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They were one basket away from making their first trip to the playoffs. Time was winding down and he had received a pass on a fast break. Adrenaline shot through him, he was about to be a hero. He shot through the lane and launched himself at the basket, monster dunk en route.

 

            Bam!

 

Then the harshest of whistles.

 

Agony and disbelief. A sprawled-out opponent on the hardwood.

 

Charging! In the bonus. Two shots. Golf.

 

He had a reputation as a bull in a china shop. Strong. Powerful. But not the best at contorting to avoid contact in the paint. It was a sore spot now, and he was determined to add something new to his repertoire.

 

He eschewed the off season. He called it extended practice. He was working on something special. Deceptive. Surprising.

 

The first games of the new season played out in similar fashion. They were winning at a decent pace, but he was still picking up those nasty charging fouls as he powered to the hole. The fans were questioning if he’d ever learn following the crushing disappointment last season.

 

He wasn’t worried. He was, as they like to say in poker, telling a story. Making his opponents believe that he was the same blind, hard-charging bull. But he was patient. It was hard, but he wanted to make sure that it wouldn’t be easy for his opponents to adjust to what he was going to reveal.

 

It was two games after the all-star break and it was time.

 

They were at home against the team that had eliminated them last season. The stakes weren’t as high as that final game a season ago, but it was just as contested and tight.

 

The guy he was defending tried to be cute flashing ankle-breaker crossovers. His hand flashed and tipped the ball between the hotdogger’s legs causing him to fall and flail trying to recover the lost rock.

 

It was on.

           

Fast break.

 

He sprinted down the court with the ball, determination set on his face.

 

One defender had made it back. He had an outlet pass to a streaking teammate across from him, but the defender didn’t bite. He saw that look on his face that said, “It’s all me!” and set up outside the restricted zone under the basket daring him to drive.

 

It looked like he had taken the bait as he bore down the left side of the lane, shoulders squared to the basket.

 

The defender braced himself for contact, feet wide, arms crossed at the pelvis.

 

The crowd was hushed in anticipation.

 

He planted his take-off at the high post and jumped …

 

Sideways.

           

The thing he had been working on diligently, obsessively, blood sweatingly:

 

The Side Glide.

 

His elbows cocked, locked and loaded, behind his head.

 

The defender stood statuesque, eyes closed, waiting to be crushed.

           

Then.

 

            Bam!

 

The sweet solid slam of metal ripped the air as he powered the ball, two handed, hard through the rim.

 

The crowd erupted in power-dunk joy.

 

He swung side-to-side from the basket and dropped down next to the stunned defender.

 

He smiled at him and winked. “Did you really sleep on me, bruh?”

 

He smiled as he high-fived his way back to defense.

 

Things were different now.

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