Chicago, Illinois January 2, 2026
Sitting in front of a television in a cramped rental apartment, a man in his thirties sat with a beer in hand, watching the game unfolding on the screen:
CLEVELAND CAVALIERS VS. DENVER NUGGETS.
2nd Quarter.
Denver was down by one with only seconds remaining in the half. Suddenly, the commentator's voice blared: "And here goes Jamal Murray! Final seconds of the second quarter, driving in, soaring for the dunk to take the lead here at Rocket Mortgage FieldHouse!" On the screen, Murray was mid-air, about to slam it home and put the Nuggets on top, but then it happened—Jarrett Allen's hand met the ball at its apex, a clean block that denied the rim. The buzzer sounded, signaling the end of the half.
With a heavy sigh, I decided to change the channel. I stood up with a groan, feeling the cramps that were the bitter fruit of a sedentary life and spending too many hours slumped in front of the TV. My mind couldn't help but replay that last play—not Murray's drive, but the block that kept the Nuggets from taking the lead.
Call me crazy, but since I was a kid, I always preferred being the player who stood between the opposing team and victory. While my peers and friends loved seeing flashy crossovers and monstrous dunks, I preferred to appreciate the centers. To me, it's a position that has been deeply undervalued during the rise of so-called "modern basketball" in recent years.
While watching players like Curry or James hit incredible triples or average six threes a night is amazing, centers have the hardest and, at the same time, the least glamorous job: defending the low post and stopping the opposing star from scoring. While others take the spotlight, centers are often overshadowed, even though they carry the heaviest burdens of the game.
But lately, a few have stood out above the rest. Take the Nuggets with Jokic; that entire team now revolves around him. He isn't a traditional center—he's not the best defender, nor the most athletic—but he has a vision of the game and a basketball IQ that is off the charts. He's the kind of unpredictable player you love to watch, the kind where you don't want to miss a single second of his performance. And his backstory? It's straight out of a movie. I mean, who could have imagined that the 41st pick of 2014 would lead an entire franchise to its first championship ring?
As a boy, I always dreamed of being a professional—of being the one to block shots and fight for rebounds in the paint. But as luck would have it, my dream never came true, and it was all because of my height. And look, I don't have a complex about it; I'm not that short. I'm 5'9". Not short enough to be a dwarf, but not tall enough to be a lanky giraffe. The problem with basketball is that it's a sport fundamentally dependent on height.
Especially for the center position—a role reserved exclusively for giants and people who stand a head taller than you. Imagine me trying to block men nearly seven feet tall with more muscle than I've ever had in my life. One collision and I'd end up with a concussion or a few broken bones. So, no thanks.
Currently, players like Embiid and Jokic are considered the centers defining a new era of basketball—and even more so now with the French gem, Wembanyama, nicknamed "The Alien." It's an era defined by stats and triples. But I still remember when, in the 90s and early 2000s, the NBA lived in the low post. That was the era where centers ruled, and they weren't just any centers. They were the "Big Four": Hakeem "The Dream" Olajuwon, David "The Admiral" Robinson, Shaq "The Diesel" O'Neal, and Patrick Ewing. Those four defined an age where post-play and physicality were the law of the NBA.
Now, I know all four defined an era, but I believe the best of them all was Olajuwon. I know many will say Shaq was unstoppable and had one of the best primes ever, but Olajuwon secured two rings with the Rockets. And yes, it was during Jordan's baseball hiatus, but he did it without a super-team or an elite sidekick (cough, KOBE, cough). Many experts and analysts say he was a center ahead of his time; after all, he had the footwork and skills of a guard. There's a reason Kobe paid him to learn that footwork.
Approaching the kitchen cabinet, I grabbed a glass of water as I reminisced about the last few years of my life. After the divorce, I buried myself in work, living with no social life. My ex-wife kept the house and custody of the kids, while I ended up in this small rental. I still don't understand how my life ended up here. I met my wife in college; once I realized my basketball dream was dead, I focused entirely on my studies, making it into an Ivy League school for Economics on a full scholarship. I met her at a party; it was a "flash" at first sight.
The only problem was that while I got in through sheer effort, she got in through connections; her family owned a major tech company in Silicon Valley. Still, I thought our story would be the typical cliché—the poor guy and the rich girl. Short lesson: it didn't work. The only reason she married me was because she got pregnant during our senior year.
Years later, I found out she was cheating on me. How? I came home early one day to surprise her and found her in bed with another man. After that, she confessed she never loved me. She said she was only with me out of spite, that her true love was the other guy, and that even "our" son wasn't mine—he was his. She simply pinned it on me because the other guy didn't want to take responsibility at the time, but now he was back in her life and ready for fatherhood.
Here's a lesson for everyone: never marry a lawyer. Because even though she was the one who cheated, she kept everything. The house, the cars... and by proving the child wasn't mine, I can't even get close to him now.
Moments like this make me wonder what would have happened if my life had been different. If only there were a world where I could have fulfilled my dreams of playing professionally... Suddenly, I'm snapped out of my thoughts by a wet sensation on my feet. In my daze, I had let the water overflow and spill onto the floor.
With an exasperated sigh, I looked for a cloth to dry the floor, but it seemed I'd had too much beer because my balance wasn't at a hundred percent. Suddenly, I slipped. The last thing I saw was the ceiling of the apartment before feeling a sharp blow to the back of my head.
And then, everything went black.