Tomas Satoransky sat with his head in his hands as he listened to yet another screaming match between John Wall and Bradley Beal. Tomas had thought that the bullet wound in John’s leg, which had been put there courtesy of one Gilbert Arenas, would have calmed his demeanor somewhat, but this was apparently not the case.
“WE’RE WAY BETTER WITH YOU SITTING THERE ON THE BENCH IN THAT FRUIT-SUIT OF YOURS!” Bradley yelled. “SATO’S TEN TIMES THE PLAYER YOU ARE!”
Tomas cringed as his name was brought into the discussion. Every argument before this had strictly been between John and Bradley and based on the shortcomings they perceived in each other. Sometimes Dwight would make an appearance also. But that was it; just those three.
“Sato agrees with me, don’t you, Sato?” Bradley said in an uncommonly calm voice, given that John was literally hyperventilating with rage behind him.
“No comment,” Tomas said, remembering Coach Brook’s request that Tomas set a good example in the locker room by not engaging with aggressive teammates.
“YOU THINK YOU’RE BETTER THAN ME, HUH?” John screamed, stomping over to where Tomas sat and leaning over to stare him down. “IF YOU THINK IT, MAN, WHY DON’T YOU SAY IT TO MY FACE?”
Tomas felt threatened by his teammate’s actions, but sat still rather than shrinking away, even though an uncomfortable amount of spittle was flying from John’s mouth and hitting Tomas in the face. “I don’t think that at all,” he replied.
“Square up, bitch,” John said, taking a step back and getting into a fighting stance, his fists held up and ready to swing. “Don’t be a bitch. Square up.” When Tomas didn’t “square up”, and instead just continued to sit passively at his locker, John decided that he didn’t want to wait any longer for a fight. “We’ll see who’s a better player when I smash your jaw so hard your teeth come out your nose.”
Seeing that a fight was inevitably going to occur, Tomas couldn’t withhold his snarky commentary any longer. “I thought that Gilbert putting a few holes in you would shut you up, but I guess not.” At this, John bellowed in incoherent rage, but just as he was throwing his first fist, Bradley came up from behind swung a baseball bat of unknown origin up towards the sensitive place in between John’s legs.
“OW! MY BALLS!” John wailed, clutching his destroyed testicles as he dropped to his knees. “It was a trap!” Nearby teammates clapped and hollered at the carnage, as they always did.
Bradley now was standing next to Tomas, absentmindedly slapping the bat against his palm and grabbing it, over and over. “So, Tomas,” he casually started. “Trevor says you think you’re a better scorer than me?”
Tomas again put his head in his hands, and, not for the first time, he wondered if he should ask his agent to demand a trade.