“I didn’t want to pass him. Out of respect, I was missing them for him.”
Tim Duncan leaned his six foot eleven frame back in the custom-made Eames lounge. Dr. "Will" Severing, the team's longtime house shrink jotted something in the black Rhoida notebook marked #21-s14 with silver sharpie.
Tim continued to recount the dream, and there he was there again, at the free throw line. To his side slumped hands on knee, Larry Bird—Larry Legend. Still fit in the green jersey with the white #33, but looking every bit the 55 year old man. He breathed heavy, fast. He seemed paler than usual, as if the pink was drained from his sagging chin.
Tim averted his eyes away from home bench. Though shrouded in darkness it's glare stabbed the eyes. Like how the cold sometimes singes.
Dracula's team surrounded him, in their new black-on-black unis. Their eyes fixed on the clipboard: a runic triple pentagram offense. Dwayne focused the most intently. His eyes never wavered. LeBron to his left, feigned understanding as he jawed on what might be gum…
Chris Bosch did not even pretend. He slobbered on the bench licking something red from an athletic shoe.
The hardwood had been double stained black. The fire on the basketball logo at center court burned like a dead sun. In the corner of the gym, crouched beneath the stands, Coach Eric Spoelestra cried as he reluctantly bit into a wiggling roach.