Originally published in SLAM 136
The shots weren’t falling, the first half was going to hell, and the tall, weird-looking blond kid in the third row just wouldn’t shut up. “Yo Webber, you SUCK! Hey Jalen, why are your shorts so big? Nice haircut, Juwan! Duke is kicking your ass!”
During the next time out, Webber motioned to Jalen. “Yo, what’s up with that kid?” “No idea,” Rose said, tugging on his shorts. “How old you think he is? 12?”
Somehow, the kid heard. “I’m 9! And my dad drove me all the way from Grand Rapids to watch you guys play, not listen to you talk. Aren’t you supposed to be the Fab Five? Why don’t you just try and win?”
Try they did, forcing overtime, but in the end, the Blue Devils proved too much. And as the Wolverines trudged off, the kid—who had never shut up—drew himself to his full height and let loose one final salvo: “HEY LOSERS! MY NAME IS CHRISTOPHER ZANE KAMAN, AND YOU’D BETTER REMEMBER ME!”
Howard stopped and turned, looked him straight in the eye. For the first time all night, the kid seemed to shrink back. “Yeah, I’ll remember you,” Howard said. “You can count on that.”
