Stop.
Please, stop.
Right there, just outside the lines of the hardwood.
You are the protagonist of this story. But for a moment, trust us. We know asking strangers on the internet for trust is usually a terrible idea. Just this once, make an exception.
Close your eyes and think…
Think back to the day you first saw Galis play and excitedly screamed to your mother, “Mom, I can defy gravity too!” And you kept your word: in your attempt to imitate him, you ended up suffering four fractures.
Think of Drazen’s symphony. Saras’ no-look passes. Navarro’s “bombita”. Bodiroga’s “El Látigo”. The force of nature called “Arvydas”. Dirk’s fadeaway. Parker’s coast-to-coast sprints.
Perhaps loving and dreaming at the same time counts as infidelity. In basketball, that rule does not apply.
Now keep going: think of the sleepless nights spent watching Michael raise one, two, three, four, five, six fingers toward the sky. LeBron chasing Iguodala like a demon unleashed from the orange underworld. Kobe tearing his Achilles, then returning to knock down two free throws. Steph launching them from thirty feet and making it look easy.
Shhh. Keep your voice down.
When you speak about love, a whisper is enough.
Remember the Sonics alternate jersey you desperately searched for. Shaq’s shoes that inflated when you pressed the “Pump.” “Sirius.” The colorful warm-up suits. The stickers missing from your album. The silent prayers every time you opened a new pack, hoping it wouldn’t be another duplicate.
Our childhood is nothing more than a ramshackle house of memories: poorly built, falling apart, beautiful.
And in your favorite room, there’s a basketball. The source of all that warmth.
The beginning of everything. One step at a time- though never more than two without a dribble, because that’s traveling- until you fell hopelessly in love with the game and everything that comes with it.
Stay a little longer. Don’t go just yet. You’ve just stepped into our world.
Allow us to introduce Giannis. José. Giorgos, Giorgos, and Giorgos. (Yes, you understood correctly: if your name is Giorgos, your chances of getting hired here are surprisingly good.) Nikola. Apostolos. Panos. Vaggelis. Sasa.
The name on the doorbell says “Dimos.” But it also says “Giorgos.” And “Achilleas.” And Kimon. And Cyril. And many, many more.
Take their hand. Don’t be afraid. They know the way. And the journey ahead promises to be a pleasant one, with very little turbulence. The final destination is Planet Basketball, reached through a series of stops: Euroleague. NBA. Local Courts. Interviews. Opinions. Analysis. And all of it, naturally, done the only way we know how.
You’re right: at this point, we’ve probably confused you more than a late David Lynch film- especially if you watched it without the assistance of a few mushrooms that definitely didn’t come from a grocery store.
But now the introductions are over. Open your eyes. Look around. Take a step forward.
Please, take a step forward.
We’re here to stay. We’re here simply to keep you company. You’re still the protagonist, remember?
We hope you like it.
Damn it, if basketball means anything to you, we truly hope you like it.
Now lace up your sneakers and come on in. Somewhere in this whirlwind of creative ambiguity, we forgot to properly introduce ourselves.
Did you catch our name?
It’s the sound of happiness. That sound that never fails to make you smile.
Go ahead. Try it yourself. Drag your sneaker hard across the court.
SKWEEK.
Welcome, stranger.
Welcome home.
