It was a hard practice. Jonas Valanciunas was feeling the effects of the last set of sprints. Practicing some post moves against Amir Johnson, he became more and more lethargic, until he collapsed on the hardwood, clutching his chest.
The assistant coaches ran over to where Jonas lay, writhing.
“Jonas, what’s wrong?”
“I…can’t…breathe! I feel…like crunch…under weight…of…”
“Of what? Are you having a heart attack?”
“No…weight…of…substandard coaching and inconsistent minutes!”
The trainers walked away, shaking their heads, as Jonas continued to lay on the court, grimacing and scrabbling at his breast. Amir looked on bemusedly.
“Alright man, we get the picture. You’re tired of being jerked around by our moronic head coach. I bet you wish you were me, huh? I get to shoot threes without getting benched. It seems like every game you dominate the first quarter, but without fail you get subbed out before the quarter’s even over! Must be because you’re white or something.”