Serge’s heartbeat quickened. Blake Griffin was posting him up aggressively, trying to get by for a layup or dunk. It was clear that he wasn’t going to pass the ball. Now was the time for Serge’s plan. There would be no better opportunity.
At the first sign of Blake making his move, Serge stuck out his elbow, right in the path of Blake’s face. The effect was expected: Blake’s nose made clean contact. As he stumbled, stunned by the blow, and play came to a stop, Serge pretended that he hadn’t meant to do it, that Blake, if anybody, was the one to blame for his own bloodied nose.
As they re-huddled for the official’s timeout, Kevin Durant pulled Serge to the side. “Hey, that was a good idea. If he’s not gonna pay attention to your jumpers, physically assaulting him is sure to work.”
Serge frowned. “Yeah, but look at him. He’s just angry with me. There’s no affection in his eyes, only fierce competitiveness. I just want to be friends, but he pretends that I don’t exist.”
Kevin patted his teammate on the shoulder. “He’s just putting on an act. Everybody knows the most bro thing you can do with your bro is rough him up a little bit. He’s definitely down to be bros with you, but you gotta put yourself out there. Next time you foul him, stick out your hand like you’re gonna help him up, then when he reaches for it, snatch it back.”
Serge shook his head in confusion. “Making friends is hard. You’re sure I shouldn’t just approach him after the game and start talking about banging chicks?”
“You have to play hard-to-get. Then you’ll be even tighter bros. Love thine enemy or whatever,” Kevin responded. “You don’t want to drive him away by jumping right into the chick-banging stuff.”
“I’ll trust you man. You are the MVP,” Serge said. “But after several years of positional rivalry, he’s never even smiled at me.”
Kevin waved off his teammate’s concerns. “It’s working. Trust me.”