Serge Ibaka pondered the events that had lead him to this spot. The All-Star break afforded him plenty of time to travel, certainly, but when his teammates had asked where he was traveling to, Serge had evasively answered “overseas”. None of them would take him seriously if he said he was traveling to Nepal to seek the legendary “Oracle of Blocked Shots” who was said to reside at the top of Mount Everest.
The local population seemed afraid of the mountain for some reason; when Serge had told them in halting Nepalese the goal of his trip, they shook their heads and practically ran away from him. It was only after much persistence that he had been able to locate a sherpa who would help him scale the mountain away from the paths that other climbers took. Serge had offered the man several thousand dollars in American currency, an amount that would probably not only last the rest of the man’s life, but the lives of the man’s children as well.
Serge wished that the man was with him now, but the guide had disappeared during the last night, leaving Serge stranded in the middle of the mountain. That’s why Serge was sitting in the tent, ruminating on these things, rather than continuing his climb. What terrible secrets could the Oracle of Blocked Shots possess that would engender such terror in the surrounding population?
Breathing shallow breaths, Serge wished he had prepared a little better. He had no oxygen tanks and no climbing implements, only a pair of sneakers and a heavy winter coat. He could see the base camp a ways down the mountain and to his left; they could probably assist him, but they would never let him resume his ascent of the peak, given his level of mountain-climbing training. He had to continue alone.
Serge sighed resolutely. The longer he spent here, the less likely he was to reach the Oracle. He stepped out from the relative comfort of the tent into the whipping mountain winds that ceaselessly wracked the mountain. The path from here seemed fairly straightforward, other than the large faces of rock and ice which would require lengthy detours to bypass. Serge shrugged once and then resumed his journey, guideless and ill-equipped to deal with the perils to come.
—
Serge had collapsed against a jutting rock. He could barely breathe and his arms and legs were numb. A snowstorm had formed rapidly, blotting out the sun and making it difficult to discern the path forward. Long ago, Serge had realized he would never meet the Oracle; the summit of Everest, as best as he could determine, was a several days’ climb away. He had no food and no strength left.
In his half-conscious state, Serge thought he could see a dark shadow approaching him. Convinced that his oxygen-starved brain was concocting hallucinations, he did not bother to open wider his heavy-lidded eyes until the figure was upon him.
“You have made it far, my child.”
Serge rolled his eyes upwards to see the distinctive face of Dikembe Mutombo. “This isn’t real,” he mumbled through frozen lips.
“It’s real to me,” the Oracle of Blocked shots replied with a deep laugh. “I saw you coming from a long way away, so while you went up, I went down, and now we have met.”
Unable to get to his feet, Serge instead tried to prop himself upright against the rock. “I need your secrets, master. My block numbers are down.” Even as he spoke these words, he could feel his consciousness fading in and out like a rolling ocean upon a beach.
The Oracle stooped down and waved a finger in Serge’s face. “Block totals are not indicative of good individual defense,” he said. Then, suddenly, the Oracle was gone, vanished into the raging blizzard.
“Wait…” Serge murmured. “Help me get down…”
The only response was another deep laugh, a laugh which echoed and reverberated off the falling snow. Then, even that faded, and Serge was alone once again. When the storm finally overtook him, however, he was at peace, for he knew that his lowered block totals merely indicated fewer blocked shots, rather than reduced defensive ability…