Doing his best not to get frustrated, Evan Turner whistled a tune while being stuck in barely-moving traffic. Highway congestion in Boston was notorious, and he would find himself randomly not moving for long stretches of time.
Given new opportunity to observe his surroundings, he looked at the billboards which dotted the side of the freeway. The “cheap mattress supercenter” ad was particularly tacky, but the one which followed really caught his eye. It was a big picture of Evan Turner in his Celtics uniform, a red “X” covering his face, with a yellow-lettered caption that read “Get this bust off our team!”
Evan gaped in disbelief. Who hated him enough to go out and buy a billboard? And why would that person care whether he was a bust? It’s not like the Celtics drafted him.
Soon, traffic was flowing again, and Evan drew nearer to his destination: the Celtics practice facility. Taking a quick detour, he stopped at “The Bean Scene”, an indie coffee shop which, in his opinion, made the best mochas in all of New England. Walking in the door, he expected to be greeted happily by his favorite barista, Tanya. Instead, she, and everybody else in the store, looked at Evan coldly.
“What do you want?” Tanya snapped.
“Just my usual, please,” Evan answered, confused by the normally bubbly woman’s attitude.
Without saying a word, Tanya pointed to a sign behind the counter. On it was Evan Turner’s face, again with an “X” through it. The words below read, “Do not serve busts.”
Saddened and hurt, Evan walked wordlessly out of the shop and got back into his car. He didn’t know how he was going to perform at practice without a delicious mocha to get his morning started.
Arriving at the practice facility, Evan found a convenient parking place and walked up to the front entrance. As he approached, he noted with interest that the Celtics didn’t usually station security guards at the front, but maybe there had been some kind of threat or something.
“Sup, fellas,” he said coolly, expecting to walk right in. However, the two men roughly grabbed him and threw him to the ground.
“No busts allowed,” the larger of the two growled. “If you don’t say a word and leave right now, we won’t kill you.”
“What are you talking about? I play for this team, I need to practice!” Evan yelled, struggling to break free.
“I warned you,” said the guard, unholstering his gun and pointing it right at Evan’s forehead. “But you didn’t listen.” Then, he pulled the trigger.
Evan Turner woke up with a yelp, hands immediately going to his forehead. Finding no bullet hole, he groaned and turned to look at the lock. 2:35 read the large, red numbers. He reached out for his kitty, Celtie, and stroked her soft fur. “I am not a bust. I am just wrongly utilized,” he told her. “I have all the tools to be successful, but neither the Pacers or the Celtics realize that I need to have the ball in my hands. I am an alpha dog by nature, and attempts to turn me into just a scorer are pointless. I will show them all.”
The agreeable purring of his cat lulled the troubled player back to sleep.