One of the common online tropes for Chris Bosh is that he is secretly a dinosaur. Posting pictures of NBA players as kids? Here’s a picture of that raptor-hatching scene from Jurassic Park. Talking about the oldest players ever to play professionally? Bring up the fact that Chris Bosh is 65 million years old. These jokes never get tired.
Of course, it is taken for granted that Chris isn’t really a dinosaur. He’s just a normal guy with a long neck, skinny arms, and a mouth that opens really wide, thus endowing him with a somewhat Triassic appearance. But I noticed some oddities surrounding Chris’ habits and behavior that prompted me to look deeper into the matter.
The first thing I tried to do was get my hands on Chris’ birth certificate. He was allegedly born in Dallas, Texas, on March 24, 1984. I couldn’t figure out which hospital was the place of his supposed birth, so I went to all of them. To my surprise, I found that not a single hospital out of dozens in the Dallas area had any record of a “Chris Bosh” being born on that date, nor any nearby date. I even had one of the record clerks tell me that, in her curiosity, she had searched a nationwide database of births and found no record of Chris Bosh ever being born.
Missing birth records are nothing new. A lot of impoverished children are born into an existence that, in the eyes of the government, is invisible. So I tried to track down Chris’ parents, Noel and Frida. There is a couple by that name living in the area, so I called them on the phone and explained that I was after some sort of memorabilia from Chris’ childhood. I played it like I was a collector of such items. My plot failed, though, as Noel told me that he was impotent and that he and Frida never had a child together. I probed further for something else, like kids from a previous marriage, or an adoption, but he told me that neither he nor his wife had any knowledge of a person named Chris who shared their last name.
This was getting freaky. I decided to set up surveillance on Chris’ swank Miami Beach home.
I began to intercept his mail. Most of it was your typical stuff: bills, credit card offers, and fan mail. But there was also some correspondence between Chris and a place called “Dinotek Research” in Nevada. Perusing these letters, I found many odd things: instructions for incubating eggs, feeding programs for baby lizards, and repeated commands for Chris not to divulge the contents of the letters.
One night, I sneakily peered into Chris’ bedroom. His wife was nowhere to be found; in fact, I had not seen her for the several weeks I had spent encamped outside the Bosh household. Instead, I saw Chris sitting on a large pile of blankets. He would sit near motionless for hours on end, the only interruption being when he lifted up his butt to check on whatever was below him. I had a poor vantage point, but he appeared to be sitting on some kind of off-white spheres.
I’m afraid that, after a month of not being detected, I began to get careless. I wanted to investigate closer. So, while Chris was at a practice, I broke a window and got a closer look at the mysterious spheres.
Their surface was rough and warm. Chris had taken extra care to make sure they were covered sufficiently by blankets. Breaking one open, a vile yellow goop spilled out, along with a half-formed embryonic structure whose exact nature was hard to ascertain. I was so distracted by my findings that I failed to notice when Chris returned home.
“What are you doing to my babies?” he asked. Turning around, brain struggling to come up with any kind of answer or excuse, all I could do was stammer. Then he noticed that I had broken one of the eggs, and his mouth opened wider than I thought possible.
“ROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAAR!” Chris yelled, charging at me. A quick glance revealed yellowed eyes and teeth more pointed than they should have been, but I didn’t spend much time observing the changes that were taking place upon Chris’ body. I ducked out of the way and ran as fast as I could through his house, down the street, and into my car.
Slamming it into drive, I sped out of the neighborhood as quickly as possible. Looking in the rear-view mirror, I could see Chris standing in the street, screaming nonsense to the sky.
Now I’m back at my hotel, typing this account for all of you. My hands are shaking. My brow is coated in sweat. I don’t feel safe anywhere I go. The terror I have witnessed weighs heavily on my mind. I don’t know where I should go next, who I should turn to for help. The NBA needs to know about this…
I don’t want to jump to conclusions. I’m not saying Chris Bosh is a dinosaur, but…
Chris Bosh is a dinosaur.