Michael Carter-Williams tossed and turned, his sleep troubled by dreams that were not truly his own.
“Who are you?” asked the dreamer.
“Who do you think I am?” replied the dream-being.
“You look like an NBA player. Well, kind of. Your jersey number and color seem to keep changing and your facial features are ever-shifting.”
“This is my indeterminate form. Here, let me make it easier for you.” The dream-being shimmered and gained concreteness.
“Reggie Miller! What are you doing in my oneiric landscape?”
“I wanted to congratulate you on a stellar NBA debut. A very impressive series of games, I must say. And just between you and me, I saw both LeBron James and Derrick Rose crying after the losses at your hand. Being a manifestation of dreams has its benefits. Hold on, someone else wants to talk to you.” The dream-being shifted again, this time to an unfamiliar face.
“You don’t look familiar at all. Are you future me?”
“No, of course not. Time does not work in that manner. In fact, you mortal creatures have a very funny idea about the nature of time. But that is beside the point. My birth name was Olivier Saint-Jean. Later I took the name Tariq Abdul-Wahad. I, too, wanted to offer my congratulations. You’ve had a better string of three games than I ever put together. You are a joy to the game of basketball.” For the third time the manifestation changed itself.
“Big Shot Bob! The greatest role player of all time!”
“Watch who you’re calling a role player, rook. Count the rings.” The oneiroform then reverted to its original state.
“Do you not know yet who we are?”
“NBA players of yore?”
“Yes, but more than that. We are the 11th overall picks. And we come to give you guidance. Faces flashed before Carter-Williams’ vision: Kiki Vandeweghe, JJ Redick, Fat Lever, Cole Aldrich, Jerome Moiso, and others. “We have lent you our strength. Some of us became Hall-of-Famers. Some of us did not make it in the NBA. It is up to you to choose your own path.”
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