The Prelude
The country of Oneioea (AHN-yo-uh) lies in the middle of the Ocean of the Swords. You can’t miss it, unless you’re looking for it. The population of 10,000,000 exports plenty of coal, carrots and titanium throughout the world. But Oneioea produces something with slightly more entertainment value: crappy soap operas and basketball talent.
 
For now, we’ll focus on the latter.
 
Our story begins in 1968. The capital city Murdlock had secured enough funding to build a recreation center and a gym, the first of its kind. Murdlock lies in the southeast corner of the land with a handful of smaller cities and towns surrounding. The gym contained a basketball court, as well as a walk-around track above the court. The track was typically used by the older crowd. The gym had very little burn outside of a place for kids to play tag and indoor kickball in the summer. The only two basketballs were a little underinflated. The rims were slightly rusted and the nets, bought used, dangled on the strength of a handful of strings.

Along came Cameron Murphy Jr. Cameron was a superstar athlete at Murdlock High, playing basketball and baseball. He played a little bit in college overseas, but ultimately came back home after graduation, just as the recreation center was built. He missed the game and wanted to give it back to the community that helped raise him. He applied to work as a camp counselor with the rec. However, as Cameron tried to persuade the rec director to hold basketball clinics for children, he was met with a polite no. Basketball just wasn’t going to generate enough revenue and there wasn’t enough money to upgrade the equipment.  

He had a basketball in his car, a 1962 Watson Mountainmover. He donated it, but the director still said no. Cameron gathered some fishing nets and mustered a rough make-shift twine to hang from the rim. It didn’t look half-bad. Alas, the director denied again.

Cameron didn’t care. He loved the game, a love the city didn’t reciprocate. Sure, Murdlock High had teams and played all over the country, but that was high school. The fans consisted of the parents who forced their kids to play just to stay in shape. It wasn’t a profit driver by any means.

Against the wishes of the director (really without the director knowing), Cameron, who had a key, unlocked the gym at 11:00 at night. He turned on a single light that hung over the center of the complex. He approached the north free throw line, dribbled twice, whispered “one of one,” and swished the ball through. The nets held up pretty solid for being homemade. He repeated until “ten of ten” and then ran through some jump shot drills. Sprinting back and forth, the ball returned to his hand naturally with quick pace.

When he concluded with another set of ten free throws, Cameron gazed up at the large clock on the wall – it was 1:00 in the morning. He hopped back in his Mountainmover with tired legs and a plan. He had just completed two hours of uninterrupted hooping. Two hours was all he needed to execute his plan.

The following Saturday, Cameron called up a few of his friends, long distance. First, he hit up Brian Williams, an old high school teammate who had also played professionally overseas. Brian lived up in Desherd City across the river, “working for the man” as he tended to put it. He was just as bald as he was when Cameron used to hit him on a bounce pass in the low post.

“So Brian you uh… you trying to play some ball down in Murdlock?”

“M******** what?” Brian was known amongst friends for his blunt and colorful language.

“Yeah man. I got the keys to the gym here.”

“Tonight? S**** I don’t have anything better to do.”

They agreed to meet at Cameron’s apartment at 10:55 that evening and walk over, just so as the police don’t get suspicious about a bunch of cars in the parking lot.

Cameron then called Andre Oz, the slick shooter who moved out of Murdlock the month prior. Andre ran the Horrible Woeful Unsatisfactory Logo and Apparel Company out in Gilroy. Andre never played after high school, even though he would have dominated the college ranks. He had other interests, namely the girls. He was muscular, confident and walked with swagger.

“Andre man, Brian and I are playing ball tonight at the Murdlock gym. You want in?”

“Consider yourself dusted, baby. I’ll see you later.” Andre called everyone baby.

After leaving the apartment to grab some lunch from Shane’s Café (a couple simple slices of crisped bacon and some hash browns), Cameron walked through the Harriot West neighborhood. He spotted two familiar faces in a driveway, duking it out. Carl Baker, a spry, skinny and short 19-year old. His eyes were colored with raging arrogance as he shot a volleyball at the hoop that perched above the garage door. It clanked off the back iron to the other side. The other kid, Evans Strong, reached and grabbed the ball before it would have planted itself in the grass. Evans was stocky and shaggy. It looked like he hadn’t had a haircut in years. Cameron recognized the duo from the sports section of the paper. Carl and Evans led the Murdlock High team to a championship two years ago. Knowing this information and seeing the poor display of horse-around hoops typical of driveway games, Cameron laid out his proposition.

“You guys trying to hoop tonight? Like, really hoop against some competition?”

Carl and Evans agreed. At 10:55, it was on.

Cameron had five guys for the night and felt pretty confident he could find enough to run a full game. He called up Brian’s brother Michael, who loved the idea and said he couldn’t wait. Michael said he would help recruit others. A half hour later, Michael called back and said he had two buddies, Dustin Wesley and Darren Wyzell, willing to play. They needed one more man to run fives.

Cameron had only told one other person outside of the rec director about his ambitions to start the youth clinic. 

That was Wesley Howard Jr., a fellow camp counselor and “the most feared pitcher in indoor kickball,” according to the kids.

Wesley liked the idea but doubted its success. Cameron thought Wesley would play that night for two reasons: Wesley was single, and he was bored. That’s exactly what Cameron told him in his sales pitch on the phone. Begrudgingly, mostly because he couldn’t refute the facts, Wesley accepted the invitation.

Cameron had his ten. He pumped his fist in front of him.

Little did they know, this would become the foundlings of the country’s biggest source of entertainment.

And it started at the apartment parking lot at 10:55 that night.
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Please let me know what you think. More to come later.

Last edited by HWULA (3/30/2020 4:55 pm)