NBA Dramatique, Prelude 14

“In the name of the Great Reptile, I call you to order! The Council of Totemic Tribes is now convened! Let us bring our people together in peace for one night, for the outbreak of war looms, and it will likely be many months before we can unite as brothers and sisters of nature again.” Bosh stood on the dais made of freshly cut logs, his skin illuminated by the firelight of torches. All of the people of the four Totemic Tribes had come together in the great forest for this summit, and they were intermingled in a large mass before the dais. “The Reptile has blessed my people. He has granted his ferocious attack to our tribesmen, and we now instill fear in our enemies. With his speed, we attack! With his claws, we attack! With his teeth, we attack! In the last great war, our tribe was in battle for many days after the rest of you had accepted defeat. I stand before you now, brothers and sisters, to remind you of what we all face. Our people adhere to the ways of the Earth, and we use what the Earth and the Great Beasts provide us to fight our wars. But the armies of the lands around us do not maintain their link to nature, and have created unnatural things with which to do war. On the field of battle, we face weapons of all variety. We’ll see swords of steel; projectiles of lead, fire, wood; sorcery of great power; all manners of technology. May the Spirits protect us and help us overtake them!”

From the crowd a voice shouted out. “Bosh speaks true!” The crowd shuffled as the man with the voice made his way to the front and climbed the dais to stand beside Bosh. “I am Redd, and Bosh is a wise and true friend, though we are of different tribes. The Great Stag has blessed my people. Our enemies will be pierced by his crown of antlers and trampled beneath his hooves! Though the enemies will come at us from the sky and the sea, and from all directions on land, we have the will of the Great Spirits on our side. We must not lose faith in them, nor be swayed by the lure of technological armies. There are many among us today who have been within their ranks, and found the true way of the Great Spirits.”

In the crowd, ‘Cisco turned to French Marc. “He’s right. I was assimilated by the Machine. They purged me, and I found the way.” French Marc nodded in understanding.

A young man named Foye had made his way to the dais. He was not familiar to Redd and Bosh, but they greeted him with honor and friendship on this night. “People of the Great Spirits. People of the Tribes. I am Foye, from the tribe of the Great Wolf. We are a long-suffering people. But I call upon the Wolf to bless us and rend the flesh of our enemies with his teeth. Our winter of loss has been long, but I believe that the rays of the sun will begin to warm us. Most of us have seen enough war now to know what to expect. We also have new men among us that are ready to be strong and determined fighters. In this coming war, we will stalk our enemies quietly, and when they are calm and unprepared, we’ll strike. The People of the Wolf will no longer be content to sulk in the snow.” The followers of the Wolf among the crowd proudly cheered their fellow tribesman.

Foye stepped away from the front of the dais to stand near Bosh and Redd. A young man wearing a fur skin walked slowly to the dais and the crowd grew increasingly silent with anticipation. He took his place at the dais and waited a moment to command even more silence. “People of the Bear!” he shouted. The Bear clan shouted back loudly in greeting. “I am Rudy and I am here by the grace of the Great Bear! The Great Bear will tear our enemies to shreds with his claws! He will crush their bones in his powerful jaws and his sharp teeth will be red with their blood!” The tribesmen of the Bear clan were yelling excited cheers back at the stage in response to every sentence. “We are a young tribe, and we are hungry! We don’t care about the weapons that our enemies bring against us! We are strong! The Bear lives within us, and we’ll roar from his heart!” The Bear’s followers were frenzied, and even a few of the younger warriors of other tribes were getting swept up in it. “Our strength comes from the new blood joining our tribe.” O.J., French Marc, and the Iranian, stood together in the crowd. Their bearskin cloaks were the product of fresh sacrifices. Rudy continued. “Let us go forth and reclaim the land for the Great Bear! Let our enemies tremble before us, despite their unnatural weapons!” The Bear clan was excited above all others. The tribes of the Stag, the Lizard, and the Wolf began to grow annoyed at the excitement of their brothers of nature.

From the stage, Redd kept his thoughts to himself. He scanned the crowd, and exchanged knowing glances with Bogut, with Lue, with Bell and Charlie. They were his brothers in the tribe of the Stag. They kept their cool. They were calm. They were old enough or wise enough to keep to themselves their secret. It had been foretold that the Bear would bleed by the antlers of the Stag.

NBA Dramatique, Prelude 13

He was known as the Black Knight. He was something else, though, and you knew it as soon as you saw him. For starters, he never wore armor. He didn’t need it. He was calm, poised, and confident in his manner. His demeanor only changed if those that fought beside him were letting him down, and then he would loudly tell them so. More than anything, it was his eyes that set him apart. He never looked at you without analyzing how you could be destroyed. He saw through your confidence straight to your weakness. He was a natural-born killer. He was the assassin.

In the garden of the grand castle of the Western Banner, the monk trimmed the errant branches from a small tree. He heard the chirping of birds, heard the buzz of insects quickly zipping by, heard the splashing water in the fountain behind him. He felt the sun on his face and on the back of his neck and on the back of his hands. His expression was unreadable. It would appear to an outside observer that the monk was at peace in a peaceful setting. The monk was almost never at peace. That was part of the discipline – fight to achieve the peace that he knew he would never attain. It was perhaps this quality that made the monk similar to the assassin.

The assassin who was often called the Black Knight was practicing his attack. He had mastered the killing blow and still wanted to improve it. He had learned to be quiet and fast but was reaching for silent and instantaneous. He was skilled at the dodge and parry but sought a way to become invisible and intangible. For every move he knew to make, he went through the motion five hundred times so that his muscles and nerves and the bones and the blood could not forget how the move was made. He wanted his body to act without the need for conscious thought because then he could use his brain to create newer and more deadly strikes in the heat of battle.

The monk who was often called the Master walked slowly out of the garden and made his way to the castle courtyard. Before he even saw anything, he sensed that he would not be alone when he got there. He expected many of the young knights to assemble in the courtyard this afternoon, at which time he would help them find the focus and inner resolve that was an essential part of their combat training. It was, though, still morning, and several hours before the knights would assemble. He came around the corner and saw exactly what he projected he would.

He watched the assassin without speaking, his own silence matched by the quiet efficiency with which the killer trained. For not a moment did he believe that the assassin was unaware of his presence, though it was not acknowledged. He watched the exercises and recognized what was being practiced, knew the skills that were being honed. That move was to kill a man from far away. That spin was to confuse an opponent and open his vulnerability. That step was a way to more quickly slip past a defensive parry. The motions were perfect. The monk knew perfection well.

The exercises stopped and the assassin stood still, letting the perspiration on his skin cool him. The monk approached as quietly as possible.

“You continue to impress me. Your dedication to the art of war is unrivaled. It is my hope, friend, that our army does not fall into old habits when fighting eventually breaks out. We both know that fighting will break out again, and soon, I think. You left a path of corpses for them to follow last time, and they helped you go far, even though we fell short in the final days. I will make sure they retain the discipline that they demonstrated in the last campaign, and I will push them over that last hurdle so that we can finally reclaim the Prize. I need you to do only two things: let them know that you trust them to succeed again, and destroy everything that gets in your way.”

The assassin said nothing. He did not move, and kept his eyes closed and his head bowed. The monk was initially surprised and mistook the assassin’s silence as an insult. But then it dawned on the monk what was actually happening. In the courtyard of the castle of the Western Banner, the assassin was silent as a showing of respect to the dead. The dead that he was about to go forth and create.

NBA Dramatique, Prelude 12

On the outskirts of the Western Banner was the Barony. The accolades, the victories, the love from the commoners, and, most importantly, the money – nearly all of it went to the Banner, leaving nothing but scraps for the Barony. Most of the time, the Barony took what it could get and complained only in a quiet, obligatory manner. Baron Brand had surrendered his title, though, fleeing the west to join a group of revolutionaries in a distant region, and a new Baron had risen in his place. Baron Boom was not content with being a quiet compliment to the Banner and was already beginning to plot an uprising.

Boom had come from the ranks of the Warriors. He abandoned that guerrilla force to pursue wealth, learning during one of their pillaging runs through the Barony that the wealth of the Banner could be siphoned into this treasury. His initial plan was to join Baron Brand and utilize their combined talents to fleece the Banner, and eventually overthrow it. He schemed in advance to usurp the Barony seat from Brand when the time was most advantageous, only to have Brand abdicate and flee before the first stage could be put into action.

So the Barony was his, which was simply not enough. He wanted the seat of power, which meant he had to reverse the relationship between the Banner and the Barony. Rather than be in the shadow of that gold and purple flag, Boom wanted the kingdom to look up to the red, blue, and white. Then, of course, the rest of the warring nations would fall, one by one, until he ruled supreme.

He was drawing those to the Barony that would fight ruthlessly beside him. He had found a man from the Prison with a chip on his shoulder, and two straight from Hell with their own axes to grind. There were young men and old living in his realm that were ready to fight again, and eager to capture for themselves the pride that had been the domain of the Banner’s knights so often. He had even retained the grizzled old general, in the hopes that the man’s tactics and his own on-the-field leadership could compliment each other. If they couldn’t work together, that could be resolved later. It wouldn’t be the first time that he had to make his own decisions in the midst of war.

The Baron looked out across his land to the trees, and far past the forest he could see the towers with the purple and gold flags flying at their peaks. He imagined the future, in which he was casting those flags into the fire and raising his own. The trees reminded him of his past, and the Warriors, and lurking in shadows or running through nights, fighting for fun. In that moment, he wasn’t sure if the past or the future was more appealing.

NBA Dramatique, Prelude 11

Miller drove along the old country road for some time, passing fields of corn for miles. He was concerned for his friend. It had become increasingly difficult to make contact and, when his friend bothered to answer the phone, the conversations were brief and dismissive. Miller knew it wasn’t a personal thing. His friend carried a lot on his shoulders, and it had been many years since he had received anything resembling commendation for doing so. Miller felt in some way slightly responsible for that, but his window of opportunity to do anything about that had passed. Like his friend, Miller’s age had taken him off the battlefield.

Eventually, he saw the small old-fashioned diner along the side of the road. He slowed the car and turned into the loose-gravel parking lot. Miller parked beside the car that he recognized as belonging to his friend and stepped out of his own vehicle. The day was clear and sunny, and the sunlight reflected brightly off of the chrome and glass surfaces of the diner’s exterior, causing Miller to squint and shield his eyes with his hand. He walked toward the door of the restaurant and went inside.

Sitting alone in a booth at the far end of the diner, back turned to the door, was Miller’s friend: the Legend. He had been larger than life as an infantry man, leading on the field like no other. Now he just looked large, thought Miller, laughing to himself. He walked over and rested his hand on his friend’s shoulder for a moment. “Glad I finally caught up to you.” He sat down in the booth across from his friend.

The Legend looked at Miller with mild irritation, and let it pass. He looked back down into the cup of coffee that rested on the table in front of him. Silence passed between the men for several moments, one staring steadfastly into his coffee and the other staring at his friend. Miller finally broke the routine by turning his head to the right to gaze out the window at the road. “You shouldn’t put so much of this on yourself.”

“It’s not that so much anymore.” The Legend continued looking into his mug and stirred the coffee with a spoon. “It used to be that. I used to feel that. I felt it a lot when I was a fighter. When I was on the field, I felt like it was up to me. I had plenty of help, but I knew it was up to me to get ‘em all into gear. When I was a general, I felt it. If I couldn’t teach the men how to win, I was failing at my job. But I’m not in the trenches anymore. I don’t fight the battles. I’m a politician. I don’t feel like it’s my fault anymore if they don’t know how to fight. I feel like it’s theirs.”

“Well, something’s got to you. It’s all over your face. You aren’t talking to anyone. People don’t know what you’re doing. It’s concerning.”

“You want the truth? I’m starting to think that maybe I just don’t care anymore. They don’t care. They go out and half-ass it and grumble under their breath and just get beat. They don’t care. And if they don’t, why should I?”

Miller sighed. The waitress approached and asked if he wanted anything. “I’ll take a glass of milk and a cup of coffee. Mmmmmaaand a slice of the sweet potato pie.” The waitress scribbled and left. “No. You care. If you didn’t, you’d just walk away. There’s some part of you that still thinks you can make a difference in some way.”

“In war, in any contest, there’s only one winner. Everyone else loses. There’s no real difference between losing first and losing last.”

Miller sighed. “Look…I wish things had gone differently when I was still in uniform. We just couldn’t get over the hump. I take a lot of the blame for that. I’m gone, Jermaine left without becoming the leader you needed in my absence, and you’re stuck. I get it. But you’ve got young guys who believe in you and believe in the war. Guys who have seen a few tours of duty and know what they’re doing. Don’t give up on them.”

The Legend looked at Miller and shook his head. He threw a few dollars onto the table as he stood up and then pulled his keys from his pocket. He said nothing.

“What are you doing?” Miller asked his friend.

“I have to prepare an army” he said. But in his head, the sentence was “I have to prepare an army to die.”

NBA Dramatique, Prelude 10

Yao watched explosions flash across the sky and was pleased. The noise, the fire, the lights – they were the product of war. War made him feel good. In his heart was a love of battle, and a need to win. He had been groomed from early childhood to lead a nation to victory and he knew that if victory was not achieved during his life, his ghost would never rest.

The giant airship within which he stood watching was tens of thousands of feet in the air, testing weaponry of the latest design. Yao was certain that some of his enemies must be watching from afar, and he hoped that they saw the explosions and imagined dying within them.

Silently, Battier stepped from somewhere behind and moved to stand beside Yao. He, too, looked out at the explosions and a smile spread across his face. “The new weapons are testing well. Our success is virtually assured.”

“I’m not as certain” said Yao. “The new weapons could be highly effective. Yet victory could elude us if they are used without skill.” As if on cue, Commander McGrady entered the observation deck through a hatch at the aft end of the room. He was followed by another man wearing the insignia of a Major whose eyes scanned the room from left to right repeatedly. Yao recognized this man. He gave a quick bow to greet them. “Commander. Major Artest, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Yao, Major Artest has joined our ranks. I am showing him around our airship and introducing him to his new comrades. The Major is a true warrior and will be a strong asset to our forces.”

“Commander, I wish I shared your optimism. I have no qualm with giving a man a chance to prove himself, but I must say that your reputation precedes you, Major. You are known as a malcontent and –“

“Enough, Yao!” Commander McGrady interrupted loudly. “The Major has proven himself capable of far more than making trouble for his associates! I insist that you show him the utmost respect!”

“It’s quite alright, Commander” said Major Artest. “Yao has the heart of a champion and does not want to subject his organization to negative influences.” Yao tilted his head in polite acknowledgement. “However, I’d like to assure you that I’m here to help, and help in a big way. As a tribute, I’ve written a short verse that I’d like to recite.”

“Major Artest will aid your offenses

and shore up the strength of defenses.

I will assault all of the enemies’ senses

And steal off in the night with their wenches!”

The Commander smiled appreciatively at the Major and gave Yao an inquisitive look. Yao smiled and nodded. “Thank you, Major. That was…enlightening. I’ll be happy to assist you in any way as you acclimate yourself to our organization.”

“The Major and I will continue our tour of this vessel. I have much to show him still.” The Commander walked quickly to the forward hatch with the Major following, and they exited the room. Battier and Yao both watched them leave and continued to gaze at the hatch after they had gone through it.

“He seems a bit of a fool” Battier said.

“Yes. And not to be trusted. Not yet. Find Rafer and Bones. They should keep a close eye on him. They’ll report to you. You report to me.”

“What do you want to know?”

“I want to know that he’ll really be with us, but even more, I want to know how much trust the Commander puts in him. The Commander's judgment is lacking. We need strong leadership even if we don’t have a strong leader.”

“What of the Emperor?”

“He will make his own judgment. And I trust that in his wisdom he will see things as I do.”

The explosions continued to dance in the sky, and Yao watched, still pleased.

NBA Dramatique, Prelude 9

"We’re called the Warriors because no other word would fit us!” laughed the great white bear of a man. He sat awkwardly cross-legged on the dirt of the ground. Monta wondered how he would find the strength and agility to propel his massive body back to his feet, and almost smiled. “We fight! We’re not the kind of men that think with our heads! We let actions think for us, and sometimes that’s going to help us win. Sometimes it will make us lose. I know that you’re down on yourself, young one. You should be. It was a damned stupid thing that you did. But you will learn from the stupid. You’ll learn from your mistake. You’ll get hungrier. Your friends will expect that hunger from you. Even in moments when you aren’t sure that you feel it, you will see that they expect the fire in your belly. And your need to prove your worthiness to them will bring the hunger back.” The fire crackled in the night air before Monta said anything.

“I hope so. I feel terrible. This was my chance to step up. I feel like the opportunity was put in front of me and I blew it.”

“You didn’t blow it, Monta. I’m telling you, this is what we are. We’re not supposed to do anything right! Hahaha! We hide in the bushes. We sneak around at night. We hit you when you aren’t looking. We look disorganized, and you know what? We are disorganized! People come and people go. You think that it all falls on your shoulders because one guy walked away? One guy!?”

“Well, I guess I do think that” Monta replied.

“Monta, no one guy is that important. As we scramble about the land night after night, some guys decide they don’t want to do it anymore and we never see ‘em again. Some guys decide to join up with a bunch that has a little more organization. They just leave. On the other hand, sometimes somebody we’ve never seen before is fighting along with us like he’s been there from day one. Sometimes we talk guys into leaving those stuffy armies and running free with us. See Ronny over there? Just a few months ago, he was fighting under the Banner, trying to take down the Bastion. Why is he here? I don’t know. I don’t care! It doesn’t matter. He’ll contribute, and that’s all that matters. Guys come and go, Monta. You can’t let yourself believe that one guy makes the difference. So look at yourself. You’re hurt. It doesn’t matter now why you’re hurt. What matters is that you might not be ready to fight when the fight comes. It’s coming soon, I think. I’ve heard noises in the brush, and I think we’re being followed. But if you’re not ready, Mad Jack will be. Andris will be. "Machete" Maggette will be. All of these guys will fight hard while you rest and heal. All they’ll expect in return is that when you can fight, you fight like you have catching up to do.” He fell silent and took a swig of his brew. He was sure that he heard a twig break under the foot of a lurking predator deep in the trees. He was not afraid. “Will you fight when you’re ready?”

“I will. Thanks, Nell.”

“Don’t thank me. Just go out and kill.”

NBA Dramatique, Prelude 8

Joe was all business. He ran the largest factory in the land, and was proud of the product that his factory manufactured. That didn’t mean he was a happy man. Quite the opposite, really. Joe was a man who was never quite satisfied. He knew that to remain competitive, you always had to be one step ahead of the other guy, or at least be ready to catch up quickly. Joe was always trying to find that extra something that was going to put him over the top.

Joe had fired his foreman. The Factory had not managed to out-produce the other warring nations last year (or the year before) under that guy, and as a result their armies had not suffered the attrition and failed supply lines that he had been hoping to force. Joe had a lean army that he drew from the ranks of The Factory’s workers, ensuring cost-effectiveness and reliability. They were a hard-working crew that he felt he could count on. Yet they hadn’t been focused to a sharp enough point on the battlefield, so the sharpener had to be replaced. The new foreman would be arriving any day now.

There were mumblings and rumors that maybe the worker-soldiers grew weary as the war stretched on. People suggested that Joe and/or the old foreman worked the men too hard and expected too much from too few. Joe thought that was a load of crap. He thought about his best guys and the drive of those men. Rip was fast and efficient. Chauncey was a capable and effective team leader. Max was a powerhouse – full of hustle. Wallace was a firecracker that strangers tended to dislike and distrust, but Joe knew that grew out of Wallace’s inner perfectionist. Prince was a go-to guy who always did exactly what you needed him to do. The descriptions in Joe’s mind for these men were true of their roles both in the factory and in a fight. They were solid and consistent. There were other guys, of course. Grunts. Second and third shift guys. He would probably need to lay a few guys off before things really got underway this year. Keep things tight and efficient.

Joe was up early. He was always the first man on the job. It was just about time to flip on the lights.

NBA Dramatique, Prelude 7

Trays were filled with slop. Men shuffled through the food line accepting what they were given, able to muster no enthusiasm for their meal. They carried their trays of “food” to tables they had unofficially claimed as their own, and sat among one another to eat and speak in low tones about secret things. The guards watched everything with an air of disinterest that was false. It was a poorly kept secret that they hoped for an infraction of the rules so they could administer punishment. Punishing brought them both satisfaction and validation.

The prisoners were in identical uniforms, only a number differentiating one man’s shirt from another. To maintain their individuality, each man adorned his skin with multiple tattoos. There was a living art gallery having lunch in the Prison.

“Are we gonna try to do it?” Smith was a young guy. A lot of trouble had found him on the outside. Some of that trouble had managed to find him behind the bars as well.

“Man, you’re always asking questions. Why don’t you shut up? Take it easy. Just ride this out.” Martin had been in a while and seemed to split his time between the infirmary and solitary confinement.

“Chill out, Martin.” The Answer was an old-timer. People inside said that he couldn’t be killed, and they said that because people had tried. “Keep your voices low and look at your food. Don’t draw attention.” He waited a moment while the rest fell silent. “I’ve been on the inside for too long. I don’t want to die in here. I say we try, but we need to get Goldilocks on board.”

The Birdman had just been locked up. He was new to the Prison, but he had a history with people on the inside. He didn’t get the newbie treatment. “I haven’t even seen that guy. I get that he’s the big name in here, but where the hell is he? Was he the guy got paroled?”

“Nah” said the Answer. “That was Marcus. That guy wanted to stay in. Prison said he wasn’t enough of a risk to keep inside for the cost. They let him go. Goldilocks has been goin’ back to court. New evidence came up – four years after the fact. His fate’s up in the air.”

“Well, we’re all listenin’ to you, man. We know you got his ear. Why don’t you talk to Goldilocks for all of us? Let’s get a plan together.”

The Answer put his spoon down and stopped eating. He crossed his arms in front of his chest. The thought of spending another day in Warden Karl’s jail made him want to scream. Several more minutes passed without words. Then he said, maybe to himself, maybe to the rest of them, “Yeah. We gotta get out of here.”

NBA Dramatique, Prelude 6

The horses kicked dust high into the air as they charged up the mountain. The men riding the horses held tightly to their reins and kicked into their flanks to spur them onward. Bandannas covered the men’s faces to protect from the dust, and only their eyes squinted out from beneath the brim of their hats. On the front of each man's shirt was a six-pointed badge identifying its' owner as a Deputy. They reached the flat outcropping that looked far out over the surrounding plains and rumbled to a stop. The horses circled restlessly for a few moments as the men brought them under control and lined up along the southern edge to look upon the land. Far to the southwest great pillars of black smoke grew towards the sky as The Machine began its grinding processes of destruction. Far to the southeast, explosions and multi-colored lights from the Sky Fortress flared across the sky and burned out as new weapons were tested and toyed with.

The Kidd looked over at the German and didn’t speak.

“It’s bad. They’re going to come at us from both sides” the German said. “They both think that we’re unfortified, and knocking us over will make them look stronger to everyone else.”

Howard pulled his horse between them. “We’ll kill ‘em. They can ride in all arrogant if they want. We’ll put ‘em down anyway.”

The German glared at Howard. “You can't act like it's going to be that simple. Look at what's out there. If you look at the sky to your left, you can see a fortress floating in the sky. They've got weapons that we don't even know about. We're on horses. We're just going to 'put 'em down'? See the smoke in the sky to your right? That Machine doesn't care about our badges or our laws, and they're not human. I don't think shooting them does much good."

"I don't care how we do it!" said Howard. "I don't care if we're on horses or if we're running on foot. I don't care if we're using pistols or throwing rocks. And I don't care if we do it with our badges on or if we have to hide our faces while we shoot 'em in the back. We need to regulate these parts. We need to be the authority 'round here."

"You don't care one bit about your badge." The German kept his voice steady, but was visibly frustrated with Howard. "I don't get it. You worked hard your whole life to earn that badge, and now you have it, you don't act like it means a thing. You've got a job to do, Howard. Part of doing that job means that people are counting on you to do what they can't do for themselves. They're looking up to you whether you know it or not, so remember that star is on your chest even when you're not in the mood." Howard looked away from the German and tried to give his friend Stack a knowing glance, but Stack was purposely looking down at the dirt. The German continued. "Sheriff Carlisle has asked us to recon these two outfits, because he thinks one of them is going to try to move against us real soon. He doesn't want us to attack or make ourselves known to them yet. He just wants us to report back with what we see so he can decide what we should do."

Howard shook his head and scoffed. “Why are you always worrying about what someone else wants you to do? You know how to use your weapons. You know how to take a man down. You know that you’re put here to do just that. Why do you think you have to listen to someone tell you how they want you to do it?”

“That’s enough from you, Howard” said the Kidd. “The German’s right. The Sheriff calls the shots. We pull the trigger. That’s the way it works. You don’t like it, ride on.”

Howard locked eyes with the Kidd. They stared each other down for a long moment. Howard flinched and tried to pass off a derisive laugh. “You’re something else, old man.” He pulled his horse along side the Kidd’s. “You haven’t been riding with us that long. Don’t think that being old makes you the boss.” The Kidd kept his gaze on Howard as the young man trotted his horse off the outcropping.

The German started to follow the path down as well. He looked at the Kidd as he passed. "He's got a point, doesn't he?"

Kidd gave the German a sly grin that only he would see and spoke in a low mumble. "Damn punk hothead. Of course he's right. He's just got to learn to be quieter about it."

NBA Dramatique, Prelude 5

There is no kingdom. There is a great fighter, with great power. They knew he was coming before he ever arrived, and all of the armies of this splintered nation waited and hoped that he would rise within their ranks. When he was found, it was in a region that had long been in need of a leader - a land that had never stood triumphant over all of the warring armies. An army fights behind him - an army that believes in him, and follows his lead, and calls him “King” even now, before his reign begins.

The One Who Would Be King dressed quietly, and alone. The others had not yet arrived. As he suited up and prepared for the coming war, he thought not at all about those who would fight beside him. Though he cared for them, and at times considered some of them friends, he knew that they were in some ways forced to live in his shadow. He knew that if he was to obtain the glory that was his destiny, it would be attributed to his own actions. History would not be awed by the work done by those around him. Sometimes this made him unhappy and ashamed, but only sometimes. He would prefer not to think about it, which is why he was not thinking about it now.

If he thought about it, he would have to think about those in his army that had fought for far more years than he had. Not one of them had ever been seen as “the chosen one”. He would have thought about the wars of the past, and how sometimes his troops would fall, and not be capable of combat. They were never happy to miss it. They felt useless and dishonored. He would have thought about the politics of this world he planned to shape, and knew that the man he called friend today could be an enemy next week, and an enemy could become a friend tomorrow. But thinking about these things would confuse the real issue, and he would not have that.

The real issue was winning. The real issue was beating everyone else. The real issue was claiming the title and the throne that everyone knew was his destiny. The real issue was to become King James not just in name but in station. In jewels on his hand.

He was within reach of the throne once, only to be soundly defeated by the onslaught of The Machine. The Machine was getting old, and breaking down, and he did not believe that The Machine would survive a final showdown with him again. There were other factions that he was more concerned about this time. The Western Banner had broken the Machine in the last war, then battled and lost against the Bastion. The Western Banner employed the world’s most dangerous assassin. If there was one individual that James felt was a threat, it was that damned assassin. Every tribe got stronger with every new war, it seemed. There were easily a half dozen armies the last time that fought hard and gave them trouble. There would be probably a half-dozen more that would come back stronger this time.

Z came around the corner and found James alone. James looked up into the face of Z. It was the face of a man that was never considered “the chosen one”, was never going to be glorified if the glory came. It was the face of a man who had fought many times, and for many years before The One Who Would Be King had shown up. It was the face of a man that James often considered to be a friend.

“We will win it all this time?” Z asked.

James looked him in the eye and said nothing for a moment.

“Yes. All of it.”

NBA Dramatique, Prelude 4

The New Guy got off the bus. He hadn’t arrived at his destination, but the bus driver was not willing to drive him all the way. “That’s a wasteland! Nobody goes in there for anything good. I’ll let you out right here, and if you decide to walk into that place, it’s your own fault!” So the New Guy walked.

When he finally got there, he could see the bus driver hadn’t been lying. The place was in shambles. Broken windows, graffiti, trash blowing in the street. A man whom he recognized as one of his comrades appeared to be passed-out drunk outside of an open door.

The New Guy walked cautiously toward that door, trying to nudge the drunken guy awake with his foot as he passed. No response. He entered, instantly surprised by the oppressive heat indoors, and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim light after being out in the bright sun. Ten men were in the narrow room, laying on cots, or sitting on chairs, or stretched out on the floor. Two played a video game at the far end. Four played cards. Two read magazines. Two slept, snoring. The room was full of smoke. He recognized all of them, but hadn’t met any. No one bothered to stop what they were doing when he entered, nor was his presence acknowledged in any way.

“Hey, everybody!” he said, smiling. “Call me Rose. I’m the new guy, I guess.”

One of the magazines was dropped in annoyance. “Hooray, New Guy. You’ve arrived.” The sarcasm was unmistakable.

“Uhh. Yeah.” A few seconds went by, and still no one seemed interested in saying hello or even recognizing that another living being had entered the room. “Listen, guys. I’m really happy to be here. I’m ready to put in the work, and I think we can do some amazing things. I’m looking forward to getting to know all of you better.” No one stirred. “When do we start training?”

Annoyed Magazine Reader kept the page to his face, but from behind it said “Don’t know. Still waiting for the New Boss to get here, New Guy.”

The New Guy didn’t bother putting his bags down. He walked out of the room through the door he entered, passed the unconscious drunk, and back out into the street. Down the road another block, he could see the site of the historic battlefield, and made his way toward it. He found himself alone inside, and looked upward at the flags of champions that had come before. It wasn’t that long ago, and yet so much had changed for these people. A Superhero used to make this his home. The one that they had all looked up to had been here, fought here, won here. Now no one seemed to care. No one who fought for this army seemed to recognize that their colors had been His colors, and that to lose in those colors dishonored Him. He was like a god to all of them, and they didn’t seem to care. “That’s my job. That must be what I’m here for.” He looked back up at those flags and shouted “I’m here to make them care! I’m here to help them remember!” He was young.

Great idea. Really.

This is not what Denver needs.

NBA Dramatique, Prelude 3

Feet fell without grace upon the metal catwalk, clanging loudly above. “He’s watching” said the General to no one as he turned his eyes upward toward the noise. The troops went through the drills, some more enthusiastically than others. The General had a reputation. He was known to be hard on soldiers, and even harder on young soldiers. He was known as a guy who got things done. He had a lot to do here.

The General was old, and there is no enemy as difficult to defeat as age. He knew it. He could feel the foot soldiers of time moving into position all around him. He just hoped that he could find a way to outsmart them at least once more. The stain of failure had soiled the General’s record, and it made many people across many lands who were familiar with war question the abilities of a man they had once seen as unquestionable. Oh, many still had faith in him (out loud), but the whispers behind his back were multiplying. He needed to go out with a win. He needed to retire with vindication.

“Hit the showers! You’re done for the day. Be here an hour earlier tomorrow and expect to stay two hours later!” He watched them file out, heads hung from fatigue or the knowing shame of letting him down. They dripped sweat and smelled of exertion. He sat - once they had all exited - to collect his thoughts and begin planning for the next day of training.

The footsteps that he had heard above were now echoing off of the floor and coming towards him from his left. He knew who it was but looked up just the same. As the tall bald man made his way toward him, the General was aware for a moment of their one similarity. “That man was a super hero” he said quietly to himself, “and even he couldn’t escape age.”

“How do they look, Larry?” the Superhero asked.

The General shook his head briefly. “Not that good, Mike. Not really that good.”

“Can you change it?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I think I can. It’s going to take a lot of work. There will be many complaints. Some guys will want to quit. They’ll want out. I might break one or two of the softer ones.”

The Superhero laughed. “OK, Larry. You do what you need to do to them. We need to win.”

The General was uncertain if the Superhero meant “we” as in all of them collectively, or if he meant “we, Larry. You and I”. Either could be true. The two old men alone now on this floor needed to win. One needed to restore his legacy and the other needed to add a dimension to his own. The General decided that it didn’t really matter what the Superhero meant. They just needed to win.

I was just thinking...

Just for the fun of it, I made some predictions about 10 days ago about the end of the upcoming season. I am sure they will be way off once June gets here, but I was thinking - why would I pick the Pistons to win it all when they're dealing with a new coach? That doesn't make sense! So, I'm going to tweak my prediction just slightly and say that the Cavs beat the Pistons in the conference finals. 'Sheed goes absolutely nuts at the final buzzer and might go to prison. Then in the Finals, Hornets beat the Cavs, causing LeBron to take a vow of silence towards the media for the next year so that he doesn't have to repeatedly discuss his plans to leave Cleveland.

That's my prediction. Ok, not really. I just wanted to say that despite my previous post, I don't think the Pistons will capture the title with a new coach.

Maybe the Spurs can do it again...

NBA Dramatique, Prelude 2

Kevin walked with a purpose. He knew where he was going and what he needed to do. He was all business. There would be nothing to distract him. His schedule allowed for extra time that would be spent as people on the street noticed him, recognized his face, and approached him in an attempt to befriend him. He appreciated the people and respected their admiration, and was happy to have done what he had done for them. But he was serious-minded and did not come out today to make friends. He knew how to get things done.

Kevin entered the grand stone building through one of the many glass doors. The air inside was a full 20 degrees cooler, and dry, and subtly smelled of being many times recycled. He was dressed not for war, but for business. It made him no less imposing. Heads turned involuntarily to watch him walk by and crowds parted without being asked. He entered a spacious lobby and was quickly met by three men also in business suits – older, shorter, facilitators. They shook hands and smiled. Kevin walked with them to an office just off the lobby and sat at a large desk. The three men spoke for a time about Kevin’s money and how much he had and how he could get more of it by letting them take charge of it. He found their presentation appealing and believable, and he decided that they could have twelve million of his dollars.

Kevin walked back through the lobby with the three men and enough people there had seen him pass through the first time that there were now three times as many people. Many of them tried to pretend that they were going about some other task when all they really were there for was to see him, but there were a few that boldly intercepted the group of suited men. Kevin was polite but economical with his time. He shook a few hands and smiled and signed two autographs but did not allow conversations to linger. He said good-bye to the three advisers and exited the building. His business here was done, and he was now headed to the training facility. War was coming again, and he would again stand and fight for the Bastion. They had secured The Prize, and he was determined to keep it.

Kevin’s investment ended up earning him over eighty million dollars. He was lucky.

Four minutes after he walked out of the stone building, three men in masks entered, drew guns, and attempted to rob the bank operating in the lobby. They were unsuccessful. All three were killed, as well as one bank customer, one bank employee, and one police officer. Kevin was lucky that he walked with a purpose.

On the other side of the city, Rajon shifted into sixth gear and blazed past other drivers on the freeway. He crossed under a bridge, behind which sat the cruiser of a state trooper. The state trooper was in pain and shock, as just seconds before he had sneezed violently, causing the hot coffee in his mug to splash out onto his crotch and burn him. He was not paying attention to the sports car that passed him by at 140 miles per hour. Rajon was lucky.

Paul had decided not to go out on Friday. His friends went without him. As he sat at home and watched a movie, there was a knock on his door. Felicia had dropped by on a whim just to say hello. Paul was happy to see her, as he had thought of Felicia often since he had last seen her (several years ago). He had always been interested in her, and she in him, but there was always a circumstance of timing that kept them apart. Tonight, they talked, relaxed, and then had sex for hours before falling into a restful sleep. Paul was lucky. His friends that night had found themselves spending a lot more money, getting into far fewer places, and drawing the interest of no women without their very popular, wealthy, and well-known friend along side them.

Good luck for one almost always means bad luck for another. The Bastion was lucky.

NBA Dramatique, Prelude 1

Money. So many times so many things boil down to money. Such is the life of a mercenary. You fight because of pay, not principles. Your allegiances are based on the value of your services in the eyes of those willing to pay for those services. That kind of life makes you unsentimental in a very short time. You see everything as transient and tenuous and your skin thickens and your heart hardens.

Josh’s friend was gone. Josh’s friend, Josh, was gone. He was a merc pilot too. The funny thing though is that Gone Josh had very drastically changed the mercenary universe by the way he became gone. Gone Josh reminded them all that the world was a big place.

So Gone Josh got big money to go fight wars in a different part of the world. He didn’t defect to another warring tribe in this nation, and it struck Josh as somewhat strange that he would see his friend neither fighting at his side nor facing him down from the ranks of the opposition. There would be no aerial dogfight in which they could match skills. He was just gone.

Josh didn’t leave. He thought he could get even bigger money than Gone Josh from one of the warlords here, and he was right. In the end the air force that he had been flying for would continue to pay him to keep flying, and they would pay very well.

So what was he facing in the battles ahead? The pilots that he knew were getting better. The new guys looked decent. Their wing commander, Woodson, was still hanging around, for better or for worse. Would they be a more powerful force this time? Was it up to him? Was he the guy that made the difference? Was it time to stop thinking like a solo flier and start joining the squadron? Was it time to make this an air force to fear? There would surely be money in that.

NBA Dramatique: An Introduction

I started my little blog here just to have a place where I could put my own two cents in regarding the activities of the NBA. I’ve liked having that place, but there have been a number of things working against me being able to turn the page into what I ultimately wanted it to be – a well-known forum for fans of my favorite sport to convene and converse. For starters, I wasn’t posting anything on a regular basis. I’ve always been a procrastinator, and the blog was certainly a victim. I’ve had big, big changes sweep through my life since I started the blog, and I wasn’t making a priority of my writing. Secondly, I didn’t see much point in busting my butt to put information out there that any web-savvy basketball fan could find on a dozen other sites. I realized that I needed to find a unique voice if I was going to bother speaking on the subject. I gave it a lot of thought over the summer, and I found the idea I was looking for.

What I’m going to attempt here is a fictionalized account of the NBA season as it happens. I don’t think this is going to interest everyone, but it interests me. I hope that my enthusiasm translates into something that at least a few people will enjoy following.

This idea came to me by looking for a way that I could express just how impressive and dramatic I find the game. I thought about the things that entertained me, not just in basketball, but all around. I've always liked stories. When I was a boy, I especially liked myths and other tales of heroic drama. I was a huge comic book fan for many years. Even as a kid playing with G.I. Joe or He-Man action figures, the story came first for me. I would think up plots or copy them from comics or shows, and then I would tell my younger brother what we needed to accomplish in that play session. Ridiculous, right? But this has carried over into many aspects of my adult life, and watching the NBA season unfold has never (for me) just been about guys playing a game. There are story-lines all over the place, and the more of them you know, the more you can enjoy what happens. I've tried to inject an other-worldly element into how I'll describe the game to you as a way of trying to express how awe-inspiring I believe the sport to be. I wanted to be able to show the super-human and fantastic elements of professional basketball without falling into the clichéd and over-used descriptions of the play-by-play commentator.

Here is a very important disclaimer: this is a work of fiction. The story will unfold in a way that is inspired by the real-world events of the NBA, but it is not necessarily meant to be seen as an editorial statement on the teams or players as portrayed. I don’t know any of the people that work for the NBA or play professional basketball. The names I use are representations of characters, inspired by real people, but not meant to be a reflection of any real person’s thoughts, attitudes, actions, or behavior. Think of it as a big epic fantasy sci-fi war story that I cast using the stars of the NBA. I love this game and I love the league, and the last thing I want is to offend anyone that is a real participant in the game. That being said, I have to make bad guys out of some of these people for dramatic effect. It’s nothing personal.

I’ll begin things by posting an introduction to one team each day leading up to the beginning of the season. My plan is to continue the story on a daily or near daily basis, all the way through the last game of the finals. I hope you enjoy this as the season progresses, and I hope I can see it through to the end. I’d love to get your feedback on what you think of the story.

Wow. That Would be Crazy.

NBA.com has a page up right now detailing what happened when they let NBA Live 09 simulate the upcoming season. It's funny and a little insane and there would be some serious craziness if things really shook out like that in the East. Check it out.

Josh Howard is Sorry

ESPN is reporting that Dallas Mavericks forward Josh Howard is apologizing for "everything that's happened in the past five months."

Thanks, Josh. That whole $700 billion dollar bail-out thing had me worried. I'm glad you took responsibility. All those Chinese babies with the tainted milk probably appreciate your apology too. And when I quit my job at the beginning of June and shook my life around like dice in a Yahtzee cup - man, I've been waiting for you to step up on that one.

But seriously, I don't think Howard has anything to apologize for. No harm came to anyone as a result of his activities over the past five months, as far as I'm aware. So in my book there's no need to say you're sorry.

In my opinion, I think we owe you an apology, Josh. I'd like to speak for many when I say we're sorry. We're sorry that you've grown into adulthood with some bad misconceptions. It's unfortunate that you have not been taught that reckless actions, like street racing, could put many people (in addition to yourself) in harm's way. Even if you think it's weak to be concerned with other people's safety, why don't you care more about your own health? Why don't you care that you have been gifted with physical ability surpassing billions of people? Not only do you participate in dangerous driving, but you do damage to your lungs and possibly your brain when you smoke weed. I'm sorry that no one ever took the time to explain that to you, or if they did, I'm sorry that they didn't make you realize that they were telling you that because they cared about you. I'm on no soapbox. I've done both of those things that you did, Josh. I was lucky enough to either realize on my own or have people help me understand that I was putting myself in danger by participating in those activities. I was lucky enough that my mistakes weren't on the news. So I think we should be sorry for making a big deal out of things that are hopefully youthful indiscretions.

The thing that people have really wanted to talk about is your comment on the Star-Spangled Banner. I'm a white guy but, in a way, I share your sentiment. I stand up at a game when the lights go down and they want to perform the Star-Spangled Banner. I can show that much respect. But I don't put my hand on my heart and I don't sing. In my opinion, and an unpopular one it's sure to be, that level of involvement crosses over from respect to jingoism. I choose silence as a commentary on my disappointment with the American government, and my belief that our nation's leaders have failed to lead for many, many years. Now, my opinion my be just as hated as the one that you expressed. The difference though is that I've explained myself a little, and could explain my position further if questioned. I'm sorry for you that your political leaders, teachers, friends, and your parents have not helped you develop an eloquence that would have allowed you to make a statement on the dissonance between race relations and American patriotism. Instead, your statement that you don't participate because you're black comes across as being simple, ill-informed, and nonsensical. Really, I suppose, that's exactly what it is, and that's why I think the apology is owed to you, not the other way around. You're young and full of opinions that you don't yet have the experience and wisdom to be quoted on in a national forum. It's everyone else's fault that you were quoted anyway. Not yours. I'm also sorry that angry and ignorant commentary was directed at you after those comments were made public that probably made you feel somewhat justified in making them. As a nation, and as human beings, we should all be above that.

Apologize only to yourself for making choices that diminish your self-worth. Seek out the wisdom of books and people who have lived through harder things than you have. No one can tell you that your opinions are wrong, but you should come to the argument with the proper tools to defend those opinions.

So long, White Chocolate

The word out of L.A. this evening is that Jason Williams is hanging up his sneakers after a ten-year career in the NBA. I only knew Jason's game from the 05-06 Heat, but from what I've read, he was a real show-off. I mean that in a good way. Williams was probably not the ideal point guard and was probably a coach's nightmare, but I'll always have some appreciation for him because of that title run he made with Miami.

So, Jason, if you're really going away for good, I wish you the best. You helped make my little brother (a Heat fan) love the game of basketball, and I appreciate you doing that. Maybe you looked at the situation you were going into with the Clippers and realized that your best days in the NBA were behind you. Just remember, no matter what anyone might say about your career now that it's over, you were a champion. Good luck.