Guys, look at this starting lineup:
THOSE PLAYERS ARE ALL AFRICAN-AMERICAN. I started checking box scores on sports-reference.com. The box scores for every game only go back to 2010-11. EVERY GAME HAD A WHITE GUY STARTING. HISTORY CANNOT COMPREHEND THIS EVENT. Today is the dawn of a new era, folks.
Here’s how (I imagine) it definitely happened:
Mike Krzyzewski stares to the other end of the table. He’s in a seedy Cleveland bar, where the ping-pong is free of charge, but the players usually put their own price on the outcome of games. Mike’s coat is lying on the floor, tossed with little regard to reveal the navy blue shirt that witnesses swear was sky blue when the game began. Coach K has his paddle and ball in hand, knowing his only edge is the fact that he gets to serve. His gaze has not left his adversary, as if even a blink would be a sign of forfeit.
“Game point, your serve,” the challenger says with a wry smirk. Al Sharpton’s got Krzyzewski on the edge, and he knows it. For a moment, he feels sorry for the coach. The man is a fiery competitor, and a god damned excellent player on the table. But, no, fuck that. This is time to win, the time to let Krzyzewski know that he doesn’t deserve to be in the presence of the motherfucking Beast of Brownsville. Sharpton gets in his stance, smirk still attached, and blows a kiss to Krzyzewski.
Krzyzewski starts huffing, his eyes valleys widened by the rivers of rage. He hits the ball with everything he has. It flies off the paddle, bounces hard off of Coach K’s own side, and flies over the table without touching it again. “FUCK! SHIT! MOOSE WARTS!” Krzyzewski screams, either at the table, the paddle, or the fates. Sharpton snickers, knowing he was the agent of metamorphosis that turned this into THIS.
“You know what that means, Mike,” Al says to the vanquished.
“IT GOES AGAINST THE FABRIC OF THIS COUNTRY!”
“A bet is a bet. If you didn’t want to do this, maybe you shouldn’t have come in here running your mouth. You’re going to start five black players. On national television. For the whole world to see.”
“GRRAAHHHHHHH OKAY, AL. SHIT.”
“Be lucky. My original wager was to shoot a re-make of Flowers for Algernon with you and Zoubek.”
“You’re…you’re a monster! You’re subhuman!”
“OH WHO’RE YOU CALLING AN APE YOU RAT-FACED MOTHERFUCKER? BAD FUCKING MOVE, BUDDY.”
“I didn’t mean that! I love bla-”
“I’m fucking with you, Mike. It’s all good. God, making you white people feel uncomfortable is still my favorite.”
“Oh, so that game was really just for fun? No bl…black starting five? You were just trying to get a rise out of me?”
“Fuck no. That’s still on for sure. Have fun watching dunks, you weak-serving bitch.”