https://youtu.be/gmVfSM-GKsY
Nassir Little was sitting on a stone bench, strangely not feeling any sense of panic even though the situation definitely called for it.
Many minutes prior, he had awoken in this strange place that seemed to go on forever. It was like a grand hall with no beginning and no end. The golden sunlight which filtered through the clouds cast a pleasing warmth over his body – maybe that was why he wasn’t as concerned for his well-being as he should have been. It was like being a newborn baby, held safe and cozy against mom’s chest.
Closing his eyes, he rested his head against the gray stone wall behind him, and it wasn’t as uncomfortable as he would have thought. After having spent entirely too much time walking without making any discernible progress towards the hall’s endpoint, it was nice to relax and not worry about anything. That was the paradox of this place; it was a worrying departure from everything he thought he knew about the nature of reality, but, while he was there, it seemed impossible to feel any anxiety at all.
When he next opened his eyes, Nassir found that he was wearing an extremely soft white robe on his previously naked body, and that an unknown man was sitting next to him on the bench.
“You’re going to have to leave. You don’t belong here,” said the Latin-complexioned man in a gentle, but firm, voice.
“Who are you, and where is ‘here’?” Nassir asked. The appearance of the man had surprised him. Up until that point, he had thought that he was the only mortal soul alive in this unexplained realm.
“My name is Carlos Delfino, and I am the appointed guardian of The Hall of the Thirty Point Scorers,” answered the man. “Now you must go before The Overseers bring down their wrath upon us. I don’t know how you got here, but you can’t possibly be allowed to stay, or it puts all of us in grave peril.”
Nassir’s mind was slowly processing Carlos’ words. So he was in some kind of exclusive club for high-scoring NBA players? Where were Dame and CJ? And why was he being kicked out? “Hold on. I did score thirty points.”
“You’re Nassir Little, right?” Carlos asked, pulling out a large scroll of parchment and putting on a small pair of glasses so that he could read the words scrawled on it in impossibly small handwriting.
“That’s me.”
Carlos looked sternly at Nassir over his glasses. “We’ve got a career high of twelve points for you.”
Nassir wasn’t sure if he was currently dreaming or what, but he was absolutely sure that his thirty-point night against the Bucks had been anything but a dream. “You gotta update your list. I definitely just scored thirty.”
“Do not treat me like a fool. No player jumps from twelve points to thirty. It simply does not happen. If you have an official boxscore which confirms your unlikely, and certainly fabricated, tale, I will reconsider my decision to banish you from this sacred hall.”
Nassir reached into the pockets of his robe, looking for his phone but not finding it. However, his fingers did brush up against a square of cardstock, which he pulled out. Looking at it closer, he saw that it was a neatly-printed boxscore of the game he had just played in. Somehow, Adam Silver’s signature was on it. “Uh, here you go,” he said, handing the card to Carlos.
Carlos looked at it, nodded curtly once, and sighed. “Very well. You are permitted to stay.” He stood up and walked away without another word, once again leaving Nassir all alone.
Nassir gladly watched him leave. He had decided that the Hall was best enjoyed alone. As he slipped back into a relaxed, semi-awake state, he wondered if anybody would believe him when he told them about it.