Harrison Barnes waited, hidden, in the rhododendron bushes outside the Iguodala household. Andre always went out to get the newspaper at 7:13 Pacific Standard Time. Barnes’ persistent reconnaissance had told him this much. All there was to do now was wait.
Just as expected, at 7:13, Andre Iguodala opened his front door, whistling. He sauntered over to where the daily newspaper was lying on the driveway. As he bent over to pick it up, Harrison made his move.
“Aaaarrrghhraraarraaa!” Barnes yelled, jumping on Andre’s back. The two teammates fell to the ground, wrestling. Soon, Harrison had Andre pinned to the ground and sat atop him.
“What’s your problem, man?” Andre asked angrily, wincing at the cut on his forehead. “Is this some kind of joke?”
Harrison’s fist contacting Andre’s face was a non-verbal answer indicating that it was not a joke. “You keep taking my minutes. MY minutes.” Harrison yelled, rearing back for another punch, which connected with a sick fleshy noise. “But now you’re not going to take any of my minutes.”
“Stop it man, you’re crazy!” Andre shouted between punches.
“Crazy? Me? Hahaha,” Harrison laughed. “What’s really crazy is an old-ass overrated loser taking small forward minutes away from a high-upside young player with insane scoring potential!” Harrison punctuated this proclamation with a barrage of swung fists right into Andre’s nose. After innumerable strikes, there was the unmistakable feeling of Andre’s nose breaking. Blood streamed down the injured player’s face, but the assault continued.
Soon, Andre was unconscious, lying in his driveway with a face that looked like an overripe cantaloupe. With one last good-luck punch, Harrison got up off his teammate’s body and walked back to his car. Now there was nothing standing in the way between himself and NBA superstardom.