Print This Post Print This Post

The WarriorFacebooktwittergoogle_pluslinkedinmail

Wearing only blue and gold gym shorts while solo-piloting a luxury helicopter, LeBron James quite late last night landed, slightly off target, in the swimming pool of Dan Gilbert, and butterfly-stroked to steps he marched up and then, shaking off water like a massive poodle, told alarmed security guards, “Gentlemen, put away your firearms at once, King James is here.”

The four men complied.

“Please tell the owner I’m here and to receive me at the front door.”

One guard called the mansion. Shortly, he nodded, and LeBron walked toward destiny.

“What the hell, LeBron?” Gilbert said, dashing outside in his boxer shorts.

“I can’t sleep, I’ll never be able to sleep until this Golden State nightmare is resolved.”

“Don’t worry. We’ll get you some more help this offseason.”

“Who? We know we’re not getting the guy I need, Karl Anthony-Towns.”

“What if I bring in Paul George.”

“I might stay if you don’t have to move Kyrie Irving or Kevin Love.”

“What do you mean, you ‘might stay?’”

“I mean I won’t tolerate an annual trouncing by the too-talented brats from Golden State.”

“What’s the alternative?”

“I’ll probably take my talents to the Bay Area.”

“That’s absurd. You’re under contract to me next season.”

“A contract that will soon be voided because of some devious fine print my attorneys just discovered. Furthermore, as a fellow financial guru, you should know the Warriors’ numbers make devastating sense. Haven’t you studied their salaries?”

“I haven’t had any reason to.”

“I’ll explain everything. Only three key Warriors are signed for next season – Kevin Durant, Klay Thompson, and Draymond Green. They’ll earn about sixty-two million. Steph Curry’ll get a max deal of about thirty million. That only takes up about ninety-two million of a projected salary cap of a hundred and three. The Warriors could pay me eleven million plus about ten more by going over the salary cap. We’d indisputably be the greatest team ever.”

“That’s grotesquely excessive.”

“So’s being a billionaire, Dan.”

“You guys would be fighting each other for minutes and shots. It would be chaotic, a veritable hell on earth.”

“On the contrary, we’d relieve each other’s responsibilities. I’d only have to play about thirty minutes a night and score twenty points. The whole experience would be sublime. I see Draymond Green, a bullish Mr. Everything, playing center between dashing Durant and myself at forwards. Combine that front line with the magical backcourt of Curry and Thompson, and we might not lose more than five games all season.”

“You’re the selfish, vile person who abandoned us for Miami in 2010.”

“I’d brought you plenty of success before my first departure, blessed Miami with two titles and four conference crowns, and have taken this team to three straight finals and one title. I’ll be thirty-three next season and want to lighten my burden, physical and psychological, and prolong my career while adding a minimum of five more championships. If I do otherwise historians will forever shout I only won three titles despite having many chances that weren’t really chances but executions.”

“Cleveland will hate you forever.”

“Cleveland, unlike you, will forever appreciate my contributions.”

Dan Gilbert lowered his head and butted LeBron in the abdomen. The cager countered by enveloping his assailant around the waist and handing him upside down to the security guards who complied when told, “Toss him in the pool, but don’t hit the chopper.”

This entry was posted in Basketball, Dan Gilbert, Draymond Green, Karl-Anthony Towns, Kevin Durant, Klay Thompson, Lebron James, Paul George, Stephen Curry.