Chauncey. Haha. Ha. ... Hah.

CB: You're a weird guy, Daryl.

• • •

Donald Sterling (smoking a gigantic cigar): Frankly, Chauncey, I don't think you can be a cancer. Not really. Relatively speaking, of course. But I'd like to see you try.

CB: I... what the hell?

DS: Chauncey, Chauncey, Chauncey, what's your last name?

CB: Sir, it's...

DS: I know what your last name is, Chauncey. But look at how destructive that is. "Sir?" Look at how easily I did that. Look at that. Do you think you're ever going to compete with me? I'm the O.C. -- original cancer. You've got nothing on me.

CB: I don't want to compete with you. I just don't want to go to the Clippers.

DS: I might just pick you up just for saying that.

CB: Oh, please God, no. I can be a cancer. Just watch.

DS: By the way, did you know that whole economic crisis? With the mortgages?

CB: Yeah, of course.

DS: Let's just say that was my idea.

CB: Please don't pick me up.

DS: Well, I guess your little "I'm a cancer" stunt backfired on you, didn't it?

CB: I've learned my lesson, that's for sure. Please don't pick me up, sir.

• • •

Chauncey Billups has ordered a pizza from a local chain. He receives a call.

David Kahn: Why hello, Chauncey.

CB: Uh... hi. Do you have my pizza? Where are you?

DK (in a childish cackle): Oh, Chauncey. I'm more of a state of mind than a person per se, Chauncey. Say, have you seen Ricky Rubio?

CB: Um... yes, I've seen him. Listen, who is this? Where are you?

DK: I've decided to invent a new form of the Triangle Offense called the Tiny Quintuple Post, and I think your talents might be germane. Get this: Five point guards, each of their skillsets mapped to the traditional five positions, playing the Triangle Offense. You will be our Center, facing off against giants such as Tim Duncan and Pau Gasol every night, speeding past the aging trunks with the wistfulness of an owl at night. I've seen microfilms of you at the local library and I think you're quite ready for a turning point in your career, as a Center.

CB: ... Jesus Christ, I ordered a pizza, not a fanfiction. Where are you? I'm hungry.

DK: Look up. That's it, look straight up. Come to Kahn.

Chauncey looks up. David Kahn is taped to his ceiling, tied down with microfilm.

CB: Ahh!!! How the fuck did you get in my house, David?

DK: Owls, Chauncey. Owls brought me here.

CB: Uh... the Clippers already got me. You can't sign me.

DK: Is that a lie? Are you intimidated by my owls and my stoop on your chandelier?

CB: Uh... no, it's just that they claimed me on waivers, and now no one else can.

DK: That sounds like a lie.

CB: Listen, I'm banking on you not understanding the waiver rules, here. And I also would prefer the Clippers to your team.

DK: Welp. I resent it, but I can't deny it.

CB: If it's any consolation, you could probably sign J.J. Barea as your power forward. He's agile.

DK: That's so dumb. You can't build a championship team around J.J. Barea at the 4. I thought you knew basketball, Chauncey.

CB: Small forward, then?

DK: Huh. Okay, what should I pay him?

CB: Uh... like, don't go any lower than six million a year. There's no way I would play there for less than six million dollars a year. I would be insulted. I'm practically insulted by this waivers thing to be honest. Pretty bush league, Kahn.

DK: Okay.

CB: Better make it seven with taxes. Make sure you have no more room to sign marquee points, either.

DK: Why would I do that?

CB: So J.J. doesn't get jealous! God! Look at what's going on with LeBron. Hell, look at Darko.

DK: He seemed displeased.

CB: Okay, here's the important part: Sign him for about 4 years.

DK: Why?

CB: Because that will guarantee that I'll never have to... watch you guys and know that you could have done better? Yeah.

DK: Okay.

CB: One more thing.

DK: Yeah?

CB: I want you to ask Kevin Garnett to request a trade to the Wolves. He can be your center for the foreseeable future, or rather, your double center for the Quintuple Post.

DK: Oh, but I had no idea he wanted back on the Wolves.

CB: Of course he does! Uh...he's a tough sell though, you know how people are, they don't know what it is they really want, so you have to show them that you have a commitment to their well being.

DK: Of course. That makes perfect sense to me.

CB: You have to ask him tonight though. Full moon and all, wolves, that whole thing.

DK: Oh, yeah, naturally. I better leave right now.

CB: Bring your owls, of course. And close the damn front door, please.

DK: Okay. David Kahn, exeunt left!

For the first time in years, Chauncey Billups smiles.

• • •

The next day, Billups arrives at Sterling's office in a Christmas sweater with a Clippers hat.

Donald Sterling: Well, there's the finishing touch, Chauncey. I guess you'll be competing against Mo Williams at the point. How does that make you feel?

CB: Alright, I guess. Not so bad.

DS: Excuse me? What's the matter with you? Don't you understand? I own you, Chauncey. Doesn't that stir some ancestral hatred in you? I own you, like I'm running some sort of a plant--

CB: Hey, you read the recent free agent signings?

DS: Of course, Chauncey. What about them?

CB: What did JJ Barea get with the Wolves?

DS: There's nothing about that in my reports. Why?

Assistant (from next room): Mister Sterling?

DS: Yes?

Assistant: Barea got signed just now with the T'Wolves.

CB: Nine o' clock on the dot.

DS: But how could you have possibly known that, Chauncey?

CB: Let me guess, 4 years, $20 million?

DS: What are the terms of Barea's contract, just out of curiosity, Jessica?

Assistant: Oh, I think it was 4 years, $19 million. It's pretty hilarious, I think. What agent could possibly have convinced Kahn to make a hilariously misguided move like that?

CB: Let's just say I won't be playing for the Wolves anytime soon, Donald.

DS: Huh... interesting. Good work, Billups. Say, I heard you were interested in front office work back in Denver...

CB: Yes, very much so, Mr. Sterling.

DS: How would you like to work... for me? We'll go through the country and cause mayhem wherever there is prosperity or fraternity... except against me and mine. We'll be villains in arms. A Mark Knopfler song from hell.

CB: Thanks, that sounds like fun, but for the time being can I just finish out my contract playing basketball?

DS: Ah...what the hell? Sure. Basketball. Whatever.

• • •

Weeks later, a ragged and furious Kevin Garnett is banging on Chauncey Billups' door. He is covered in owl bites.

Kevin Garnett: Chauncey, open up, man, I just want to shoot the breeze.

• • •

And so it came to pass that Sam Cassell didn't join the T'Wolves, Suns, Rockets, or Nuggets. Fin.

The Two Towers and the Terrible Text

A story told by Tim Duncan (to Richard Jefferson)

Richard Jefferson: Hey, it's Tim Duncan! *Richard walks up behind him* Hey, Timbo Slice, my man!

Startled beyond reason, Tim Duncan drops his mango lassi.

Richard Jefferson: Uh... what the hell was that, Tim, are you alright?

Tim Duncan: I'm alright, Richard, but I was doing much better before you made me drop my mango lassi.

Richard Jefferson: I'm sorry about that. But why were you so startled you dropped it?

Tim Duncan: It's... it's a long story. I'm very rattled right now.

Richard Jefferson: Come on. I'll get you another, and you can tell me. You can talk to me, Tim.

Tim Duncan: Thanks, Richard.

• • •

They return to Tim's table, with fresh Lassi. Tim speaks.

Tim Duncan: So, Richard, have you ever known what it's like to be a good buddy?

Richard Jefferson: Yes.

Tim Duncan: Good. So I don't need to explain the simple intrinsic facts of human contact to you. That's good, this won't be like me talking with you about anything related to the game of basketball. We've got common ground here, as human beings. Have you ever met David Robinson?

Richard Jefferson: Uh... yeah, once, I think.

Tim Duncan: Good. When he wasn't blocking your shots at the rim to prevent you from ever achieving personal fulfillment, he and I were very good friends. And remain, to this day, good buddies. We try to talk on a bi-monthly basis, though I tend to talk about NBA 2k12 and D&D while he talks of church and charity. We have common ground on both subjects, but both of us tend to focus on different things. Do you have a friend like this, Richard?

Richard Jefferson: Yeah, Luke! Luke Walton. I focus on roller blades, he focuses on aviator glasses. We have... uh, what you said, you know. "Common ground on both subjects." But we've got, like, different stuff in our heads that lead us to emphasize one over the other.

Tim Duncan: It's good to have principles.

Richard Jefferson: Uh... yeah.

Tim Duncan: Good. So, neither me nor David are very big on this "texting" business. Me, I think it's sort of silly. Most of the things conveyed through text messages could more easily be conveyed through a short, 1 or 2 minute phone conversation. Talking with people is refreshing, whereas texts are aggravatingly short and whose meanings can be entirely misconstrued. You probably like texting, as you're from the younger breed, but I simply do not understand it.

Richard Jefferson: Tim, you're like... four years older than me.

Tim Duncan: Well, you know what Mark Twain always said.

Richard Jefferson: ... Nothing with any relevance to this situa --

Tim Duncan: Regardless. David Robinson IS an old man relative to me, so my point is still relevant to me. David Robinson doesn't usually like texting either. He's big on the so-called "chatty cathy" five minute phone call when a text message would've done fine. So, imagine my surprise when I received the following message from David a few nights back between the hours of eight and nine, PM.

Call when you are able. Cell only, tell Valerie nothing. ~ !! Corinthians 1:4-5 !! ~

Richard Jefferson: Uh... wow, that sounds kind of concerning. Why did he take the time to add a bible verse to the end, Tim?

Tim Duncan: Even though he never texts anyone, David sets a new bible verse as his "text signature" every day. I don't know how someone as tech-mystified as David actually figured out how to do that, but when David wants to do something for Jesus, he... how would you say it...

Richard Jefferson: He goes H.A.M.

Tim Duncan: ... yes, Richard, he goes H.A.M. Regardless. I was really, really worried! I called him, I texted him back, I pinged him on IRC... I did everything but call Valerie, given that he had explicitly ordered me not to do that. He'd never given me any directive like that before, so I felt like I had to honor it. My nerves were wracked, and he had clearly turned his phone off upon sending it. I was frantic, to say the least. So, I decided to do something drastic.

Richard Jefferson: What?

Tim Duncan: I decided I would run to his house, but sneak in such that Valerie was not alerted to my presence. It was an operation that was going to take every bit of my wit, guile, and intellect. I told Amy I needed to go out to serve as an emergency Dungeon Master for my friend Charles' weekly D&D game. She was dismissive of my concerns, but gave me the car keys anyway. I hoofed it to the local costume shop, where I bought their largest set of wizard robes, along with an Obama mask. I then went to a local Indian restaurant I very much enjoy and got a mango lassi to go, because I felt such an ambitious plan demanded it. I pulled up to the Robinson household at about ten past ten, and began to put my plan into motion. I put on my disguise, and snuck into a treehouse in his neighbor's yard. I then picked up my phone. It was time to call Dominoes.

Richard Jefferson: Wait, wouldn't ordering a pizza give you away?

Tim Duncan: *sigh* Richard, you have no imagination. I wasn't ordering the pizza for me. I was ordering it it for_ Mrs. Robinson_. Both as a distraction to allow me easy entry into their house, and as a karmic blessing to ensure I wouldn't harm my good standing with the fates too much by perpetrating this heinous, unjustified break-in. Anyway. I waited in the tree-house for a while, stirring when my blackberry told me that pizza artist Geraldo had finished my pizza, and that pizza delivery boy Waldorf was on his way to deliver it. I took out the grappling hook I'd carefully constructed using children's toys and a strong bit of rope, and prepared to rappel my way into the household.

Richard Jefferson: Wow, really?

Tim Duncan: Heh, no. Then I would clearly be breaking and entering, Richard, and that's definitely illegal. No, I simply exited the treehouse, hid behind a bush in their back yard, and got out the key to the house David had trusted me with long ago, for use only in emergencies and potlucks. I heard the car stop out front, approached the door, and entered as soon as I heard the tell-tale doorbell. I snuck into the den, where David's schedule-book sat in wait. I opened to today, hoping to find a clue as to where he was. Nothing. The day was blank, with the exception of his customary 8:00 AM attendance to daily services. Cursing my luck, I shuffled the papers on his desk looking for a sign. Then, out of a bundle of unfinished letters to charities, an itinerary dropped. Reading it quickly, I realized my error -- David wasn't in San Antonio at all, he was in Washington D.C.! I took a picture of the hotel's phone number with my blackberry, and after rearranging the desk, I snuck out of the house. I got in my car just as the Dominos deliveryman was leaving. My plan had worked to perfection, but I hadn't actually learned anything, and I felt pretty bad about breaking into David's house.

Richard Jefferson: Wait, were you still dressed as a wizard with an Obama mask?

Tim Duncan: Yes. Anyway. I called the hotel he was staying at, hoping they'd patch me through to his room and I could figure out what the hell was going on here. After the old run-around with the concierge, they finally patched me through to David. The phone rang a few times, before I heard a tired yet familiar voice on the other end.

"Hello? God?"

"No, David. It's me, Tim."

"Oh! Um, hi, Tim. Why are you calling so late? It's midnight, you're usually asleep right now."

"Different time zones. What's wrong, David? I got your text. Were you... kid-napped?"

"Oh, no! Uh, I have no idea why you'd think I was, but I am just fine."

"Uh... then what was that text about?"

"Hah! Oh, Tim. You always were a worrier. That text had nothing to do with a kidnapping! Or... anything even remotely resembling one, honestly. I was just texting you because I was really excited. Valerie was voted all-state Best Potluck Contributor from the local church's potlucks! I nominated her several months ago. She mocked me for it, but clearly it was the right call. The pastor and I know good potluck when we see it! Anyway, I wanted to tell you, because I wanted to make sure you came to the banquet in a few months, because you are a cherished family friend. I also wanted to make sure that even if you heard it through another source, you absolutely don't tell Valerie. It has to be a surprise. Her face when they announce the winner is going to be crucial. Anyway. Uh... sorry for worrying you, you shouldn't read so much into text messages. Also, you sound really hyper. Have you been drinking mango lassi again?"

"..."

"... Tim?"

"I... congratulations to Valerie. Amy and I will definitely be at the banquet. I, uh. Sorry for waking you up, David. I... yes, I have been drinking lassi. I... goodbye."

"Okay, Tim. Have a good evening, and fly with God."

"... Same to you."

Roughly one minute and forty six seconds of absolute silence.

Richard Jefferson: ... Tim, how did you remember that whole conversation?

Tim Duncan: When David Robinson tells you something, you best not forget it.

Richard Jefferson: So, wait. That was it?

Tim Duncan: Yes.

And that was it.