“So that’s the game plan for tonight. Does that sound good?”
The team looked happily at each one another. But sitting in the corner of the locker room by himself, sulking and draped in a towel, Carmelo Anthony spoke up.
“Yeah, I gots a problem. Where’s all the Melo isos? You talkin’ all about ball movement this and assists that and the whole thing just ain’t sittin’ well with me.”
Coach Woodson looked uncomfortable. “Carmelo, we’ve talked about this a million times. Remember last game when we tried your strategy? Don’t make me rest you for a phantom knee injury.”
“But have you seen my teammates man? They suck. I’m our only chance. I can’t be passing the ball to this crew of scrubs.”
Iman Shumpert stood up. “God damnit Melo, we better than you think. I’ll tell you what. If you can get five assists this game I’ll cut this flattop off. That’s right. The whole damned thing. How’s that sound to you?”
“Sounds good to me. Just call me Magic Johnson.”
*After the game*
“Alright, Iman, time to put up. I got the assists, now you got to cut that goofy thing off.”
“Melo, are you stupid? You only got three assists. The bet was for five.”
“Yeah well you guys was missing on purpose. I swear I was like Chris Paul out there but you guys was sabotagin’ me.”
“You passed the ball like eight times the entire game! Chris Paul? More like Al Jefferson.”
Carmelo grabbed his shaver from his locker. “You take that back. Take that back! If you don’t, I’m shaving that thing off myself!”
“Melo…”
“You think I’m kidding around?” He turned on the shaver. It whirred menacingly. “Take it back!”
“Alright Melo, fine, you like a modern day Michael Jordan.”