They were chasing him. He didn’t know why, but two men in grey suits and sunglasses were chasing him through the back alleys of Portland. He had just been enjoying a cup of fair-trade coffee at the place down the street when he saw somebody with a walkie-talkie pointing at him and nodding. It had made him uneasy and he had left. And now here he was.
His legs were getting tired. But given the size of the guns these two guys were toting, he wasn’t going to stop. He had no doubt he could outrun them; he was an NBA player after all. But he failed to see the toppled trash can until it was too late, and an errant sheet of newspaper sent his titanic form sprawling to the ground. He put his hands out from his body, indicating that he was unarmed, and yelled “What do you want from me?”
One of the men put a gun to his head. “Why is it that you put up good stats on every team you play for, but the teams themselves always play better when you’re off the court?”
Hickson bristled. “Screw you man. I give 100% out there every night!”
The other man smacked Hickson in the head with his gun, making him see stars. “Don’t get smart with us, or you’ll see what these babies will do to your kneecaps! Say these words: ‘I put up empty stats’. We want to hear you say it.”
The first man got in his face, whispering, “Don’t fight it. You wanna end up like your buddy Greg?”
Hickson weighed his options. He was fairly sure that he did not, as they said, “put up empty stats.” But he knew that many Blazers fans held that opinion. And he didn’t really want to get shot. He sighed.
“I put up empty stats. But did you see me put back Batum’s missed-”
Before he could finish, the two men withdrew their guns and hurried wordlessly out of the alleyway, where a black van was waiting to pick them up.
Hickson picked himself up off the ground. “I hate Blazers fans.”