Sinbad
patreon
Chapter 4: The Holy Trinity
🕑 Added 2025-10-03 01:24:30 +0000 UTCThe Longhorns spilled off the court buzzing, towels whipping through the air, sneakers squeaking against concrete as laughter echoed down the tunnel. Ethan grinned through the swarm of cameras, Kevin’s arm draped around his shoulders, A.J. shouting something about Spokane never forgetting their names. It was the euphoria of March, one game down, the dream still alive.
But a few rows behind the baseline, the mood had been entirely different. While fans hollered and brass bands tried to out-blare each other, the scouts’ section had hummed with silence. No horns. No chants. Just clipboards, laptops, and murmured dictation.
For years, NBA teams had been stockpiling reports on Greg Oden, Kevin Durant, and Ethan Cross. These weren’t just prospects, they were generational dossiers, thick with high school box scores, camp evaluations, and talks of greatness from AAU coaches. Oden was the safest big man prospect since Tim Duncan, a franchise anchor carved out of stone.
Ethan was a 6’5” combo guard with Allen Iverson’s handle and Kobe Bryant’s scoring instincts. A guard who could break you down with a crossover, slice through traffic, finish through contact at the rim, and bury contested jumpers like they were free throws. On top of that, his passing vision was years ahead of his age. Skip passes to the corner, pocket feeds to bigs, no-look dimes in transition. But what separated him, what had every scout underlining his name in bold, was his defense. Ethan didn’t defend like a freshman. He defended like a veteran pro, sliding over on rotations, blowing up ball screens, recovering on switches, picking pockets without gambling. He already carried the instincts, timing, and discipline NBA coaches begged their rookies to learn.
Durant, meanwhile, was the anomaly, a 6’10” scorer with a 7’5” wingspan, guard skills in a forward’s body, and a scoring touch that seemed pulled straight from a video game. He could rise over defenders like they weren’t there, glide the length of the floor in three strides, and shoot from thirty feet with the ease of a free throw.
All three since high school have been on every NBA’s front desk.
Rows behind the baseline, the atmosphere felt split. Fans screamed, bands clashed fight songs, but in the scouts’ section it was clipped whispers and half-finished sentences passed down the row. Notebooks slid between knees. Laptops glowed faint blue. Every possession was another data point.
A veteran with gray at his temples leaned toward the younger scout beside him, eyes still fixed on the floor. “Look at twenty-four. Cross. Footwork’s ridiculous. Handles at that size? Rare. He’s playing like he’s been in the league six years already.”
The younger one scribbled, then shot back, “Recovery on switches too. Did you see that last possession? He covers ground like a wing, not a guard. If he keeps this up…he’s my number one pick for sure. The top guys have a problem in their hands, one wrong pick and fans will have their heads.”
Two seats down, an analytics guy tilted his laptop so the man next to him could see the shot chart blooming red and green.“You can coach skill, you can coach IQ. But this?” He tapped the screen softly. “This timing? Half a second ahead on every read. That’s not learned. That’s instinct.”
At the far end, another scout flicked between Durant’s warmups and Oden’s college tape on his handheld, muttering low as the man beside him leaned closer. “Oden’s still the safest floor in my opinion. Big man ran the league.No question. But Cross…” He shook his head. “Cross changes how you build a roster. He’s like a black hole for defenders sucking them, letting him pass to teammates with ease.”
The man next to him gave a slow nod, jotting in his book without ever looking away from the court. “Scary thing is, he’s eighteen. This isn’t polish. This is base level. Where’s he gonna be at twenty-five?”
For a beat, their whispers overlapped, just another layer of noise swallowed by the arena. The crowd screamed for highlights. The bands blasted horns.
.
The next morning, the frenzy reached a fever pitch. Headlines screamed across the country. The national media had found their darlings and they were going to milk them the way they do to a certain Chosen One.
Sports Illustrated: “Freshmen Frenzy: Cross and Durant Redefining College Hoops.”
The Washington Post: “DC Boys Taking March by Storm.”
ESPN.com Mock Draft Update: Oden, Cross, Durant: the holy trinity of the 2007 class.
By midday, it wasn’t just ink and blogs. ESPN carved out space on its morning show Cold Pizza.
The cameras cut to Skip Bayless, leaning forward at the desk, smirk locked in place.
“Look,” Skip began, voice sharp. “Kevin Durant is special, I’ll give him that. But he’s rail-thin. You put him in the NBA next year, bigger, stronger wings are gonna bully him out of the paint. He’s not ready. And Ethan Cross? Sure, fun to watch, flashy highlight machine. But he dribbles too much! He’s an And1 mixtape come to life. That doesn’t win championships. That sells sneakers.”
Across the table, Woody Paige slapped his notepad and jabbed a finger in the air.
“Skip, come on! Did you even watch the same game I did? The kid dropped twenty eight like it was nothing! And he’s locking up on defense! He defended like a ten-year vet out there. I’m telling you right now, Ethan Cross isn’t just a scorer, he’s a complete guard. Poise, vision, leadership, the whole package. He’s the real deal.”
Skip scoffed, waving him off. “Poise? Vision? He was out there dribbling the air out of the ball! What happens when an NBA defense traps him? What happens when Kobe or Wade gets in his grill? He’s gonna fold. And Kevin? Forget it. He’ll snap like a twig against Ron Artest or Bruce Bowen.”
Woody leaned in so far his glasses slid down his nose. “Skip, you are out of your mind! This kid Cross was throwing no-look passes, pocket feeds, full-court dimes. He makes his teammates better. That’s what superstars do! And Kevin? He’s six-ten with a seven-five wingspan and a jumper you can’t block with a ladder. He’s unguardable already.”
The host tried to cut in, chuckling nervously. “Alright, alright, gentlemen, let’s bring it back—”
But Skip was already pounding the desk. “I’ll take Greg Oden ten times out of ten! Seven feet tall, NBA body, defensive anchor. He’s the safest number one pick since Tim Duncan. You build dynasties around size, not flashy guards who burn out in five years.”
Woody threw his hands in the air. “Safest? He’s already had wrist problems! He’s not Tim Duncan, Skip. Oden is fine, but Durant and Cross? They’re changing the game. Perimeter dominance! This is where basketball is headed.”
Skip leaned back, grinning smugly. “You can keep your flash and finesse. Give me the big man. Cross is a streetballer in sneakers, Durant’s a beanpole with no muscle, and in five years, Oden’s the only one of these three with a ring.”
The studio cracked into laughter and groans. The host gestured toward the screen. “Let’s roll the tape.”
Highlights flooded the monitor: Ethan slicing through the Aggies for a windmill dunk, Durant drilling a stepback three from NBA range, Oden swatting a shot into the third row.
Woody slapped the desk again. “Look at that! Look at Cross bending the entire defense! Look at Durant pulling from thirty! This is history, Skip! These aren’t normal freshmen!”
Skip rolled his eyes. “One game, Woody. ONE game. And the media wants to crown them kings already. I’ve seen hype trains before. They crash.”
The host tried again. “So let’s put it on record. Who’s your number one pick?”
Skip didn’t hesitate. “Greg Oden. Full stop.”
Woody leaned into the camera with a grin. “Ethan Cross. Write it down. Best guard prospect since Allen Iverson. He’s the one.”
The host glanced between them, shaking her head with a smile. “And there you have it. Bayless says Oden. Paige says Cross. The debate continues.”
The clip would replay all day on SportsCenter, fueling barbershops, message boards, and front offices alike.
.
While the Longhorns slept that night, the real noise moved to NBA front offices.
Boston Celtics. 17–48.
The walls of the Celtics’ practice facility felt heavy with history, banners hung upstairs, but the locker room reeked of a lost season. Danny Ainge sat in his office, pacing more than sitting, reports spread across his desk.
“If we land the number one pick,” Ainge muttered, voice tight, “do you take Oden, the franchise center we’ve been praying for or do you tear it all down and build around Cross? A guard that looks like Iverson with Kobe’s instincts, and he defends already like a ten-year vet.”
His assistant raised an eyebrow. “What about Pierce?”
Danny didn’t blink. “If Cross is ours, we flip Pierce. Full rebuild. Kid’s eighteen. We give him the keys.”
The assistant leaned back, uneasy. “Fans’ll riot.”
Danny smirked. “Fans will cheer when he’s holding a Finals MVP.”
Meanwhile, in Memphis with a record of 16-47, Jerry West sat in a dark film room, the glow of the screen painting his face. Pau Gasol’s trade demands hung over the franchise like a storm cloud. Ethan slashed into the lane on the tape, finishing through contact. Jerry shook his head slowly.
“This Cross kid…” he whispered, then louder for the room, “I’ve only seen a handful of guards like this. West. Magic. Kobe. Hall of Famers. He’s different, so is the Durant kid. Both of them are special talents.”
One scout hesitated. “But Oden—”
Jerry cut him off. “Oden’s the floor. Cross is the ceiling. You draft him, you don’t just get a player. You get a generational superstar like the Lebron kid.”
Down in Atlanta with a record of 22-41, the boardroom buzzed with frustration. Joe Johnson was a star, but he was stranded on an island. The scouting director slapped a binder shut.
“Cross next to Joe? That’s fifty points a night. Easy. We’ve needed a floor general for a decade. He fixes it overnight.”
A younger scout leaned forward, tentative. “But Durant’s smoother. Cleaner scorer. He’s—”
The director barked a laugh. “Durant scores. Cross controls the floor. There is a difference between them..”
Another exec added, “And don’t forget, we’ve whiffed on guards for years. We pass again and the fans will skin us alive.”
21–42.
Out in Portland, the draft board loomed like a ghost. They had it worse than almost everyone else in the league with a record of 19-42. Three names in red marker:
Oden.
Cross.
Durant.
They shuffled the order daily, nobody agreeing.
One exec stabbed his pen at Oden’s name. “Seven feet. Defensive anchor. You win with that. End of discussion.”
Another slammed his notebook shut. “We passed on Jordan once. We take Oden, and Cross or Durant turns into the next Jordan? This city will never forgive us.”
The room went dead quiet. History hung in the air.
Further east, the Bobcats scrambled for an identity. Michael Jordan, part-owner, sat in the back of the scouting room, arms folded, face unreadable. Scouts argued numbers for an hour before Jordan finally spoke.
“Kid’s got something I haven’t seen in years. But I want Oden..”
Silence fell. Nobody in the room argued with MJ.
Meanwhile in Philly, the ghost of Allen Iverson lingered. The GM thumbed through Ethan’s report, shaking his head at the irony.
“We just traded one Iverson,” he muttered. “And now the universe hands us another? Taller. Stronger. Better vision. If we pass on him, we’re cursed.”
His assistant half-smiled. “So what do you do if it’s Durant instead?”
The GM shrugged. “Then we pray. Either way, we’re drafting a franchise player. As we get a top three draft pick, I’m happy..”
Everywhere, the same whispers spread. Boston at 25%. Memphis at 19%. Milwaukee at 15%. Atlanta at 12%. Seattle at 9%. The odds taunted everyone, a cruel lottery hanging over futures.
One Western exec summed it up over drinks that night to a reporter. “You pass on Cross, Durant, or Oden, whichever one becomes a legend, you’re the next Sam Bowie. And nobody survives being Sam Bowie.”
Comments
Victor De Paula
Very cool he will play for more than one team?
Anderson
Thanks for the chapter
Khumo Mononyane
Boston will dub him Larry bird reborn
