Matthew Dellavedova watched the ceiling tiles scroll past him. “You know what, doc, actually, I feel totally fine,” he said as he struggled weakly against the straps holding him against the rolling hospital bed.
“No, you’re not fine, Matthew. Your team’s rehab efforts have failed, for the most part. Your body still craves the drugs. They referred you to me. Drastic cases require drastic measures,” the surgeon responded as he walked alongside. “However, we are, let’s say, heh, extremely confident that this next procedure will work.”
“Drastic measures?” There was a note of panic in Dellavedova’s voice now. “I told you, I’m fine! I’m done with the stuff. A reformed man. Just let me go, come on, please!” he pleaded.
The doctor talked as if he did not hear his patient. “Here we are, Matthew. Let’s make this as quick and painless as possible, shall we?”
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“You think he’s better now? I don’t really want to deal with another knife-wielding maniac.” Tristan Thompson said as he and LeBron James walked into the reception area of the rehab clinic.
“He’d better be. This is the finest rehab place in all of Ohio. I just want old Delly back,” LeBron replied.
“Old Delly? No one here knows the old Delly. He’s been hooked for as long as I’ve known him, and I’m sure his problems started back in Australia. Vegemite addiction is an epidemic down there.”
They walked up to the desk. “How can I help you today?” asked the smiling nurse.
“Yeah, uh, we’re here to pick up a patient, they said he was all cleaned up now?” Tristan responded.
“Oh, you must mean Mr. Dellavedova. A great success story for our clinic, I must say. It’s like night and day with him. Hold on a sec, I’ll retrieve him.” She left, as Tristan and LeBron smiled at each other.
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“Here he is!” the nurse announced as she wheeled a glum-looking Matthew Dellavedova in on a wheelchair. “Look, it’s your old friends!”
“Hey man, how you feelin’? Hope they didn’t treat you too rough!” Tristan asked, grinning.
Matthew didn’t respond, his dull expression unchanging. He did not seem to realize that he was in the presence of his teammates. LeBron waved a hand in front of his face. Still nothing.
“Delly, don’t you recognize us? It’s us, man, Triscuits and Bron Bron!” Tristan’s smile was forced.
“Hey, lady, is he just still loopy from the anesthetic or somethin’? I’d rather have the murderous strung-out maniac again than this veggie,” LeBron said, concerned.
The nurse now seemed in a rush to get them to leave. “What, we cleaned him up off the drugs he was abusing, what else do you want? We did our part. This is just one of the side-effects of the experimental procedure we used on him,” she said as she wheeled Matthew towards the exit.
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“Hey, Delly’s back!” Joe Harris yelled as the three walked up to the pregame shootaround. “All clean now, I hope!” The rest of the team yelled and whooped in support, clapping Matthew on the back and offering their congratulations near center court.
“What’s up Matty-Ice, overcome by emotion?” Asked Kendrick Perkins. As the rest of the team realized that he was offering no response, or even any cues that anything was happening, they stopped their excited behavior.
“This is just how he is now, I guess. Good news is, he doesn’t want Vegemite anymore. Bad news is, uh, he’s kind of catatonic,” LeBron answered. “Hey, where did he go?”
They all looked around, and quickly located Dellavedova, who was emotionlessly splashing threes from the left wing. 10, 20, 30 in a row.
“What the fudge…” Shawn Marion whispered. Before anyone could stop him, he ran up to where his teammate was shooting and began playing intense defense, challenging every shot as well as he could. It made no difference. Matthew still made no indication that there was anyone else in the gym with him, and continued splashing triples without effort.
Tristan looked on, smiling again. “Who’s ready for the playoffs?”