“I didn’t want to pass him. Out of respect, I was missing them for him.”

Tim Duncan leaned his six foot eleven frame back in the custom-made Eames lounge. Dr. "Will" Severing, the team's longtime house shrink jotted something in the black Rhoida notebook marked #21-s14 with silver sharpie.

"Go on…"

Tim continued to recount the dream, and there he was there again, at the free throw line. To his side slumped hands on knee, Larry Bird—Larry Legend. Still fit in the green jersey with the white #33, but looking every bit the 55 year old man. He breathed heavy, fast. He seemed paler than usual, as if the pink was drained from his sagging chin.

Tim averted his eyes away from home bench. Though shrouded in darkness it's glare stabbed the eyes. Like how the cold sometimes singes.

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Those who dared look up saw a man, six foot six, close cropped hair and beard: Black Armani slacks, crocodile loafers, black silk shirt and fitted black blazer with a flash of red in the lining. On his arm, a sylph in gauze. A waiter respectfully unscrewed a lightbulb over the booth in the back of the restaurant and they sat. He slouching as if owned the place, or at least all the people in it. She, as if proud to be well regarded chattel, Those who couldn't look shivered from a draft that seemed to come inside their marrow. How could they feel so cold on a Miami night?

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In which Phil Jackson can't go back, and Tony Parker can't go forward.

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In which we go one higher and then find a city to live in.

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In which Tony busts beats, 50 treats, Bonner sleeps, and RJ opts out

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In which we linger at the moment before the instant it all changes.

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In which Stakes are High.

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In which NBA money allows for certain sartorial touches.

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In which Count trumps King.

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In which certain Spurs vanish.

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In which we read all about George and forget about Roger

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In which Luke Walton un-dies, Tony Parker dreams of her eyes, and an early bird eats some worms.

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In which RJ feels a lot better, and Phil Jackson chews.

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In which we linger at Hacienda Dracula

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In which George Hill watches Manu, Tony Parker can't believe what he sees, and Michael Finley is out of sight (but never out of mind).

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In which games are played in the dark, and Dracula takes in some art.

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In which Ginobili swats, Dracula spits, and Kobe doesn't know the game he's picked.

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In which Muerto walks la playa, and a player consulates the cards.

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In which Mase misses hits, Popovich skips sips, Finley nips and flips, and Tony takes, hobbles and rolls.

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In which Tony pounds a rock, RJ disappears, and the game continues even if you leave early.

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Gregg Popovich woke in a green translucence of sunlight filtered through empty bottles. He raised his head to focus on a drool stained box score, a nubbed pencil, and sketches upon sketches of utter nonsense disguised as strategies:

• A five guard line up with Tony Parker, George Hill, Keith Bogans, Michael Finley, and Roger Mason Jr?
• Hill at the 4 and Timmy off the bench. Mason at center with Richard Jefferson running the point. Bonner assigned to guard the other team's best perimeter player and run off screens like a mongoloid Reggie Miller?
• Each Spurs to run side-by-side in a perfect horizontal line down the court, back-and-forth in unison, like a rake crossed with a foosball team?

One page was black with dense sketches of spirals superimposed upon the painted area of a basketball court. Another page had ideas for roster changes:

• Ask RC -- Spurs general manager RC Buford -- about signing Stephon Marbury away from his team in China. Is Steve Francis available?
• Trade Ian Mahinmi, DeJuan Blair, and the rights to Tiago Spitter -- his every big man prospect -- for Larry Hughes and Nate Robinson -- undersized, shoot-first guards?
• Ask RC about moving Manu to the Hawks for Joe Johnson Jamal Crawford?

Pop smirked, then glanced at a note written in decisive capitals ...

He could not finish reading it. A blasphemy in his own hand from some forgotten hour? He ripped the paper to shreds, suppressing tears and nausea. He quickly tied the office trashbag. Gripping his stomach, he jogged it to the custodial closet. Pop thought twice: he removed the bag from recycling and double-bagged it. It should be brought back to his office, kept safe.

Popovich shut the door and his stomach gave way -- right on top of his Slovenian hand-woven 2003 Spurs Championship rug. The vomit shined black and smelled like flash-fried stink cheese. It clung noxiously to the weave. Pop would have to throw the the rug out.

What was in that wine?

* * * * *

Even a mid-level NBA player's salary allowed certain amenities. For that Roger Mason Jr. was grateful. The shooting range was a nice local business tax deduction. As the majority partner he could close it off for private use whenever he liked.

Mase shaded the tinted windows of the business entrance. The sun filtered in as a sad yellow, the dried tears of a departing day. Roger wanted to see Gil's gun in that light. He jacked it from its careful wrapping and held it sideways, like a still from a 90s gansta' movie. It did glisten, like super-gold!

He took a self-portrait with the gun, i-phone in his free hand. The Earl Monroe Baltimore Bullets throwback looked bad ass! The photo would be money on his Facebook page ...

Mase gave it a second thought and erased the jpg. Posing in another team's jersey might cost him some San Anotonio love.

He loaded the gun carefully with the shiny .500 S&W Magnum bullets and practiced his swag, shuffling like a mellow pendulum to the range.

Feet squared, he waited until the day's light illuminated its last grain of dust . On the bare moment between night and day he raised his hands and lined the 6.5" barrel with the distant target, custom-printed to look like a basketball rim.

BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM

Mase's arm jellied from the recoil. He laid his pistol down and ran to the target.
 
His closet shot just grazed the margin of the paper net. All misses: 0 for 5.


* * * * *

Coach Jackson leaned over the potential trade memos from the General Manager's office. His Master had nearly drained Pau and wanted fresh talent: Chris Bosch? Jackson grabbed a handful of crikets-and-carob and munched as he fingered his way down the list of Lakers:

Derek Fisher: The Master valued obedience and was pleased.

Lamar Odom, Andrew Bynum, and Luke Walton: all coming along nicely -- Luke, especially.

Ron Artest could still be useful. Jackson always led the laugher when Ron-Ron punched himself in the face. Often Jackson would still chuckle even after he silenced his team with a whistle. His Master was not the humorless drear his reputation suggested. Old nobles like to keep a jester on the court.

Adam Morrison: did he need to be two-deep at jester?

Sasha Vujacic: how did he keep forgetting about him?

Kobe Bryant ...

Jackson leaned back in his chair and worked an antenna out from between his teeth with the nail of his forefinger. Kobe was like Jordan in many ways. His time with the Master would come, soon, like it did for Jordan and all the rest.

* * * * *

Adam Morrison paused the Sega Genesis to observe the time: 4:20. He high-fived himself in the webcam and hit re-start. Lakers vs. Celtics in the '89 playoffs and he was Larry Bird!

Change history, dude.

The mosquito drank her fill. With a buzz, a slender woman in gossamer panties was leaning over Richrad Jefferson's neck. She kissed her fingers as if she were dabbing lip gloss.

The curvy shade pulled RJ's black hoodie over her soy milk shoulders. It was long enough to be worn as calf-length shift dress. It looked great with her brown leather ankle high Beatle boots! She ripped silver stripe from RJ's Spurs uniform and fashioned a chic scarf with her clever talons. She spun for the mirror. She did not see her own disappointment when there was no reflection. She snapped for RJ's wallet on the dresser and scattered its contents about the room. A hotel key ricocheted off of RJ's saved head still he did not stir. 

The slender shadow palmed RJ's  American Express black card. She pulled the hood tight over her black curls and slipped between the door and base-board out to the red evening and Burgundy Street, the French Quarter.

How lucky she felt! Who was that silly man expecting when she knocked on his door and he casually yelled, "Come in." Her master would be pleased.

* * * *

Alone in his office Coach Gregg Popovich drew another card from the ancient deck -- Three of Wands: a scatter of energies, mistakes made through carelessness, and disappointment. RJ? Every game he sucked a little bit more. He would play well for a stretch of minutes, only to seem exhausted and confused for quarters at a time.

Pop burned the card and took a final swig from his wine glass. It seemed odd that the Malbec, a cold weather grape, could be grown so well in California. It was a fantastic vintage. Phil Jackson sent him a third case yesterday, and he was already halfway through it.

Pop drew another card -- Justice: harmony, balance, righteousness, virtue, honor, a considerate person. Tim Duncan, of course.

He dealt four more cards -- 9, 3, 8, 10: Tony Parker, George Hill, Roger Mason Jr., and Keith Bogans. Small ball! That's it!

Pop rummaged under the desk for another bottle to open.

Richard Jefferson actually felt safer in New Orleans than in that Oklahoma hotel.
 
The practice sessions did not bother him. After the first night they grew dull, and RJ snoozed unnoticed in the dark silence. RJ needed the sleep. The dreams left him exhausted.

The first one came the night the Spurs lost in Charlotte, Spurs 72 Bobcats 92. RJ ate alone that night. Even Roger Mason who loved the Cheesecake Factory hurried to the privacy of his room to do something.

The game was no fun. The Bobcats' star, the good-natured Stephen Jackson got the better of RJ, just like he did back when Jackson was the Spur and Jefferson was playing for 2003's Washington Generals: the New Jersey Nets.

The Chicken Madeira and Steak Diane at the Cheesecake Factory consoled, but the Godiva® Chocolate Brownie Sundae ended up being too much. RJ fished for cash so he could leave in a split.

Leaving behind the crisp twenties, Jacksons, RJ walked to his rental mindlessly fingering Jefferson's minted profile on the nickel in his pocket.

Bonk! RJ's head snapped back -- a stonewall?

RJ looked up to barely see tombs on his every side, above ground. He angled through a maze of algae covered monuments -- where was the parking lot? At his every turn he found corridors narrowed until he could no longer turn, only walk where he was led ... He woke shivering in the bathtub, the water steaming about him and just up to his chin.

RJ felt exerted against the Grizzlies, like he running through a court of water, 0 for 6 from the field. He watched from the bench as Mason, Hill and Ginobili fought to come back. Spurs 86 Grizzlies 92. 

The Cheesecake Factory usually made him feel better, but RJ could barely finish his chicken and sun-dried tomatoes. At least he felt safe in the booth. The restaurant's decor being the only constant on so many lonely nights. He imagined it a home. He rested his head on a pillow of fettucini.

Almost instantly the above-ground graves enclosed him. Jefferson ran, only to be steer slotted that much faster.

RJ forced open his lids, the only part of his body he could move. He could not feel, but he saw that he was in the bathtub, again. The water covered his clinched mouth and approached his nostril. He broke free with a spasm.He twisted his back, but he could breathe.

He did not play in New Orleans. RJ felt no part of the victory, Spurs 97 Hornets 90. RJ skipped the Cheesecake Factory this time, even though the entire team would be there.

The tepid hotel room was quiet. He submitted to a dreamless sleep. A slender mosquito perched on his collarbone and kissed the crevice of his neck.

Richard Jefferson felt anxious about spending the night at The Skirvin Hilton, an Oklahoma City hotel rumored to be haunted. Manu mocked him as the team filtered into the pre-dawn team meeting. “I slept like a baby.”

The executive suite was darker than the starless Oklahoma night. RJ waited for his eyes to adjust, but even after several minutes he could make nothing out. Fumbling for a folding chair, RJ stepped on someone's foot. "Mon oeuil!' Tony shouted in obvious pain.

RJ planted his butt down just in time to hear Popovich's gruff, “Thank you." A scratch of tender illuminated drawn puse curtains. Pop lit a Santeria candle adorned with an image of John the Conqueror palming an orange stone.

"Thank you." Pop lit the second candle, a bearded Posidon holding a severed net.

"Thank you to the basketball gods for allowing us to win.” Popovich carefully lit the final candle adorned with the image of five nested pentagrams. He shook out the smoldering match and nodded for assistant coach Hank Egan to draw from the deck of what looked like hand-painted cards.

RJ snuck periferal glances. Roger, Tony, George Hill and DeJuan Blair were transfixed. To his right sat Tim Duncan's peternatural calm, RJ shoulder's relaxed but only a bit.

Hank drew a card and held it for the team to see: the Magician. Pop smiled, looking at Ginobili.

Hank handed the card to Pop, who placed it in the first candle. The room was silent but for the crackle of the burning card and the hum of the climate control. When only ash remained in the candle, Pop blew it out. He carefully filtered the cinders into an envelope and handed it to Hank who promptly sealed it with red wax.

Hank drew a second card, "Three of pentacles -- teamwork, competence, skill, dedication, discipline, progress -- Reversed." RJ noticed Tim wince.

Again, the card was burned and the ashes saved.

Hank drew the last card: the Sun -- Reversed.

As Pop reached to take the card it burst into blue flames. Hank dropped the burning card, "So cold!"

The card shattered on the floor like a thin sheet of ice.

The team meeting adjourned.

The Dark Prince chuckled as Kobe limped to the lockerroom. A clawed hand languidly flipped up the volume on the remote. Kobe's back really was hurting this time, was it -- Dracula chuckled. He cracked his knuckles and Kobe winced in unison. Satisfied, the Dark Prince, finessed the brightness of the flat screen until the telecast was but a shadow on black, Spurs 105 Lakers 85.

Dracula carressed the downy hair of his drink as she nestled, half-undressed on his lap. Manu Ginobili would come to him, like Derek Anderson, and all the rest. The dark lord settled his own accounts.

On the practice court adjoining the Count's chambers, Pau Gasol struggled to open his sleep-encrusted eyes. They burst open, and felt hot in the sockets. Was it the same black gym? How was it that Pau could now see?

* * * *

The lithe figure snuggled down underneath the desecrated altar. Her brown hair cascaded over her glowing white shoulders. She gathered the altar cloth around her as a child a blanket. She held the iPhone, scratched but still working.

Just seconds remained in overtime and the Spurs were behind a point to a young, tenacious Thunder team. An errant pass sent the ball shooting out of bounds. Ginobili dived for it. Miraculously, the Argentine willed and gravity reprieved him for the slightest moment. Suspended horizontal to the ground, to quick for even his own eyes to follow, he shot the ball to George Hill. George found Richard Jefferson for a jumper and the winning basket: Spurs 109, Thunder 108.

The sylph tapped the screen with her manicured talon to play the replay once more. She imagined herself right there on the sidelines ... Ginbilli falls into her lap, neck bared.

She slaps him and he shivers. She grabs at the fine black hair behind his ears he submits. She feels him tense then relax and drains him, at first with feverish gulps. But later, tender, savoring the last drips on her wet lips. His will seeps and he rests his head on her bosom.

She lets him live long enough to forsake everyone in supplicant whispers: first his team, then his fans, his friends, his country, his wife ...

He will rise again in three days hers and hers alone.

The figure with the face of woman drew the altar clothe closer and with a shiver of fantasy, replayed the highlight once more.

* * * *

Roger Mason carefully removed the bundled towels from his duffel. He assured himself once more the locker room was empty, then unwrapped the gun Gil left with him. A solid gold 6.5" Smith & Wesson .500 Revolver -- huge like something from Halo or one of Timmy's glossy comic books. At least it's out of Gil's hands, Roger rationalized, but he did not suppress his smile. Roger knew how to shoot.

What exactly did Gilbert Arenas fear? Arenas was never dangerous crazy, just funny crazy. He pulled a gun on Jarvis Crittendon in the locker-room. Jarvis was Gilbert's backup at guard. Gilbert kept going on about he once played for the Lakers, and that Jarvis is "one of them."

One of who? What did Gil keep mumbling: Sand Pyres? Lamp Criers?

Spurs 97 Washington 86

Roger Mason long since finished his Herb Crusted Salmon Salad. He would have much rather hang out with his family, especially after playing a great game in his hometown D.C. against his former team .But Gil's text seemed desperate:

mt @cheasteak factory@3 vv nt jk :<

Meet me at the Cheesecake Factory at 3, not a joke? But what did "vv" mean? It wasn't like Gil. He used to be so scrupulous about capitalization, grammar and punctuation, even when texting.

"Money! Money Mase!"

Roger nodded when he heard his nickname, earned by fearlessness in the clutch.

Gil? Hidden behind the thick drapes lining the back dining room. Before Roger could acknowledge him, Gilbert "Agent Zero" Arenas was jogging around the empty booths in a mockery of casual.  Along the way Gil snatched a plate of Certified Angus Hanger Steak with Shiitake Mushrooms, Onions, Bean Sprouts, Wasabi Mashed Potatoes and Tempura Asparagus from waitress making her way from the kitchen -- the Cheesecake Factory's famous Hibachi Steak.

Gil chewed as he slid into Roger's booth.  He talked incessantly through mouthfuls of Shitake. What was he saying? Campfires? Damp briers?

Arenas used to be one of the most talented guards in the league. Just two years ago he dropped 60 on Kobe and the Lakers in L.A. The next season the knee problems started. Gil was in and out of the line up and had never been the same. It was like he was cursed; the Wizards actually played better without him. Taking Zero's minutes, Mase got some burn and the Spurs got interested. The Wizards let Mase go thinking Gil would be back, but Gil never really came back.

Just last week he pulled a gun in the locker room. What happened?

Gil swallowed the last of the lettuce garnish washing it down with the watery dregs of Roger's Malibu Colada. Gil pulled the apron of a waiter as he passed the booth.  With grunts and points he ordered a Four Seasons Pizza, two plates of Road Side Sliders and a Peach Smoothie, all presumably on Mason's check.

With more food on the way, Gil made a show of relaxing, draping his arms over the booth back. He scooted close to Roger. Gil's breath smelled of fermented Red Bull.

Oblivious to Roger's wincing, Gil drew closer and whispered, "At Staples in LA, after the 60 point game -- I felt great. Just messing around in the empty stands hooting, swagging out. I wandered into the Lakers locker room...

"A door was open in the back, it was some sort of executive dressing room or something, painted this deep purple, almost black. It was getting cleaned or something, and a locker was open. In it I saw these immaculate black kicks, not Nike or anything. They looked custom-made, Italian. Butter. On the tongue there was a single drop of red, a ruby or something... no one was looking...

"Mase, I took a poop in his shoes!"

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The first 10 installments in the Ginobili vs Dracula series.

WVATS:  I thought this would be a good time to get some extra attention on this excellent series.

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It was a relief play to play in Phoenix thought Kobe. The owner wouldn't go there, Kobe thought. He didn't need him. But with Ron's concussion, and Derek Fisher wilting before the Suns...

Lakers 103 Phoenix 118

Phil Jackson and the owner were silent in the team meeting afterward, all six light-less hours. The whole while Kobe could hear a ball dribble at center court. At first it sounded like distant drips of water. After the first few hours, Kobe sensed his teammates' pain. On Kobe's left and right, Lamar Odom and Jordan Farmar stifled grunts and tears. The dribble pounded as if a hammer set upon the skulls.

The cold dank air seared. It felt like meat hooks in his lungs when he breathed. When Coach Jackson finally whistled, Kobe's ears popped.

"Ten wind-sprints in the parking lot then you are all excused," The coach's order felt like a reprieve.

Steady throughout the night, even Kobe unconsciously grasped for breath as street-light gloom breached the pitch. They could barely stand, but they would run.

Jackson whistled once more, "Except for you, Pau, the owner wants to speak to you."

Pau Gasol collapsed three steps from the door. The Spaniard covered his face with bandaged wrists. He would not cry, Kobe hoped.

Kobe taunted his teammates along. They did not play hard enough -- they did not want to win bad enough. The owner and coach Jackson are right, they needed to be scared.

But they needed to be scared of me, thought Kobe, as he picked up speed for an eleventh lap.

The thin presence in black casual wear rose from his seat. A Laker girl rushed to drape a cape over his shoulders. He motioned with a left hand as if conducting a choir and boos rained down from the stands. In his absence, foam fingers and water bottles littered the Staples Center court.

Lakers 87, Cleveland 102

Dracula hated Christmas. He suppressed a smile when he saw the small box on the seat of his black Mercedes SUV, wrapped in black with red bats and inverted pentagrams. A gift from Phil Jackson. "Ooooh a present!" squealed the Laker Girl as she bounced onto the passenger seat. He would unwrap everything later.

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