Shaun Livingston stole the ball from his hapless defender, and quickly raced up the court for a routine fast-break jam. He took off from just outside the restricted circle and cleanly slammed it home. He landed, and began to run back on D.
Until he collapsed on the floor in a heap. He looked down at his legs. Both of his knees were grotesquely mangled, and his lower legs were pointing in two very different, yet equally unintended, directions.
Kevin Garnett was the first on the scene.
“Kevin, get the trainers man, I’m hurt. I’m hurt bad.”
“Get up, pussy.”
“I said, get up, PUSSY!”
“Kevin, I can’t get up, do you see my legs, I need the trainers. I need the trainers, Kevin! Help me!”
Suddenly more people appeared, but they were not the medical staff that Shaun needed. It was the remainder of his Nets teammates arranged around him in a circle. Shaun looked confusedly at their sneering faces as he lay helplessly on the court. They began chanting.
“PUS-SY! PUS-SY! PUS-SY! PUS-SY!”
Through the bodies of Tornike Shengelia and Paul Pierce he could see his coach, Jason Kidd, talking to an assistant. Though he was far away, Livingston heard the words clearly.
“I want this pussy off my team.”
“Honey, wake up! Wake up! What’s wrong?”
Shaun Livingston awoke with a start.
“Honey, did you have that dream where Kevin turns into a dog and chases you around the Barclays Center again? You were moaning.”
“Do you think I’m a pussy?”
“What? No, of course not. You are my big, strong, manly Shaun Livingston. The only pussy here is Ferdinand.”
“Now let’s go back to sleep.”