Trevor Booker was fuming. So close to the win, only to have in snatched from his fingertips! The injustice of it was absolutely maddening. Sitting in the locker room post-game, he scowled at the floor, consumed with dark thoughts.
Glen Rice approached him. “Hey Book, you wanna-”
He was cut off by the intense hate of Trevor’s gaze.
Now Trevor got up. He was on a mission. Stalking through the halls of Philips Arena, he tried to remember where the home locker room was. The person responsible for the loss, he would be there. And then they could talk it out like men.
Fifteen minutes later, having finally stopped an arena employee to ask for directions, he walked into the locker room where many of the Hawks players were still congregated. His enemy was in direct line of sight, and Trevor approached him with a swagger.
“Hey Al, great game tonight,” Trevor said, extending his hand for a shake, which Al Horford accepted confusedly.
“Yeah, it was a good game, my man.”
Withdrawing his hand, Trevor silently and swiftly formed it into a fist, a fist which was then driven right into Al’s smug face.
“You stole my game-winner man! I was supposed to be the hero! It was going to be me!” Trevor yelled, throwing another punch, which missed. “But you can’t even let a guy have that, can you?”
Immediately, several of Al’s teammates rushed to restrain Trevor. Al himself got up, rubbing his sore face. “You crazy nut. What am I supposed to do, not shoot it, let it go into another OT?”
Trevor, in a deranged frenzy, struggled to free himself from the tangle of arms holding him back. “I was going to be on ESPN! SportsCenter would broadcast my name!” He paused, breathing heavily, eyes wide and demented. ‘Trevor Booker hits the game winner against the Hawks!’ It would have been the NBA’s play of the night! And you took it all away from me!”
Somebody had summoned security. Four burly men with guns tackled Trevor and held him to the floor. As they dragged him out the door to the locker room, Trevor had some choice words for his nemesis. “I’m going to kill you, Horford! Hear that? I’m going to murder you in your sleep! You can book it!”
Disappearing around the corner, Al heard one last yell echo through the corridor.
“Get it, Al? Book it? Because my name’s Booker? HAHAHAHAHAHAHA! AAAAAHHHHHHHHHH! IT’S A PUNNNNNNnnnnnnnnnnn.”