Championship Mentality

I hear the man say, “Now, just hand it over, and I won’t have to bash your goddamn skull in.” He is about 6’5, tattoos run from his burly shoulders down to his bony fingers. He wears a wedding band that rings against the tire iron with each smack against his palm. Two others surround him. One reaches into his waistband behind him, but I can see that there is no gun there. He is smaller than the other two. His hands tremble, and his knees wobble slightly, but noticeably. He is hidden behind the others for the most part from Rodericks angle, so perhaps the goons knew of this beforehand. The third criminal stands directly beside the first, he dons a blonde buzzcut and pasty white skin, giving his head the appearance of a tennis ball. He pushes Roderick down to the floor, who quickly gets back to his feet before being pressed against the wall.

“If you think,” Roderick begins to speak. His voice a myriad of grunts sputtered out through strained vocal cords as the air escapes a compressed trachea. The crook lightens up a bit to allow him to speak. “If you think, I’m handing over my championship ring to a couple of fucking losers, you might as well kill me now. I worked my whole life for this sh-” He is cut off by a loud smack as the blonde man strikes him across the face sending Roderick staggering backwards.

Allow me to explain a little. The man being extorted right now, that is Roderick Barringer. He is the star point guard for the Baltimore Crows. He is a 7 time All-Star, a 2 time MVP, a 12 year veteran, and as of last year, a World Champion. He stands 6 foot even, one of the smaller players in the league, probably why these thugs chose to target him. Despite his size, he has a skillset and athleticism that allow him to dominate the league. I would know.

I am Jacob Frost. I am a center for the Las Vegas Aces. I am a one time All-Star, a 0 time MVP, a 14 year veteran, and as of last year, still a loser. I should give myself some credit. Our team did manage to make it all the way to the finals. I’ve always had a distaste for Barringer. He was a showboat. A pretty-boy. One of the faces of the league. And as luck would have it, the leading scorer of the team we would match up against in the Finals. We never stood a chance. They swept us, 4 games to 0. 

See, throughout my career, I have played against Roderick Barringer 24 times. 22 of them I lost. Across 5 teams, across 12 years, across 24 games, I beat Roderick only 2 times. With every victory, he would pop off for some of his best games every season, always against me. One time, three years ago, he pointed directly at me following a switch and shot the ball right where he stood, 25 feet from the basket, sinking it for the game winner. They only needed 1 point to tie. It was entirely unnecessary. It was disrespectful. Most of all, it was the talk of the sports world for the next two days minimum. The two times I did manage to come out on top all he would say, and he never lied, was, “We’ll get you next time.”

When we both reached the Finals, the first time in my career but the fourth of his, I don’t know what I expected. He annihilated us. 34 points, 8 assists, and 2 steals a game throughout the series on 60% shooting. It was a masterclass. He accepted victory with no grace. He rubbed it in throughout the entire series. He taunted our crowd, my teammates, and me personally on a level that didn’t border on disrespectful, it simply was. So, despite being 7 '1 and 270 pounds, and an experienced fighter given my enforcer role on the team, I didn’t immediately jump to help Roderick. Well, that and the fact that we were set to face them in the Finals once again starting next week. In fact, I was almost enjoying his misery, and potential injury. 

Me and Roderick had both been at a somewhat sketchy motel, tucked away from the hotel most of our teammates would reside. He liked to stay away from the team, focus on himself. I will not confirm or deny my reasons for being there that night. Only thing that matters is I was. And if i'm being honest with you, I was kind of hoping they would just beat him to death right there in front of me. Okay alright, maybe not that far, but a little injury? Even just for the first few games of the series? They hadn’t seen me at this point, I was hiding, smoking a cigarette behind the dumpster. I wasn’t a star, but at my height people always ask and want a selfie. Even if they don’t recognize you, they’ll just ask a friend who knows about sports later. I was intoxicated so naturally I wasn’t in the mood. 

However, something came over me. I’d like to say it was the good in me. Courage, maybe. The human nature of helping a fellow man in need. But as I recall, my reasons were much more selfish. See, I was fully content with watching him get his ass kicked for as long as it lasted. I shamefully was even a bit giddy at the idea. Then, I realized. There was only one thing left that I could do to cement my basketball legacy. I didn’t just have to win the championship, I didn’t just have to defeat the Crows. No, I had to defeat Roderick Barringer. With our offseason acquisitions, I think I have a chance this year.

I snap out of my train of thought, and I see Roderick on the floor. The blonde individual holds a boot to his chest while the tattooed man raises the tire iron in the air. “One more chance.” He tells Roderick. “Hand over the jewels, or this tire iron is about to put up 20 rebounds on 12 points of your fucking skull.” The man says with a chuckle. “And then they’ll be picking up your brains for 3 blocks.”

“Hey!” I yell from behind the dumpster. I wait a moment for dramatic effect, and I step to the side revealing myself. The smallest of the group, the one I noticed the cowardice in before, is the first to look upon me. His eyes widen, he glances me up and down, and he immediately flees the scene. Now, it is just me, Barringer, the blonde thug, and the tall man with the tire iron. 

Immediately, I run towards the blonde man and go to lay him out, hoping to skew the odds in our favor. I draw my fist back as I near the target and I put all of my power into one strike hoping for the early elimination. However, he dodges out of the way and I stagger, nearly falling over. He puts me in a headlock bringing me to one knee as the bigger man raises his weapon. In a panic move, fearing for my life, I swing my large arm backwards driving my elbow straight into the blonde’s face. I feel his orbital pop and the bones of his nose pulverize to near dust. Larger fragments of his nose bone dispersed like shrapnel above a river of blood which began to flow from it. However, as I am down on a knee, the large man strikes me with his weapon. I am just able to block it, sending a wave of pain throughout my forearm. Luckily, I am uninjured, but I am sent completely to the floor. 

I roll to my back and look directly above me. I once again see the man raise the tire iron. There is a heinous look of excitement in his eyes as he targets me and prepares for the kill. Surely, this will be the end, I think to myself. As I stare up at the man, fully expecting the final blow upon my head, I see Roderick appear in the air behind him. He must have jumped 45 inches into the air based on my angle. He struck the thug in the back of the head with a superman punch that would make Roman Reigns proud. The crook stumbles and falls to the ground. Once again Roderick jumps into the air and stomps onto the man's ribs. He lets out an awful wheeze. Roderick grabs the tire iron, striking the incapacitated thug twice. Finally, I lumber to my feet and stop Roderick before he goes too far.

He stares at me for a second after. I see a confused, glossy look in his eye. I am unsure if he is concussed, trying to figure out who I am, or both. “Hey, thanks alot.” He finally tells me. I can’t tell if he even recognizes my face. They did rough him up a bit before my intervention. He has a sincere look on his face as he extends his hand to me. I shake his hand, and for a moment, I feel no animosity. Despite our history, all the embarrassment, the countless painful nights he had given me that he never even knew of. The days he would wake up to celebrations and I would awake to humiliation. With this handshake, I saw him only as another human. A fellow-man. A friend, even. 

“Don’t mention it.” I tell him, I try to think of a witty line, something fitting of my saving of the day. Who knows, maybe one day he will write a book and include me. With his charisma and brash attitude, perhaps a talking head. I almost come up with something, but before I can, he continues. 

“Thanks for my second championship you bum.” He says as he flips me the bird before dusting himself off and walking away. I’m not sure what I expected, that’s just the kind of guy he was. In all of my years, I should have known this. I hardly even feel good about my actions now, knowing that if the roles were reversed, he would never do the same. That cold-bloodedness, I suppose that's just the championship mentality.