I always knew I'd die in a gym.
Not in some heroic way. Not diving for a loose ball or drawing up the game-winner in a playoff huddle. No, just like this—sweat-soaked and alone, under the flickering light of a busted rec center scoreboard, launching one-legged free throws with a back tighter than a rusted vise.
This was a Tuesday. October 3rd, 2023. I was 63.
The air smelled like mildew and floor wax. I'd slipped in after hours, like always. The janitor knew me. Or used to. My shot was still clean, even if everything else had fallen apart.
One bounce. Two. Hold the seam. Up.
Swish.
I chuckled. Even gravity respected form.
But the next one clanged hard left. My chest seized. A real one this time. I dropped the ball. It thudded off into the shadows.
So this was it.
I sank to my knees, wheezing. The pain ripped through my ribs like someone had jammed a crowbar into my sternum and leaned on it.
Couldn't call for help. Couldn't even reach my phone. It buzzed once in my jacket pocket—probably spam, or the bank, or my ex. Wouldn't matter in ten seconds.
My vision tunneled. The rafters blurred. I blinked up at the dim EXIT sign and thought about all the places I never made it out of.
Then, like a glitch in my brain's dying projector, a flicker of light—
Kobe.
April 13th, 2016. I'm on my couch. A fifth of bourbon sweating in my hand. The room's dark, TV glow bouncing off the bottle.
Kobe drops 60. On 50 shots, yeah. But damn it—every footwork pivot, every jab step, every fadeaway off the glass... clinical violence.
I say it out loud, to no one: "That's how you leave it all on the floor."
I don't cry. But I don't blink either. Just rewind the fourth quarter on loop. Watching a man do what he was born to do.
"You were born to kill," I whisper. "Me? I was born to teach killers how."
I blacked out on the floor that night, heart grinding to a stop.
I expected black. Or nothing.
Instead:
You have died.
SYSTEM INITIALIZATION… NBA: SECOND POSSESSION.
Year: 2003. Team: Cleveland Cavaliers. Age: 19.
SP: 0 | TP: 0 | TEMPLATE SLOT: [EMPTY]
My eyes snapped open. Blinding fluorescent lights. Tape around my knees. Smell of fresh sweat, rubber soles, and a Gatorade cooler.
A voice barked nearby: "You good, rookie? Get your ass taped up. LeBron's starting warmups."
LeBron?
I sat up on a training table. Looked at my hands.
Young. Smooth. No arthritis. No wedding ring. No liver spots. My knees didn't ache. My back didn't scream.
Somewhere, a ball bounced with rhythm.
I caught my reflection in a wall mirror.
Oh... oh, hell no.
What the hell did you do, Marcello?