Jamal Crawford sprinted through the halls of American Airlines center. Whenever an arena employee or team personnel half-heartedly tried to get in his way to stop him, he just brushed them out of the way. Nobody would stop him from reaching his goal. Far behind him, he could hear the echoing sounds of many footsteps, likely belonging to teammates who had sniffed out his plan, but Jamal knew he would get there before a younger, speedier teammate could catch up to him.
There was just one man standing in front of the door of the home team’s locker room. When he saw the crazed look in Jamal’s eyes, he stepped silently aside, allowing access. Jamal nodded to him and gave a courteous “thank you” before ripping the door open and running inside.
The locker room was jubilant in celebration, and, at the center of it all stood Dirk Nowitzki, damp from having various liquids poured on him. So intense was the celebration that nobody noticed that a player from the opposing team had entered the locker room uninvited. Acting like he belonged, he wandered over to the throng of players and joined them in their improvised party, where music was loudly playing from somebody’s phone and various Mavericks players were jumping up and down and hollering.
After a few seconds, Dwight Powell noticed Jamal’s presence. “Hey, get out of here!” he yelled, shoving Jamal out of the group. The raucous behavior of the Mavericks players came to an abrupt halt as they looked towards whoever it was that Dwight was yelling at. Immediately, there was an outbreak of violent pushing and barked threats, but Jamal was unfazed by this. He knew what would happen next.
“Hey, calm down! Hey! CALM DOWN!” Dirk yelled over the commotion, and due to the respect he commanded from his teammates, they complied. “You’re here to see me, Jamal?” he continued, speaking directly and calmly to the interloper.
“Who else?” Jamal replied. “I don’t care about the rest of these scrubs.”
“Watch who you’re calling a scrub!” Dwight yelled with renewed fury, but further words were prevented by Dirk’s calming hand on his teammate’s shoulder.
“Now, Dwight, he has earned the right to call you a scrub,” Dirk said sagely. “He is the one who scored fifty against the best efforts of our defense, after all.” Dirk redirected his attention towards Jamal. “You resent that my success overshadowed yours, do you not, Jamal?”
“I do.” Jamal answered simply. That Dirk’s thirty-point game was treated with more reverence than his own fifty-point game, despite the fact that both of them were near the end of their respective careers, was what had driven him to seek Dirk out in the first place.
“Your postgame congratulations, then, were just as hollow as I expected them to be. I believe, now, we must settle this dispute the old-fashioned way,” Dirk continued, with no change in the tone of his voice.
Jamal nodded, his gaze constantly flicking towards Dirk’s congregated teammates in case he was ambushed. “I believe so.” He cracked his knuckles, then flexed his fingers into fists.
At this, Dwight and several other of the Mavericks players visibly bristled, but Dirk again commanded calm. “Clear out, give us some space,” he said to them, peeling off his sweaty game jersey. “These two old guys need to settle this themselves.” Dirk’s teammates reluctantly moved out to the edges of the room, unable to disobey the man who had played for the team for two decades and had brought a championship to the city of Dallas.
Jamal rose his fists. Dirk did the same. They stepped closer together, neither breaking eye contact with the other. There was silence. Waiting. Watching.
Then, simultaneously, the fists were lowered as the two men pulled each other into a hug. As the collective held breath of the spectators were released, the two NBA veterans slapped each other on the back. “Fifty points! Damn!” Dirk exclaimed. “I don’t know how you still move like that!”
“Thirty’s not too bad for a nursing home patient!” Jamal replied. “And who needs to move when you can splash jumpers over anybody?”
The Mavericks players turned back to their lockers, clearly feeling that they were observing a private moment. Jamal finally disengaged the hug and put his hands on his hips. “You can’t retire, man. Not while I’m still going strong.”
“We’ll see,” Dirk said with a cryptic smile. “But you’ve definitely got another fifty-burger coming next season. I feel it.”
“Yeah, maybe.” Jamal said, evading eye contact for the first time that night. He felt slightly guilty about what he was going to do, but it couldn’t be avoided. “Whatever happens, it’s been great playing against you.” With these final, ingratiating words, he quickly formed his right hand into a fist and lashed out with it, popping Dirk square in the jaw when he was least expecting it.
Jamal barely had time to see Dirk dropping to the floor, unconscious, before he ran back out the door. The old man had been taught a valuable lesson: fifty was more than thirty.