He came to me again last night as I languished in bed unable to sleep. I awoke with a pressure on my chest, at the end of my bed sat the specter, his skin sloughing off shadowed mists. He spoke to me, in a husky voice and pausing every few words:
“You can’t stop me…I’m still in charge of this team…all the starters will play till their deaths…Terry Stotts is my meat puppet, a corporeal sack of flesh to do my ghost bidding…”
Unable to move, I lay in utter fear lest I be forced to play forty minutes a game in a blow out victory. He continued to ramble through a post-game interview, I continued to fear for my life. He got up off the end of my bed, thanked me, and then yelled:
“ONCE THE STARTERS HAVE THEIR BONES AND KNEES GROUND INTO OBLIVION, I NATE MCMILLAN, WILL TAKE THEIR SOULS!!!”Then he disappeared in a giant plume of smoke, I got up and threw my sheets into the wash. I realized that as badly as I want to believe in this team, the truth is out there and he visits me at night: as much as things have changed, they are still the same.