Chapter Text
I kind of wanted to see the Denver's first game of the playoffs, but it was three hours before the start of the game and I was stuck in the merchandise shop inside the arena. I stood next to rows and rows of t-shirts, hats, and jerseys. I resigned myself to the fate of being surrounded by Denver merchandise where, a wall away, the team would be playing to the thunderous roars of ten-thousand fans.
"Of course", I thought, "Better me than any of my coworkers. They must be really crazy about the team. It'd be a lot worse for them."
Most fans don't enter the arena three hours early. I didn't have much to do - there weren't many people passing by. Which is why I noticed a man, thirty or so feet away from the shop, standing perfectly still, and - what was that pose? Arms spread wide, crouching slightly, legs firm. He looked like he was about to leap to catch a rebound, filled with tension and alertness, like a kid whose coach had just yelled "Where's your effort? Box out!". War flashbacks? Mime? Needed to take a shit really bad? Whatever the reason, I decided this wasn't normal.
"Hello, sir? Is everything alright?" I said as I approached the man.
He turned his head to look at me (look down at me - wow, this guy could be taller than Jokic).
"Yes, I am fine. Thank you for your concern."
"Ok, but what you doing?"
"I'm Defending."
Ok. Sure. This had to be Rudy Gobert, or a really bad caricature of him. This was absurd.
On his still-outstretched arm, his right hand was holding a cone with a half-eaten scoop of what looked like plain vanilla ice cream. It was melting just a little bit.
"I thought I'd give myself a treat before the game," he said. "I went over to one of your booths and bought what I thought would be a simple pleasure. But this… This ice cream is my enemy. It burns harshly, as if a great sandstorm enveloped the world, sucked all its moisture away and left it dry and dessicated, a burning desert of death and decay. I must stay strong. I must be a stone wall, unmovable against the most powerful of threats. I must persevere! I won't let the children down!"
"I, uh… Do you feel any tightness on your throat? Are you allergic to dairy? I… I think I'm going to call the medical staff now, or an ambulance, or-"
"No. This is no allergic reaction. Try the ice cream and know my pain."
Now I've done more stupid things in the past, but this was not my best moment. Even putting aside how unhygenic it is to try someone else's half-eaten ice cream - "this is no allergic reaction" could just mean that the guy was stupid, and his life was still in danger. But anyway, I did what I did, and faced the consequences quickly.
"The fuck?", I said out loud as my face twisted and my mouth tried rejecting reality. "Why is this ice cream spicy???"
"You see? Why is your arena serving such a foul substance?" said Gobert, who seemed to have recovered a little bit.
"You know," I said as I started to chew and taste the ice cream a little more, "After that first shock of such an unexpected flavor, it's … it's not that bad? It almost tastes like a Jalapeno?"
He stared at me. Wordlessly. A moment of silence passed. I was just about to make an excuse to leave, when I felt a tap on my shoulder.
"So that's where you are!" It was my coworker, who'd suddenly appeared behind me. "You're skipping work, hiding out here with… huh. It's Gobert."
Reality is dissappointing, I decided. It really was him. My first impression, to be completely honest, was not great. He was an outrageous man. But, more importantly-
"Sorry. Uh. I'm not hiding - I was told to man the merch shop, and I'll get back there now-"
"No, forget about the shop. We need you somewhere else," my coworker said. He looked up at the 7-foot center and politely said we we needed to leave, then pushed me by the shoulder and quickly escorted me away. We took a turn and started walking down a hallway, into the guts of the arena.
"So. How was Gobert," he asked me.
"Weird. Stubborn. Is that really the best defender in the NBA?"
"What? Where do you live, the moon? Gobert's old news. There's a new big name in the NBA and it's Victor Wembanyama. As good as Gobert in his prime, a star on offense, really fucking tall. And Wemby is young, he'll only get better. Gobert's a senior citizen in basketball years, he ain't catching up."
"How old is Gobert again?"
"Almost 34!"
"Uh…"
"But yeah, we're winning today's game, easy. Don't worry. The Timberwolves aren't a threat. They haven't gotten better since last time, but the Nuggets have. Wolves don't even have Karl Anthony-Towns anymore. You know - last series, Gobert didn't even guard Jokic? That was all KAT! Yeah, we cakewalk this for sure."
"Sure. I won't worry about it… by the way. What job do you need to for? I'm just an intern; this is a playoff game - is it really ok for me to be-"
"Bruh. You're not going courtside. The janitor slipped on a wet floor and got a bloody nose. We need you to keep the locker room nice and clean during the game. The showers and the toilets too. And when you're done with the locker room, you gotta move on to the public toilets. They're real nasty during a game, people just coming and going. Try to keep up. Here's the keys to the cleaning supplies. Have fun, Intern!"
No. Why'd I get my hopes up. No! Nooooo!
"I get it. You want to watch games? Don't worry. You work here now. You saw the last game and you'll get to see more in the future. You'll be just fine."
And then he left me there.
I fetched the supplies from the closet and got to work. Was there only one janitor in the entire building? Had the others also slipped on wet floors and broken their heads? Or maybe they already had their assigned sections of the building and couldn't cover on such short notice. Maybe.
Players started showing up at the locker room, and I made my exit. I heard the roar of the announcers as I was scrubbing a sink. I spent the game mopping and waiting for the floor to get dirty so I could mop it again. Dirty shoes and urinal-missers aside, it wasn't as bad as I feared. It's not too bad to work in the underbelly of a roaring beast.
When the game ended, I happened to be back in the locker room, just by coincidence (I definitely wasn't avoiding the post-game bathroom rush, no sir). The Nuggets were all smiles in there. What a relief - that answered the question of who won the game. All that was left was to wrap up and go home - but to my dismay, I heard someone behind me calling my name. I swiveled around and saw Coach Adelman, fresh from the post-game interview, with a grin on his face.
"So…" Why did he want to talk to me. "How's it going, Coach?"
"So far, so good," he replied. "Hundred sixteen to a hundred five, we executed our game plan well and Jokic had an easy triple double. Now all we got to do is win game 2, and game 3, and if we're feeling spicy, game 4. But I want to know, I'm curious - what's your impression on Jokic? Good fellow, European, big, what? Oh, and what'd you all talk about when you met him at the ranch?"
"Oh, uh… something about the Wolves being dangerous, or a tough opponent. And then this really long rant about having revenge on Gobert. For some reason, he thinks they're rivals…?"
"Does that sound so strange to you? You heard about what happened last time, kid?"
"You… lost?" I shook my head nervously, feeling like I should know more about the team I work for. And also fearing that I wouldn't be going home early tonight.
"Well listen up, 'cause I'm telling you now. It was game 7, series tied, loser goes home. We were doing really good, hitting our shots, that sort of thing. We're up by 20 points and I think, we're gonna win this right? Nope. They pulled off the biggest game 7 comeback in NBA history."
I nodded along.
"You say Jokic sees Gobert as a rival? That he wants revenge? Let me tell you this. In the fourth quarter, Gobert attacked Jokic and hit this ridiculous shot over him. A fadeaway mid-range jumper - beautiful, completely unlike Gobert. On offense, Gobert usually looks like a baby giraffe on roller-skates, but for that game 7 - the most important game of the year - he showed up. He scored on Jokic and he beat him at the one thing that Jokic is supposed to be the best in the world at.
"To use the word that some of my youngin's do - Minnesota boomed us that year. We got overconfident and and they boomed us. So today, we won against the Wolves, that's right - but that's because we learned our lesson and worked hard and took things seriously. Jokic has been looking forward to this matchup for a long time. I'm glad for that - he's taking it just as seriously."
Coach talks a lot, I thought. He's like an old grandpa, one I do not want to hear say "they boomed us" ever again.
"But that was that," he said. "You look like you want to finish up and go home as soon as you can. So I'll be seeing you!"
I was relieved, but then I remembered - there was something I wanted to ask.
"Wait - Coach, do you know why we're selling spicy ice cream in the arena? Gobert ate one and he looked like he was dying."
"Huh. That thing? I think i remember it, yeah. It's some kind of promotion, something about keeping the crowd hot, loud, and energetic. Or maybe it was about hot shooters. Or roasting timberwolves to make delicious timber-meat. I'm not too sure, you'd have to give the marketing team a call."
"Actually, isn't there already a team about hot stuff? The Miami Heat? Denver's the Mile High City. It gets pretty cold here. It doesn't make much sense… the Nuggets are the opposite of hot and spicy."
And Coach looked at me blankly.
"You'd be surprised. Anyway - have a good night, kid!"
DENVER 1 — 0 TIMBERWOLVES