The wolves are dead. I killed the last of them last night.
Then I sang the chorus of Kanye’s Dark Fantasy over them.
Then I slept.
Then, I had a dream.
Then, within that dream, Shawn Kemp came and spoke to me.
He told me that, although he WAS the Reign Man, I am now. I awoke and went to grab you, Diary. I had to tell you because you are all I know.
Shawn told me the ocean I seek is five miles west of my current location. My camp, for the moment, is set at the base of a hill in what used to be called California.
Shawn and I spoke of his old days in Seattle and he said he harbored no ill will towards me or my old Thunder teammates. He spoke with Gary and Detlef in Heaven and they told him the same. The last time I saw Detlef was on Parks and Recreation. I had always hoped to be with him and Roy as a part of Entertainment 720’s NBA clientele. Jean Ralphio and Tom did bring me joy. Tom showed me just how important it is to treat yoself, and although I live in a wasteland, I try to heed his words daily. Alas, me and the show, it was not meant to be.
Oh, Diary. I am rambling my wants at you. I’ll get back to it.
Even Xavier McDaniel was at peace with the team having moved, and he is at peace with nothing. All these former Sonics offering up their blessings! What a weight lifted, Diary.
I must confess, though, I did try to pry when I spoke with Shawn. The stories of his sexual exploits stretched far as Manute’s arms and as wide as Oliver Miller’s hips throughout the league. I came around well after his playing days were over and still the stories numbered in the trillions it seemed.
Every time I asked him about his dalliances, though, he simply lifted his hand and said, “My reign is over. It is now your turn.”
Perhaps that means I will find women soon. One can pray, Diary. Rihanna, where have you gone? Can we find love in this hopeless place?
If the ocean is where he says it is, and I do believe him, I should be there by tomorrow.
Not a moment too soon either, Diary. I am wearing down like Ewing’s knees and the world is crumbling with me.
The sky is so grey it looks dead. Like the patch in Rasheed’s hair.
I am more tired than I’ve ever been. As tired as “Hand Down, Man Down” was during Mark Jackson’s reign of terror as a NBA broadcaster.
It is a good thing that nobody else is around for I am more irritable than Pop fielding a question from Sager.
I imagine I have one more entry to give to you, Diary, before we are done. I may die. I may find people and no longer need the companionship your pages offer. But mostly, you are coming to an end, Diary. That is why we must stop soon. Because you will stop soon. You have very few pages left.
I treat your moleskinned self as C.S. Lewis treated his in A Grief Observed. Once the pages run out, the story, my story, is over. There is no need to prolong it.
It is important to know when it is time to retire from writing, just as it is important to know when to retire from basketball. Knowing when you are done, that is a great skill to have. Not all people have it.
Just look at Shaq.
The ocean is now what the Larry O’Brien trophy used to be. I take nothing for granted, though. I felt I was close to the trophy, and then the world was ripped from my hands by the event. There are no guarantees.
I will lay on this world a press that Nolan Richardson would gush over.
I have one more day till I reach the sea.
Till then, I leave you with the prophet Rozay.
Boss, it’s what I does
I get money everyday, everyday I does
That Benz, is how I ride
Black flag on the left, two hoes and ride