“Come find me, Luka,” Dirk Nowitzki whispered into Luka Doncic’s ear as Luka patiently answered questions from the flock of reporters that surrounded his locker. “After these guys leave.” Luka subtly nodded to let Dirk know he understood, and as Dirk retreated to his own locker to answer comparatively fewer questions, Luka wondered what Dirk wanted him for.
—
The locker room was quieter in the absence of the media personnel. Luka, having finally gotten the chance to shed his sweaty game jersey and take a quick shower, was feeling refreshed and enlivened. He ambled over to Dirk’s locker, where Dirk was sitting alone, seemingly deep in thought. “What’s up, Dirk?”
Rather than smiling at the rookie, which was his usual response to seeing Luka, Dirk was stern. Maybe stern wasn’t quite the right word. Distracted might have been more like it. “Follow me,” Dirk said, standing up from his seat and walking out of the locker room. Luka followed.
“Where are we going?” Luka asked curiously. They had quickly reached hallways of the American Airlines Center that he had not previously traversed. Meanwhile, Dirk was traveling the unknown corridors with the confidence that came with being a Maverick for two decades.
“You’ll see,” Dirk answered cryptically. Luka tried to think of what could possibly be found here, deep in the recesses of the arena, but couldn’t think of anything. A secret player’s only lounge? A harem of beautiful women? The office of a ticket agent who was known to supply delicious peanut butter cookies to all visiting players? None of those ideas seemed plausible.
Eventually, they reached a door. It was different in character from the bland office-type doors in the rest of the building: it was roughly fashioned from wooden planks and looked very out of place. “Go ahead. Open it,” Dirk said, still with no trace of his usual joviality.
Luka reached over and opened the door. The hinges creaked loudly, and it almost seemed like a cloud of dust was disturbed from it’s years-long resting place. A stairway led down into oily blackness which Luka was reluctant to enter without a light, so he got out his phone to lead the way. Together, the two teammates descended the old wooden stairs into the underbelly of the arena.
“This place was built on an old Spanish mission,” Dirk explained. “What we’re entering now are the ruins of the original structure. Some people say there are ghosts down here.” For the first time in their postgame conversations, he chuckled. “Actually, only I say that. Because I’m the only one who has ever found this place.”
They had reached the bottom of the stairs. Ancient brick hallways and arches were in various states of decrepitude. Somehow, there were torches lining the walls that were still lit, as if burning an infinite fuel. Luka turned off his phone, no longer needing the light. The two stood in silence for some time, experiencing the mystery-shrouded ancientness of it.
“This place holds many secrets,” Dirk said suddenly, causing Luka to jump in surprise. “Some are not meant to be known. Some of them are. I will leave you to discern one from the other.”
Luka, who had continued to look in wonderment at it all, turned around to ask Dirk a question. But Dirk, somehow, had disappeared. “Dirk? Dirk?” Luka inquired, his voice echoing off the walls in mockery of an answer. “Dirk?” Again, only echoes. He was alone.