Dirk Nowitzki stealthily made his way to the furthest corner of the American Airlines Center. Here, there was a forbidden door; he opened it and proceeded down the stairs that were revealed to him: the stairs that led to the remnants of the old Spanish mission upon which the arena had been built.
Dirk wandered the corridors of the original early-1700s structure. It was a great place to do some thinking without interference; now, he located a bench in the former chapel and sat down. He began to ponder his latest question: why did big-name free agents consistently and unequivocally reject Dallas as a playing destination? What was the organization doing wrong? Whose fault was it?
“Why?” Dirk mumbled to the dusty emptiness. “Why?”
Suddenly, there was a metallic clanking sound from his left. Dirk sat straight up; there had never before been any indication that something else lived down here, not even rats or cockroaches. As Dirk watched, a spectral apparition stepped through the solid brick wall and stood in front of him.
“I have watched you come here for many years, Dirk Nowitzki,” said the apparition, who was clad in armor reminiscent of 16th-century Spanish conquistadors. The armor jangled when he moved, despite the man’s semi-transparent appearance. He carried with him a sword that, not being solid, did not seem to pose much of a threat.
Many questions had come to Dirk’s mind; he started with the obvious ones. “Who are you you? And how do you know me?”
“I know everything that happens here,” the ghost replied. “But it was rude of me to not introduce myself. My name was, and is, Vasco de Bastidas, and I am the original discoverer of the lands that are now called Dallas.”
“Why have I never seen you before?” Dirk asked. “I have visited this place many times in the past two decades.”
“You summoned me with your murmured questions,” Vasco answered, setting the point of his sword on the ground and leaning on it lightly. “I have long observed you, Dirk, but always in my invisible form, waiting for you to speak. This has always been your place for your quiet contemplation, but just now, you disturbed the silence for the first time.”
The reason for coming here returned to Dirk. “Why do free agents always refuse us? Year after year, we consent to loading our roster with mediocre players who are undesired by other teams.” Dirk asked this question not expecting a satisfactory answer, considering that it pertained to a sport that postdated Vasco by several centuries.
“It is simple, Dirk,” Vasco said. “It is a curse brought upon the Mavericks organization when they defiled the very ruins in which you and I currently stand.”
Dirk looked around at the chapel. How many souls had been awoken by the desecration of this sacred place? “But you’re not one of them,” Dirk said suddenly. “You are from an earlier time the Catholic missionaries. What is your place in this saga?”
“I chose to reside here when construction on the arena commenced. Before, I had been an aimless wanderer.” Vasco paused and stared off into the distance. “It gave me new purpose to wait in these decrepit passageways, waiting to give my warning.”
“Warning?” Dirk repeated. “Of what? There is nothing to be done. The arena will never be moved and the curse can never be lifted. We are doomed to be a free-agency backwater for all eternity.”
“There is a second warning I must give you,” Vasco replied, his voice suddenly becoming cold. He lifted his sword and pointed it at Dirk’s chest, and Dirk noted with increasing worry that the weapon seemed to be very solid indeed. “Mortals are not welcome here. You have received your answer; now you will receive your death, and the solitude of my own death will never again be interrupted.”
Dirk ran and was pursued. Simultaneously, all the walls of the mission were consumed by fire, but there was no apparent source of ignition. Dodging the searing flame, Dirk tried to navigate back to the stairs leading to the surface, but all the landmarks he was familiar with were obscured. Behind him, he could here the rattling of Vasco’s ghostly armor.
Finally, Dirk reached the stairs. Tired from running and weak from smoke inhalation, he stumbled up the steps, no longer hearing any sounds of his pursuer. As he reached the door to the arena hallway, however, he was stopped. Vasco had emerged from the wall and blocked the exit with his sword.
“Now you die,” Vasco snarled, thrusting the blade at Dirk’s chest.
Dirk dodged to the right and lunged for the doorknob. He was afraid he would miss it, but he managed to knock his hand into it and swing the door open as he fell the floor.
“NOOOO!” Vasco shouted, and as Dirk watched, the specter’s form was ripped apart as if by a violent wind. He was gone.
Breathing heavily, Dirk remained on the floor for some time. Vasco de Bastida had been finally banished, but at what cost? And what of the free-agency curse?