(The following may or may not be completely fictional. Like really, really fictional.)
It's the first day of training camp at Toyota Center. Players enter the locker room jubilantly and greet fellow teammates. Aaron Brooks and David Andersen discuss pick and rolls while tying their shoes. Kyle Lowry gives Chuck Hayes a friendly love tap. Jack Sikma shatters a mirror.
Suddenly, everything turns silent. Each player stops what he is doing and looks up as Brian Cook walks into the locker room. He is ten minutes late, and is wearing a shiny new Rolex on his wrist.
"What's up fellas? Good work day, eh guys?" says Cook with a goofy smile on his face. Nobody responds. Cook passes by Joey Dorsey and shoots him a dorky Arthur Fonzarelli smile while nodding his head. Joey flips him the bird and goes back to his Hustler.
Cook, in trying to get to his locker, accidentally knocks over Brent Barry's Scrabble board. "Sorry, bro," he says, and walks off, somehow still smiling. Barry yells, "Drat!" and scrambles to repair the game. And yes, he was playing himself.
Cook takes a seat in front of his locker next to Luis Scola. He looks at Luis with a stupid grin on his face. Scola does not look back.
"Hey Luis - how's it been? Heard you tore it up for Argentina in the FIBA championships recently." He tries to break the ice by giving Scola a polite smack on the shoulder. "That's so tight man, really. Big time stuff, bro."
Scola gets up and leaves, shaking his head and muttering something in Spanish.
"I gotcha, man. Gotta get your head in the game. Game face, bro," says Cook, chunking up a deuce in the process.
Daryl Morey enters the locker room and begins to mingle around with players, simultaneously asking how each is feeling while trying to remember each's SIPP (Successful Inbounds Pass Percentage). He then spies Cook in the corner and walks up to him.
"Hey, Brian - hope the 3.5 mil is treating you well. All ready for basketball season?" he asks. He prevents himself from adding, "Stab any backs lately?" out of general human respect.
"I'm great, Daryl!" says Cook, showing off his Rolex and matching golden slippers. "I'm in good shape and shooting well." Morey immediately whips out his Blackberry and Tweets this, hoping other GM's will take notice.
"Good to hear," says Morey. "Listen, Rick and I have been talking, and we think that, well..."
"What? What is it?" asks Cook, intrigued.
"We think you should step inside the three point line from time to time."
Cook sits silent. He then looks around him in all directions, completely petrified. "Uh...*laughs*....that's a good one, Daryl. Really, great stuff." His palms begin to sweat like giant rainforest leaves.
"I'm serious, Brian. It's time you actually played like you were 6'10 and not 5'10. We think you can be a very *gulp* effective...rebounder."
Cook grabs Morey by the collar, now sweating profusely. He shrieks, "Listen, man, that's not why I took that contract extension. I don't like it in the paint. I just can't go there. It freaking scares me, man. You can't make me go in there. You can't let me! I can't do it!"
The entire locker room goes silent. Morey is shaking in fear, having no idea what the hell could have provoked such a response. He then whispers to Cook, "Look, it's fine. I was kidding. You can ride the bench and chuck up a three pointer every month or so, if you want. It will all be okay. Now, can you let go of me?"
Cook looks Morey dead in the eye, his own eyes slowly watering up. He then loosens his grip, looks down and takes a deep breath, and then looks back up with a hearty smile. "Nothing going on here boys!" he croaks. "Just a little chit-chat."
Everyone else shakes their heads, stands up, and walks out of the locker room to practice. Morey looks at Cook. "You...you are just a sad, strange little man. I am going to trade you. I'll find some genius way, I swear on my brand spankin' new contract I will." He then turns and leaves to go watch practice.
Cook remains on the locker room bench. He then bends over, reaches into his bag, grabs his contract, and gives it a nice smooch. Slowly, he stands up, takes a few warmp-up hops, and jogs out of the locker room, humming "Eye of the Tiger" to himself as if it all actually mattered.