Go ahead. Make your jokes. Tell him he sucks. Laugh about T-Mac straddling him like a cowboy after dunking in his grill. Laugh about Space Jam. Say it was the highlight of his career. Forget about the 2,119 blocks. Forget that he always put himself in the way, even if it meant 20 or 30 posters. Death Stick don’t care.
Somewhere in Utah, there’s a man riding a custom chopper through the bucolic streets, completely at peace with the game of basketball. He doesn’t need your pity, and I’ll tell you why.
It happened a long time ago, back before Derrick Rose or Kirk Hinrich or Elton Brand had ever put on the red and black. You know the time.
On a cold winter night in Dirty Jersey, Death Stick had just watched his boys choke away a fourth quarter to Michael Jordan’s Bulls. Something had to be done, and it wasn’t the kind of job for a guard. He would have to take matters into his own hands.
Death Stick took the ball at the free throw line and his teammates melted away in fear. It was one man against the world now, a lone soldier driving into the teeth of a dynasty’s defense. He took off, bouffant hair rippling in the dead air of the gym.
You think Bill Wennington was going to stop him? You think Ron Harper was going to step in front of that slow train of chalky Mormon ill as it knifed through the lane like a bad dream?
MJ tried. The Alpha Bull was measuring him, waiting for Death Stick to unload on Kukoc. At the last second, MJ came swooping in from behind, trying to kill the beast with a forearm to the back of the head.
Naw, son. Death Stick just brought the goods. And one.
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