Chapter Text
A few weeks ago, I was hired by the Denver Nuggets as a "Basketball Assistant". I'd been out of a job for a few months and out of luck, so I asked my mom, who asked a friend who asked a friend, and through the power of nepotism I got a gig.
Now I didn't know what kind of work a "Basketball Assistant" does, but the time I'd been desperate. Besides, it's the Nuggets! I'm no basketball fan, but even I know they mean big business. Anyway - I mostly just follow the whimsy of the most powerful person in the room. If I'm lucky that means I'm grabbing odd balls and running water to third-stringers. I'm not always lucky. One time, I was scrubbing toilets on the ground floor of the arena for a week before anyone asked where I was.
Maybe two days ago, I finally had a chance to watch a basketball game. It was Denver's last game of the regular season, and they were playing the San Antonio Spurs. I was confused when I saw the injury report, so I tapped on my coworker's shoulder.
"Intern!" he said, because yes, I'm only an intern and I get paid like shit. I showed him the report, which listed half the team as OUT.
"Braun, left ankle. Gordon, hamstring. Murray, shoulder. Hardaway Jr., Johnson, Jones, Watson… are we going to be ok? This is bad, right???"
"Relax, kid. Playoffs are starting soon. Coach needs everyone well-rested before then. We just make up some bullshit excuses to sit them so the association doesn't fine us. How new are you, exactly? Shouldn't you know this?"
"uh…"
"Ok. Let me tell you this. Even with all those guys out, we'll be fine. There's only one player we need to win this game. And that's-"
"NIKOLA JOKICCCCC" the announcer cried, his voice booming and filling the arena.
There he was, striding onto the court in all his glory. I've heard the spiel before - greatest offensive player in the world, three-time MVP, star of the Denver Nuggets, Nikola Jokic. He ran Denver's offense, turning his teammates into lethal scorers, able to hit shots over anyone in the world. As I watched him play that night, I started to believe it. The game wasn't halfway over yet he'd already scored 23 points.
At halftime, Jokic walked into the tunnel and seemed to be changing out of his jersey. I asked my coworker what he was doing.
"He's leaving the game," he replied. "Jokic needs to rest for the playoffs too."
"Will Denver be ok?" I asked.
"Yeah, duh. He did everything he needs to do. "
And as promised, Denver won the game, 128 - 118. Jokic was so good that he didn't even need to play the whole game to will his team to victory.
"Intern!"
Coach Adelman called me over in the locker room after the press conferences were over.
"How you doing! You look tired, can't wait to get home, eh?"
"Uh… ok! I'm doing ok." Why was the coach talking to me?
"Look, son." he said. "I need you to tell Jokic that we won the game, and because of that, our matchup for the first round of the playoffs is decided. Tell him," said Coach, "that we're playing the Minnesota Timberwolves again."
"Huh…? Shouldn't he know?" I said, looking back and forth. "He's still in the building, isn't he…?"
"Nope. Left right after halftime. Look - there's one thing you should know about the Big Honey - ain't nothing gonna stop him from riding his bitches. Got that?"
"Uh. I. Maybe?"
"Good. Now go, son! Go tell him now!"
"C-can't I just send a call, or-"
Coach lightly smacked me on the head. "Of course not. He won't pick up the phone. I've been his coach for years; I know him as well as anyone. He's riding as we speak!"
I drove forty minutes through Denver freeways to reach the place Coach Adelman mentioned. It was near midnight when I arrived at a dark compound surrounded by metal fence. I stopped at the gate. I couldn't see any sign.
There was a lady in the booth next to the gate. She looked at me with bored eyes, saying nothing.
"Hello … uh… madam … I'm here for Mr. Nikola Jokic…"
"Hm? Go away, paparazzi."
"No! His coach, Mr. Adelman, he sent me. I need to tell him something … ah! Here's my ID, I work for the team, uh…" I nervously reached for my team ID and stretched out to give it to the booth lady. The car was a little too far away, so I had to stretch awkwardly to reach her. She didn't bother extending her arm. Both my shoulders were outside the car by the time my ID reached her hands.
"Jokic should be in the center field with his buddies. It won't be hard to find him; the field is well lit. Don't overstay your welcome - do your business and nothing else. Got it?"
I nodded my head and drove into the compound.
Soon I passed by a building that I recognized as a stable, like the ones you'd find in a horse race. With relief I realized that Jokic was riding horses, and that this compound was just some sporting ranch. Coach couldn't have meant anything else.
Also, Booth lady was right: Jokic was easy to spot. I saw him as soon as the center field came into sight. He sat on his horse, surrounded by a group of other riders. As I left the car and approached him, I saw just how massive he was. This man had to be two whole heads taller than me, and three heads wider. His horse was a strong and sturdy breed, bigger than the other ones, but somehow he made it look small. Jokic was an imposing, powerful presence.
"Mr. Jokic, sorry for interrupting, but… uh…" he was staring at me now. "Coach Adelman told me to tell you that, Denver won the game, and so we'll be against Minnesota in the first round-"
"I know."
I looked up from my shoes and into Jokic's eyes.
"I know. Why would I not know? I livestreamed the ending on my phone."
"Uh… uh…"
"The outcome of the game was important to me. This matchup is important to me. You know what it means, to fight the Timberwolves? It means I can finally have revenge." He smiled, and whatever he was imagining, his face softened with happiness.
"Sorry. I must be scaring you. The Timberwolves, they are a very good team. We've faced them in the playoffs twice before, and last time they beat us in seven games. So much talent - their star, Edwards, he improves every year, what a good young boy he is. Randles, McDaniels, Divincenzo, Reid, Anderson, all of them are solid talent. And Gobert…"
I glanced to his friends, all on their horses, still silent and intimidating.
"Oh! You want to know more about Gobert, do you?"
I didn't, really, but I wasn't the basketball superstar here.
"Gobert is the Timberwolves' starting center, just as I am the starting center for Denver. Gobert, now, he is something special, the ying to my yang. I am the best in the world at offense, and he - he is the best at defense. He is a sledgehammer, a brick wall, a machine. We have fought many, many times. And this time, it'll be my pleasure to beat him thoroughly."
I nodded my head silently as Jokic continued to describe all the ways he'd break, dominate, and body his enemy. When he started to describe his previous matchups with Gobert, game by game (he said they'd played each other at least 50 times by now) I excused myself and drove back home. I didn't really care much about Jokic's strange rivalry. Jokic as the unstoppable force, and Gobert as the immovable object? It was a cute marketing slogan at best. It didn't have anything to do with me.
By the time I got back home, it was quarter to two. To the sound of Jokic's voice, bouncing around in my sleep-hungry brain, I drifted off to sleep.