Parents, family, friends yadadaydyadyaydadadadydyadayda . . . . . In those quiet moments through the day, when my thoughts roam free - unabated, unbound, distracted. My mind drifts to the crossover through the legs step back jumper, or the right to left cross with the right hand finish. I cannot finish with my left even in my dreams. Broken ankles hurt less than bruised egos, whatever. Step throughs, step backs, hesitations, cross, in and out, through the legs, behind the back... and rise on up for that sweet, sweet floater. It doesn't clang the front of the rim or miss it entirely here, no - nothing but the soaking wet splash of the net, like a tiny, tiny human baby dropping feet first into the endless ocean. Yes, the baby survives. Then I dribble the baby through the other figments, and dunk it down hard. I can dunk, and I can travel with a baby. No whistles, no and ones, no foul calls, no technicals, just me, playing with other mes. And I beating all the