Kevin Durant stands in the middle of the coliseum floor with a sword in his hand and sweat on his brow and he shouts at you and me and the gods and gives no cares. He is the commander of the Armies of Bricktown, and he will have his vengeance. In this life or the next. He has his question and he screams it because inside voices are for the hearts that have already fainted.
See, the guy wants to know one thing: Are you not entertained?
First, the controlled block. Nothing fancy. Me no likey the frills right now, Durant says. He palms it off the backboard soft enough for it to just fall to him. He stays inbounds (maybe), and corrals the ball. Then he sets lasers to fire and squares his body to the rest of the court and children start weeping and women start forgetting that they have husbands.
Second, the Atlantic to the Pacific drive from one end of the court to the other. This is a poem that lasts for 94 feet. He remixed Pioneers! O Pioneers! on this foray. He’s getting his weapons ready and he’s following well in order. We cannot tarry here, dudes. We must march, my homeys. Some unlucky Mav is about to bear the brunt of his danger. Kevin Durant, his youthful, sinewy self, all the league on him depends.
Third, the mash. Detonation. Oddjob in Goldeneye. Yoshi in Mario Kart. Using Da Bomb in NFL Blitz 2000. Unfair perfection is what I’m saying. Moment of silence for Chris Kaman right there. He died for two seconds. Durant, because he’s a real American hero and a GI Bro, must have been mad at Kaman for playing for Germany in the Olympics. That slam jam was brought to us courtesy of the red, white, and blue. If Durant stood at the fifty yard line of JerryWorld and held his arms straight up, I think he’d be able to touch the bottom of the jumbo-tron. Does anyone call him “Arms”? Because his arms are so long, you guys. Someone should look into that. Arms.
Oh. He also had 40 this game. God was super cool to give basketball fans Kevin Durant.