Didn't Derek Fisher once have a pool party in his backyard interrupted by Matt Barnes who had driven five hundred miles to kick his ass? And they threw fists with a bunch of little kids watching? I'm pretty sure that happened. Any attempt to tell me that this incident did not, in fact, happen will be met with absolute denial. This is the reality I have chosen for myself. A reality where Derek Fisher gets his ass beat like a pinata.
Original description below:
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“Hello, this is Grand Commissioner Stern.”
Scott Brooks closed his eyes, steeling himself for the confrontation to come. “Commissioner, this is operative 26. I fear I have made a grave mistake.”
“Continue.”
“Our basketball unit recently acquired a new player, a man by the name of Derek Fisher. There is no room for him in our rotation, and not only will he not play, he quite simply can’t play due to his advanced age. The other team’s employees see us make these illogical personnel decisions, and they think that the success of our unit is the result of luck in the draft and nothing else. I am beginning to fear an ouster.”
“Operative 26, this is a very serious problem. Nothing must tarnish the image of my franchises. Nothing!” Scott could hear a fist being slammed on a desk. “Thankfully for your employment status, there are ways that this can be rectified, and your idiotic acquisition will be seen as the savvy forethought of an experienced unit leader.”
Scott was confused. He could see no way to portray Derek Fisher’s useless presence in anything but the harshest of terms. “Commissioner, I’m afraid I don’t follow you.”
Stern laughed, the crackly nature of the telephone making the laughter sound even more deranged than usual. “I would not expect a peon such as yourself to foresee what grand machinations I put into motion on a daily basis. But am I not a mean fellow, so I will deign to explain it to you in the simplified ideas of an ignorant layperson.”
Stern continued, “Tomorrow, in your contest against Unit 21, known to the populace as the Rockets, we will instruct one of their players to injure your star point guard, Russell Westbrook. You will then start Reggie Jackson as your point guard, and the decrepit old man will be your backup. If all goes according to plan, this ‘injury’ will elevate Kevin Durant to unfathomable heights of superstardom, and your error will be erased from the public memory.”
The elegance of Stern’s plan nearly brought tears to Scott’s eyes. “Commissioner, thank you. Your benevolence surely knows no bounds. The NBA is truly in great hands.”
Stern did not acknowledge Scott’s adulations. “I have one more thing before we terminate the call. You may be surprised at Derek Fisher’s performance. He can still shoot three-pointers pretty well, and although he has never been known as a distributor, he is a grizzled vet with championship experience. You would do well not to underestimate him.”
“Thank you, Commissioner.”
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