Steven Adams sat in the locker room and stared at his shoes, which were sitting in his duffel bag. He knew there was some special way to put them on, something to do with the strings that were on them, but he couldn’t remember what. His brain felt cloudy and every time he felt close to forming a concrete thought, it slipped away from him. Picking up a shoe, he looked closely at its shape, then started trying to put it on his foot.
“Uh, dude, you’re putting the shoe on the wrong foot,” supplied Russell Westbrook, who had just arrived for the game.
“Wha…huh?” Steven replied, confused and startled by the advice his teammate had just given him. “Oh.” He switched the shoe to the other foot and managed to slide it in. Acting on muscle memory, he grabbed the laces in both hands, but he stopped there. He didn’t know how to continue. The frustration built up in his mind, but it was dulled by sluggish confusion.
“You sure you okay after your concussion? You seem a little out of it,” Russell asked.
Searching for something easy he could do to prove that he was just fine, Steven grabbed his jersey and threw it on. “Yeah. I’m good,” he reassured. “I can definitely play.”
“You gotta take off your t-shirt before you put your jersey on,” Russell pointed out.
“I know that,” replied Steven testily. “I’m just testing to make sure it still fits.” He removed his jersey and t-shirt, then put the jersey back on, double-checking that it was facing the right way. He bent back down to address his shoes, then remembered the reason that he had abandoned them in the first place. He sat back up. “What’s the strategy, Russ? How do we beat these guys?”
Russell smiled. “I pass you the ball and you dunk it.”
“Yeah. Dunk it.” Steven didn’t remember what dunking was but couldn’t tell his teammate that. His head pounded with an intense headache and the bright lights of the locker room were bothering his eyes. “Good plan. The Pistons don’t stand a chance.”
“Pelicans,” Russell corrected. “You sure you good?”
Steven stood up, annoyed. “I’m good. I’m gonna go get taped up.” He couldn’t recall where to go to get “taped up”, or who was going to do it for him, but he had to get away from his overly concerned and obviously suspicious teammate.
Walking through a random doorway, then another, then another, he quickly became hopelessly lost in the unfamiliar Smoothie King Center. The disorientation made his headache worse, and he slumped down to sit against a wall. “I’m good…I’m good…” he whispered, before falling to the side in a state of semi-consciousness. “Let me play, coach…”