“Hey Steph, Carl, Kent, you guys, come check this out! I’ve hit 25 in a row!”
Klay’s teammates ambled over to where the sharpshooter was draining threes from the top of the key. He continued, “I feel like I could shoot these all day. I’m in the zone!” as he splashed another one. Nothing but net. Oracle Arena itself seemed to quiver in anticipation of the next three-pointer of impeccable purity.
“I’d like to see you hit fifty dawg. Even this rook can hit 25 on a good day,” Kent Bazemore teased. Klay laughed.
“No way Baze, you suck ass at threes. Anyway, I’ve never gotten fifty before. I bet Ray Allen himself never even did that. But I’m going to keep shooting these until I miss.”
He sunk the next fifteen with ease. His teammates were whooping and hollering each time the ball ripped into the twine. After the fortieth, they all heard a noise which sounded a bit like the groaning of an overtaxed roof support. Carl Landry looked up. “That didn’t sound too good.” He then looked back at Klay. “But keep shootin’ them my man, you almost at the magic fifty!”
Stephen Curry held up a hand. “Wait. I’m trying to remember something my pa told me. I feel like there’s some reason why you shouldn’t keep shooting. Like, the building itself can’t withstand the unstoppable ease at which Klay’s sinking these threes. It might really be the ‘magic’ fifty.”
Klay scoffed. “Don’t be superstitious Steph. It’s just a really windy day today.” As if to prove his confidence, he drained another shot. They all listened for any odd sounds, but there was no sound but Joe the training assistant dribbling the ball, waiting to pass it back to Klay for another attempt. “See? Nothing bad will happen. Except maybe me rubbing it in all your faces that I hit fifty.”
Klay hit eight more with precision, none of them even grazing rim. One more, and Klay would have his fifty.
“Klay, man,” Steph started, “I really don’t think you should shoot this one.” His voice was quavering slightly. “We all know you can make it. We’ll even tell everybody that you got fifty. Don’t shoot that ball man.”
Totally unconcerned, Klay responded only by shooting the ball.
Swish.
Victorious, Klay turned around to engage in some good-natured gloating and showmanship. “Aw yeah baby, fifty threes in a row! I bet you wish-” he stopped as a piece of brick hit him in the head. “Ouch!” he exclaimed, rubbing the impact point. “What was that?”
As they watched, pieces of the arena began to fall from above them onto the floor below.
“Maybe we better get out of here,” Kent suggested nervously, as a large steel support beam crashed through the entire B5 section of seats and the glass of the luxury boxes started to spontaneously crack.
Five minutes later, the four ballers stood outside of Oracle Arena and watched in awe as the roof caved in. “I hope everybody got out okay,” Carl mused. “It seems as if Steph was right. You shouldn’t have shot that last three pointer.”
Klay was fiddling with the sunglasses in his pocket. “I guess,” he began, nervously. “I guess that last three pointer…”
He put on the sunglasses.
“Brought the house down.”
YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH