Nicolas Laprovittola, his footfalls guided by a compulsion of unknown origin, stumbled through the marsh, each step more tiresome than the last. Greenish water, thick with muck, lay still under the cloudy sky. Drooping trees and tangled vines stymied his every effort to navigate to… somewhere. The end goal of this journey was a mystery. All he knew is that his body wouldn’t let him stop, though all his mind demanded rest.
Endlessly he trudged. How far he had traveled, he did not know. Distance was only an abstract concept in this repetetive land. It was growing darker, he could tell now, the greens and browns of the swamp merging into a dull grey. Soon it would be night, and the sounds of whatever lived here were growing louder…
Suddenly, he noticed something off in the distance, an outcropping of rock that seemed to be, if not of human origin, at least touched by human hands. This was his goal, he knew, and the force that compelled him forward was ignored by his own will. Soon he stood at the base of it. What he had perceived to be so small was in fact a gigantic ruin, a hundred feet high at least. And a ruin it was; there were carvings and ornamentations on the stone, but they were badly worn, destroyed by the harsh environment.
“I have brought you here for a reason” rang a voice, not his own, throughout his consciousness.
Nicolas backed away from the ruin, afraid of having awakened some malefic spirit.
“Do not be afraid. Nothing here will harm you.” spoke the voice, sensing his fear.
“What is this place. Why am I here?” Nicolas asked, his voice quickly disippating in the dense air.
“This is the physical representation of the Golden Generation of Argentine Basketball. It was once a glorious monument to all your countrymen’s accomplishments, a manifestation of their abilities.”
“It looks so old…”
“Yes. As Manu Ginobili’s sixth-man talents faded, as Carlos Delfino dropped out of the league, as Luis Scola was reduced to a benchwarmer on the Nets, so to did the Golden Temple lose its former glory. I, deemed to be the patron of the temple, have also seen my own power wane. I don’t want to die, Nicolas…”
“Let me help!”
“That is why I have brought you here.” A hole broke in the clouds, illuminating the temple and Nicolas with a blinding golden light. Nicolas squinted and shielded his eyes in the intense glare. As he stood, he felt his weariness leave him, his spirits buoyed by the glow of the sun.
The voice spoke for the last time. “You have the power, Nicolas. You must return Argentina to it’s Golden Age of Basketball. You must succeed, or I will be lost… forever…”
“Wait!”
The clouds closed again, returning the marsh to its former dreariness. But the journey back did not seem so arduous, now. He would return to his home, and he would return Argentina to its former glory.