The road to hell might be paved with Derek Fisher jump shots.
The ones where he catches the ball on a kick out, waits for the defense to close out right on top of him, and rises up. Not over him. More into him than anything else. Then, at the top of his jump, he lets the ball fly out of that left handed sling shot of his. The ball spins and spins, like a ballerina with two broken legs, away from him and toward the goal, only to bang off the rim and fall to the wood below. The ball bounces off the wood. Sometimes out of bounds. Sometimes into the wanting and waiting hands of an opposing player. Someone awful. Reggie Evans or something.
Note: This is when he isn’t pump faking, driving baseline super wildly into the teeth and arms of the much younger defense, hurling a “layup” toward the top of the backboard while falling down, missing the shot, pulling his mouthpiece out of his mouth, and looking back at the referee with a “Come on! Really? You’re not gonna call that? Wow,” look on his face. That is the face that comes to me in my nightmares and tells me my parents don’t love me and Bill Murray died.
Around that time several thousand people in Oklahoma groan. Some of them cuss. Some cry. Some throw things. Some tweet. Some ask where Russ is. Some ask where Reggie is. Some shout at Fisher. Some shout at Presti. Some at Brooks. Some just shout to God.
Why? Why? Why? Keep Reading…