Kevin Durant & Russell Westbrook (photo. Rob Hammer)

Three friends. One baby. One cop car. A couple of psychos with bats. Eddie and his marriage home…

So cool if I could breast feed, ya know?
(stares wildly)…(car comes shooting in)
…We are ‘bout to go for a tractor ride so I should…

…What…the…f$%^ (men with bats)

Tractor ride?

…Sooo pretty…

Let’s go! GET OUT OF THE CAR!

Woah, woah woah! … What was that?

Just started up the car….I think it backfired

WHERE THE HELL IS HE?

Easy Easy…I think we’re looking for the same guy… (bat swings down, breaks windshield) HEYYYY! What the hell man! (baby starts crying)

Is that a baby? … Why would there by a baby? We’re in a winery. It’s a…a goat.

WHERE IS HE? … I don’t know!? What are you talkin’ about?!

Would you please start the tractor so we can get out of here? … I’M TRYIN’ TO BUT WE’RE F#$%^& BLOCKED!

OMG! What the hell is happenin’ Stu! (bat swings down again) HEYYYY! THERE’S A BABY ON BOARD!!

Someone just said baby … It’s a baby goat…

GET OUT OF THE CAR! (Eddie comes out, the gun comes out, the beast comes out) …I gotta go bye! (shots fired) … THEY SHOT EDDIE!!!

F#$% THIS S$%^!

—–

“Never again. Never. Old man? Coach? Can’t get to me. Won’t let him.” The “point guard” and the GM are sitting in chairs along the sideline, the GM with his championship ring on and a forlorn look, the point guard with his “respect” and his balls. Five feet away in another chair, Johnny Ballgame sits. The coach. The leader. Arms folded. Muttering to himself about how young fella won’t listen. He won’t.

“What did you say old man?” The “point guard” steps up and steps out. Away from the GM. Johnny Ballgame faces him up. It’s on. Shouting and screaming. Tussling. The GM in the middle of it all. Chaos.

No one will cede control to the other. The colossal family tilt. It’s been going on for over a year. Stubborn men. More stubborn kids. The GM is trying to break it off. “Chill. Everyone calm down. Me? I’m a Bad Boy. I know ‘bout winning. 2004, you remember that? Best believe we can do it again. I need you both to shut up or you are both outta the D.” He doesn’t affect anything. It goes on because it can. It goes on because it won’t ever stop. This is the D. Black Steel In The Hour Of Chaos.

There goes Big Ben complaining up in the weight room. “No one respects me. No one ever did. F#$% ‘em. F@#$ ‘em all.” He’s throwing up weights and throwing ‘em down harder. Over there is UConn’s finest, tall man and the big-balled shooter arguing with the franchise, the young center. Mr. Too Nice.

“What? Okafor all day over ‘Zo. No questions!” Mr. Too Nice, all 6-11 of long, feathery basketball skill ain’t having it, starts chuckling and shaking his head. “Patrick over all of ‘em. Jamaica’s Finest all day. John Thompson, don’t even get me started on him.”

Just then, a worm walks by. The Worm. Jersey now hanging in the rafters, Worm just came down off a seven-day heater. Eyes are sunken in. Shirt’s ripped. Tired and just woke up 20 minutes ago. It’s 3:47. P.M. But he’s not done. Pissed actually. “Where the Big Cat at? The Bearcat?” He’s glaring, looking around. “He thinks he can board like me? I’m ready. Let’s get it on now.” Up the stairs he goes, with some sneakers in hand. He hasn’t played in 321 days. No sign of the Cat though. Back down and into the weight room. UConn and G-Town still arguing. No Big Cat. The Worm looks out to the court, sees the “point guard” and Johnny Ballgame’s hissy fits. He chuckles that Worm chuckle, earrings dangling from his nose, brow and ears.

Chaos everywhere. F#$% THIS S#$%!

*** *** ***

Three friends. Two cops. One classroom. A tazor. A class full of kids…

Hey. We got one more charge left. Anyone wanna do some shootin’ up here? (Enthusiastic hands all rise) How ‘bout you big man? Come on up here…

(Young chubster rises out of his seat and starts walking up…showdown…music playing…face-to-face…eye-to-eye…Eastwood and Costner)

Okay same instructions. Just point, aim and shoot.

(Gun raises)

There you go. I like that stuff. I like the intensity…eye of the tiger…good! You’re holding 50,000 volts, lil’ man. Don’t be afraid to ride the lightning. (Shots fired)

AHH!

In the face! In the faaaaaaace!

—–

“They really think they gon’ stop me? Pulease.” Loud as hell up in OKC. It almost sounds like the whole city is in the building. But the Thunder kids are used to it. They know how to deal with it, know how to speak in it. “I’m me. I made it here on my own. Never had love. Wasn’t even BMOC in high school. Imagine that? At Pauley P, they tried to tear me down. Keep me down. Shackled up. Howland, he didn’t know what he had. He kept trying to get me to back up DC. I back up no one though. You thought I liked that? How? How could you?”

Just stares. Blank stares. What can anyone say? There’s really nothing. They like this cat, don’t wanna see it change. But things done changed. Oh yeah. And from here, it’ll only get crazier. With fame comes a price, a big ol’ price, like what it costs to buy the whole team 360s to entertain ‘em. The Golden Boy doesn’t know what to do. Not used to this. Everything comes easy for him. Since he was 15, he was Next. Now, he’s Now. The man. The savior. The anti-LeBron. Shots are fired though, and they’re coming hard and at the worst time possible. Playoffs. Crunch time…when friends lie and disappear, and enemies double. What can he say? Nothing. He looks out at the crowd, everyone sort of staring back. He shoots a glance at the coach, who’s scribbling on a whiteboard, then erasing it, then repeating the process, then throwing his hands up in the air, exacerbated.

“Imma be me. No other choice. I’m good. I’m real good. Some people say I’m next.” He points at the BMOC. “Not you. Not you guys. Me. It could happen. I like y’all a lot. Brothers for life…” Everyone glances up. Heads were down. Family. That gets ‘em all juiced.

“…Family is good. I like family. But y’all ain’t holdin’ me back. Starbury? I’d eat him up. He don’t want it. The Answer? He coulda gave me a run. That crossover…ohhh weeee! But I’m too big and strong. D-Rose, he nice. I’m nicer though. He’s got the green light. I don’t even have a light.”

“But Russell,” they all say in unison. “Don’t listen to them.”

He just shrugs. There’s nothing else that needs to be said. Actions speak louder than words. “They’ve been ripping me apart. These shots only makes me stronger.”

The timeout is over and back onto the court they all jog, heads ducking from the weight of expectation. How will the future be? It’s the question on all their minds. BMOC, the Golden Boy has a weight. Shoulders are drooping. Being too nice. “What else you want me to do though? Be mean? That just sounds weird.”

Will the attacks keep coming? Will it be love? Fire? Will it be over before it began? Never easy to predict. They can’t do anything else but live in the moment, live with the BMOC, the Golden Boy, and his lil’ brother, still running his mouth to no one in particular as he snatches the ball and starts coming up court.

What do you think?

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