The sound of an air horn roused DeAndre Jordan from his sleep. “Huh? Wuh?”
J.J Redick leaned over DeAndre’s resting form, military helmet perched askew on his head. “TODAY IS DAY ONE OF FREE THROW BOOT CAMP!”
“Man, screw that, it’s three in the morning,” DeAndre responded dully, turning over to resume his sleep. The air horn blew again.
“Private Jordan! I was not aware that you were a WIMP, but I suppose I was MISTAKEN!” DeAndre did not respond, so Redick commanded his lieutenants, “Byron, Ryan, rouse this baby from his slumber. He will rue the day when the Clippers decided to trade for me.”
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“That one was uglier than your mother’s rear end!”
“Airball? Come on you wuss, the basket’s only fifteen feet away!”
“Hurrrrr hurrrrrrrr who am I? DURRRR HOW DO I SHOOT FREE THROW?? Hurp hurp hurp.”
J.J. showed no mercy as DeAndre, still in his pajamas, repeatedly bricked shot after shot from the free throw line.
“We’re not leaving this gym until you make ten in a row. Now keep your elbow in! Who taught you to shoot, a ballet instructor? Pansy!” J.J.’s words of encouragement were repeatedly punctuated by blasts from his air horn.
“Man, I’m too tired to shoot it straight. I would do better if I had some food in me.”
J.J. laughed. “Ohhh, I’m so hungry, ohhh, I’m so tiiiiiiiired, I want my mommy, waah waah waah! Here, you want something to eat, take this!” He pulled a stale bagel out of his pocket and pelted it at the seven-footer. “You couldn’t throw a baseball into a swimming pool! You’re a disgrace!”
By the time players began to filter in for the morning practice, DeAndre was slumped unconscious against the wall of the gym.
“I take it free throw practice didn’t go so well,” Jared Dudley commented.
“Nope.”