Relaxing in his condo after another tough workout, Andrew Wiggins felt himself drifting away once again. He sighed, knowing what was to come, but powerless to stop it. He closed his eyes and let the blackness overtake him.
He came to in a familiar place. An industrial-looking training facility in a nondescript inner-city warehouse, seemingly lifted directly from a Gatorade commercial, bathed in the orange glow of a setting sun. Chicago Bulls memorabilia coated the walls, Michael Jordan posters beamed at him from every angle, and there in the middle, standing next to the squat rack, was MJ himself.
Andrew sighed again. “Hey.”
Michael Jordan puffed up, looking annoyed. “Don’t you “hey” me, boy. Remember who I am? I’m Michael Jordan, His Airness, the undisputed greatest-of-all-time and…”.
“Yeah, how could I forget? You’ve been haunting my dreams or whatever the heck these are for years now. I’m well versed on your career and accolades.”
“I told you Andrew, these aren’t dreams. This is REAL. Realer than real. Realer than the six rings on my fingers.”
“Then why do you play so dumb when I try to talk to the real you at Hornets games?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. But it doesn’t matter. We’re not here to analyze poor little Andrew Wiggins’ delicate little psyche. We’re here to talk ball.” Jordan raised his hands. “BALL!”
As Jordan said that final word, hundreds of basketballs fell from the ceiling, showering both men. On the opposite side of the facility, a basketball hoop magically appeared, glowing a radiant red. He waited until the bouncing subsided before continuing.
“You haven’t been heeding my advice, Andrew. Not at all. I don’t feel like you’ve been a very good listener, so instead of just telling you, I’m gonna teach you. What I want you to do is, take all these balls, and take ’em over to that hoop over there, and I want you to dunk the ever-living…”
Andrew had had enough. “You’ve been telling me to dunk all this time, and I’ve listened, I’ve tried to dunk it as often as I can, but the fact remains that sometimes, just sometimes, you have to take a jumper or a layup or something. FOR THE TEAM. Something you wouldn’t understand, you ball-hogging prick”.
“What did you say?”
Andrew continued as if he hadn’t heard. “So here’s another plan. You can take MY balls, and you can take them over to your mouth, and you can put them in there, and I want you to slosh ’em around real good. I’m done. I’m leaving. I don’t know why I ever took advice from a guy who couldn’t win jack without Scottie Pippen and got his dad killed with his own gambling debts.” Andrew made for the door, which had curiously appeared just to his left, and which had never been there before. He walked through it, out into the twilit evening. His vision started to dim, and from inside, he could hear Jordan’s angered yells, anger which gradually turned to terror.
“You can’t just leave! This is my house! Scottie Pippen rode MY coattails! He was nothing without me! My gambling problem is totally under control, hell, my dad is still alive, he’s right here with me! Aren’t you, pops? Andrew? Where are you going? Don’t leave me, Andrew! Don’t leave me! Come back! Andrew, wait, this was all just a big misunderstanding! I just wanted you to be great like me, Andrewwwwww! AAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!”
Andrew awoke slowly, opening his eyes to the brightness of his condo. Groggily, he reached over to his phone, which was buzzing at him. There was a new alert from NBA GameTime app.
“Hornets owner Michael Jordan dead at 52”