My most sincere hope for the future:Upon your first moments in the afterlife you will find yourself amongst people who's favorite topic of conversation on Earth was the weather, who all drive late model American cars with bench front seats and who were raised during the era when white Americans forgot how to dance.
You'll get out of that LeSabre in front of your new home. Walking towards it, you peek inside - Televisions. Huge televisions whose screens will reserve the majority of available horizontal space in each room. And on every screen there will be basketball.
You will arrive at the door, drop your keys, bend over, pick them up, drop them again, bend at the knees this time, return and open the door. Inside, your butler will approach you with a Fresca and the magical remote with only three buttons. You will reciprocate with a hug that even makes you uncomfortable, pull away and head for the sofa, which will feel just like a lightly padded folding chair and will have a desk in front of it for you to slap and knock your Fresca on the floor. On the desk will be placed a set of headphones with a microphone for you to yell into.
You'll don the headset. Sit. Making yourself comfortable, you'll detect your ears starting to burn as you'll look up at the largest screens you've ever seen, and they'll all be playing your favorite commercials (It's DiGiornos!! McDonald's!!) and as the first game breaks from commercial you'll see a familiar face, but you won't recognize his uniform. As you turn your head from this game to the next, the same will occur, another known face and unknown jersey. On every TV this will happen, when the referees will blow their whistles and play begins. The sofa feels as it could swallow you whole. After a minute or so your still sharp basketball mind begins to search the games for a single well placed screen. Nothing. Your mind races. Defense. From some kid just trying to make a name for himself, baby. Your microphone must be turned off. Bad jumper follows more isolation play. A stat shows one team shooting 3-12 for the charity stripe...
Suddenly there are no more commercials. You call for the butler but can't even hear the sound your voice makes. You do hear the lock of the door thrown while you're finally beginning to smell the singe the headphones are placing on your scalp. Your favorite players are on the bench. No JJs. No Trejans. Their eyes burn from the end of the bench. "You put us here, Dick" People with crazy names like Kobe and LeBron who you've never seen miss wide open jump shots over lazy and don't listen to their coaches.
You look at the clock: ∞
