Page 6 of Loving the Legend
“Thanks!” I shout as I race back to my teammates.
The rest of the night goes by in a blur of celebration—though nothing, not my winner’s high, booze, or the gorgeous girls filling our dorm, comes close to topping the exhilaration of seeing Sid for a few seconds.
***
During my freshman year, I became the fifth player to win Big 12 Player of the Year and Big 12 Freshman of the Year in the same season. The awards are given to the most outstanding player in the Big 12 Conference, a group of ten, originally twelve, universities that compete at the NCAA Division I level.
The most recent player to win both in the same season was Sid. It, of course, led sports broadcasters to launch a comparison of us. The truth is, we couldn’t be more different. For one, there hasn’t been a player more hyped in the league than Sid, which, of course, created enormous pressure for him. The thing is, despite all the hype, Sid delivered. During his rookie professional season, he averaged twenty-two points, six assists, and seven rebounds. Stats that I’ve memorized and hope to beat one day. Named Rookie of the Year, his game has only improved with each passing season.
Where I’m lean and agile, Sid is pure muscle and a powerhouse on the court. He hits threes with ease and defends the rim effortlessly. It’s hard to defend him without getting physical, which leads to him getting fouled often, sending him to the free-throw line every quarter. Off the court, he’s a bachelor, successful investor, and activist. He dates around, always a famous supermodel or celebrity, most recently linked to Katrina, a mononymous A-list actress.
People Magazine voted him the Sexiest Man Alive last year. There’s a spread in the issue with him sitting down naked with only a basketball covering his groin. A picture of it damn near broke the internet. Ultra-defined muscles, rippled abs, highcheekbones, rich brown skin, and the most magnetic chestnut brown eyes. Half of the men covering his career either want to fuck or be him, but they’d eat their hearts before they’d ever admit it.
Separate from his nine-figure league contract, he’s signed multi-million dollar endorsements and made it known that he plans to own a basketball team one day. As a vocal activist, he lends his voice and money to numerous causes. The dude’s lived up to all the hype and then some. I haven’t achieved anything remotely close. I’ve been rocking the same pair of worn-in black and gray Jordan 1 Retro sneakers all year. I drive Uncle Adam’s ancient Toyota Camry around campus. The car conks out if I go above eighty miles per hour. I haven’t funded or sat on boards for organizations making a difference in the world. I don’t have five seasons of pro ball under my belt. It’s bonkers for us even to be mentioned in the same sentence.
Personality-wise, I’m painted as poised, introverted, and haunted by the death of my parents, and it’s not untrue. During my sophomore year, a sports profile was published on me by a reputable journalist. He described my ability to nail pull-up three-pointers from deep while in transition as some of the prettiest basketball seen in decades. My teammates started clowning me by calling me “Pretty Boy.” The nickname quickly spread around campus. Once ladies got a hold of it, its meaning became more about my looks than my game.
While I’m most comfortable in a T-shirt and ripped skinny jeans, Sid rocks the latest runway fashion. He made headlines when he wore a version of a skort, a combination of a skirt and shorts, with a ripped tank revealing a pierced nipple, a skinny tie, and leather combat boots. His muscular hamstrings and calves were…memorable. Since then, there have been endless copycats of men in skorts, but none could pull it off quite likehim. Coupled with his original style, he has an innate elegance you can’t curate or copy.
I haven’t been able to shake the wonder of seeing him at my game. If I don’t get drafted, I’ll never find out why he was there. But there’s so much more than that at stake. I need to become who I promised my parents I would. I need to make them proud. Nothing can ever matter more than honoring them and their sacrifices.
CHAPTER TWO
To say it surprised anyone when I announced my plans to enter the NBA draft would be untrue. Whatissurprising is the fact analysts regard me as the consensus number one draft pick. It’s rare for a college senior to be the top pick in the NBA. It's so rare—it hasn’t happened in the last fifteen years. The belief is that the earlier a player enters the league, the sooner they can begin training at a high level to reach their potential. The older a player, the more prone they are to injury. It was important to my parents that I finished college. If they were alive, I would have negotiated entering the draft after my freshman year, which is more common. But I didn’t have that choice. So, I stayed in school, trained hard, and worked my ass off on the court.
The LA Knights won the lottery and have the first pick, and that’s the team I want to join. Nothing prepares you for draft day. Adam and I flew to Chicago to join nineteen other players invited to attend the Blue Room at the United Center. An invitation is a positive sign that you’ll get picked in the draft’s first round, but it isn’t a guarantee. You drop to the second round if you’re not picked in the first. Teams pay considerablyless to second-round picks, at least initially, and often use them as pawns in franchise trade negotiations.
I can barely keep my protein shake down because my body is so out of whack from the nerves. For as long as I can remember, my only goal’s been to make it to the league, become an elite player, and become the man who would make my parents proud. If I don’t make the first draft round, I'll never be able to live with myself.
“I need a second, Unc,” I say to Adam, gesturing for him to follow me. I find an empty stairwell and lean against the wall.
“Still sick?” He reaches inside his pocket and pulls out a pack of gum. “Here, chew on this.”
“Thanks. My body can’t figure out if it wants to barf or crap.”
The sugary mint helps to wipe out the taste of the protein shake, settling the nausea a bit.
“You remember that Halloween when we went trick or treatin’, and you ate so many of those red jelly beans you barfed up red goo all over my couch?”
I burst out laughing. “Don’t remind me. I can’t even look at them without being queasy.”
“I still don’t know how your mom knew you’d been sick when I dropped you off the next day.” A distant awe settles into his features.
“She had a sixth sense for that kind of thing. Sometimes, Dad or I came home sick, and there’d already be soup on the stove. She’d always say—”
“I had a feeling you weren’t feeling well,” Adam interjects.
“Yeah, exactly!”
“When you were a toddler and had a stomach ache, she’d press your belly against her own to—as she put it—absorb your pain. I was skeptical at first, but it worked. You’d fall asleep in her arms and wake up feeling better.”
I grin. “She used to tell me that story, but I’m not sure I ever believed it.”
“Believe it! I saw it with my own eyes.”
“She was a sorceress or something.” I shake my head.
“A healer. When your grandpa Malcolm passed, I was so angry, I pushed everyone away. Rose showed up at the house one evening with a casserole and a bottle of Macallan. She didn’t fear my rage. I’m not even sure she saw rage, only my pain. She poured us both a glass and before I knew it, she had me cracked open. We laughed together, recalling memories of Dad, and then we cried. She said that tears are the overflow of a brimming heart. I never forgot that.”
