I sit at my desk, contemplating the difficult decision before me: which player do I make highlights of? I ponder the question with such intensity that it is too late before I realize somebody has entered my office.
The cold metal of the gun burns the side of my head. I sit in silence, waiting for the intruder to identify himself.
“You’re not getting out of it this time, DTB. You will make a video for my nine-point performance.”
The voice is unfamiliar, but the nine points gives me a clue. Utilizing my savant-like powers of recall, I bring to mind all the players who scored that amount of points last night. Carlos Boozer, Jason Terry, and Derrick Williams are all ruled out; they would dare not tarnish their reputations by allowing substandard scoring performances to be uploaded to the internet. Ryan Kelly is ruled out, for the speaker is definitely black. That leaves Cory Joseph and…
Dwight Buycks.
Speaking with a steadiness that contradicts the intensity of the standoff, I say, “Okay, Dwight, I hear you. Put the gun down and we’ll talk about this like gentleman, without the petty threat of violence.”
My head rocks to the side as he jabs the handgun into my temple. “You think I’m kidding around?” he says angrily, and I hear the safety flicked off. “Does this look like I’m kidding around?”
I wince at the pain in my head. “I never said you were kidding. If it makes you feel better, please continue to point the gun at me while we discuss this matter.”
There is still anger in his words. “I scored ten points last year in a game with the Raptors. Ten! Yet I was ignored by all the highlight makers. GD and Dawk Ins, I can understand, but to be insulted in that way by a channel that specializes in unknown players…it hurt me, man. It hurt me!” Now there is sadness and betrayal mingled with the anger.
Sensing his weakness, I decide to lie. “I thought you would improve on that performance. That’s why I didn’t make a video, Dwight. It’s because I believed in you.”
The gun is withdrawn from my head. “You…you believed in me?”
“I did. And this is how you repay me.” There is silence; then, I hear footsteps heading towards the door. I don’t turn around. Finally, Dwight speaks again.
“Sorry man. You don’t gotta do the video if you don’t want to.”
“I’ll think about it,” I respond. The door opens, then closes, and he’s gone.
I sigh. All in a day’s work.