Solomon Hill walked up to Donald Sloan after the game. He looked around furtively before asking his question. “Hey man, do you know anything about…the Hall of the Thirty-Point Scorers?” he whispered.
Donald started. “You ain’t supposed to know about that place,” he whispered back furiously. “Who told you?”
“You know, people…” Solomon responded vaguely. Then his words became eager. “What’s it like, Donald? Is it peaceful? Is is heaven?”
Shaking his head, Donald answered, “I can’t tell you. It’s the Code of the Hall. I really shouldn’t have even confirmed that it exists, but now the Hall of the Thirty-Point Scorers cat is out of the Hall of the Thirty Point Scorers bag. Man, Carlos Delfino is gonna be pissed when he finds out that a non-thirty-point-scorer knows about that place.”
“So Carlos Delfino was there? Who else was there?” Solomon asked, grasping at any small scrap of information that Donald would provide.
Donald put his hand up to stop further questioning. “I’ve said too much. You’re just going to have to wait and find out.”
“But I’m never going to score thirty!” Solomon whined. “Never ever! I need to know, man. NEED to.”
“You scored 28 once,” Donald pointed out.
“Yeah, and all that got me was a trip to the Back-Alley Dumpster of the Twenty-Eight-Point Scorers.” Solomon complained. “And now with people coming back from injury, I’m never scoring that much again. It’s not like I even want to go back there and hang out with Evan Fournier and a stupid smelly dumpster.”
“Solo, bro, do yourself a favor and forget about it. If you build it up like this, you’ll just be disappointed when you make it there. And trust me, you’ll make it one day. I know it.”
“Thanks, man,” Solomon said, still feeling a little churlish. “I guess I have a lot of years left to do the deed. Immortality in the white glory of the Hall will be mine in due time.”