Rockets fan fiction, anyone? 3 years from now...

An Unexpected Promise Fulfilled



As Steve Francis fumbled with the shoelaces on his Reeboks, he was reminded of the painful NBA game that had taken place just moments before. No post, he thought. Francis had just scored 35 points, grabbed 11 rebounds, and dished out 9 assists, but it wasn’t enough to overcome Shaquille O’Neal and the dominant Los Angeles Lakers in Game 6 of the Western Conference Finals. Shoe tying complete, he leaned softly against his wooden locker. “No post,” he whispered sullenly, to no one in particular. Cuttino Mobley, after escaping a hoard of media, sauntered over and laid his huge hand on his best friend’s head.

“One game, we still got one game,” Mobley assured him.

“We’re done if we can’t stop Shaq,” Francis countered.

Sighing, Mobley glanced over in the direction of Kelvin Cato’s locker. Cato, sitting on top of his uniform, had his head in his right hand, and with the other he was gently stroking the black threads of his jeans. Suddenly, Rudy Tomjanovich entered the locker room, and not a word more was uttered.

“Sixteen assists,” he announced, glasses on nose, studying the statistic sheet. He looked up quizzically at his players. “Sixteen assists.”

Faces fell a bit lower, and Oscar Torres shook his head.

“It’s me,” Torres confessed in exceptionally fluent English. “I…I’m just not bringing it off the bench. Bad shooting, bad defense…man, I’m just not bringing it.

Francis, wringing his hands, glanced at Cato. It had been a few years, but the 42 million-dollar contract was fresh on everyone’s mind. It had been Cato’s label. A lazy, overpaid bust. Letting O’Neal explode for 44 points and average 39 a game over the conference finals didn’t help at all. The Rockets had been able to get to Game 7 by containing Kobe Bryant; the superstar was putting up just 22 a game. Still, Francis could only imagine what it would have been like if Shaq had been contained from the start. He thought to himself how he’d probably be chilling in his Escalade or at home, watching the Eastern Conference Finals, awaiting his Finals opponent.

“How do you guys feel about the defensive intensity tonight?” Rudy asked, as rhetorical as he could be without sounding sarcastic. Francis snapped out of his daydream and eyed Eddie Griffin. How sorry he felt for the 22-year-old. He had exerted so much effort in his defense, posting almost 5 blocks a game. Still, his jumper had suffered and he was getting ripped unmercifully by the media.

“Basically, it’s bad,” said Mobley. “Not much there.” Kelvin Cato pulled his face up from his hand, rubbing his neck.

“My defense determines if we win or lose,” he said hoarsely. “I have to stop O’Neal.” His eyes darted across the room, scanning his teammates. “And Saturday night…I will.”

Francis had to look away and purse his lips to keep from chuckling. He looked at his boys Mobley and Torres. Both were doing the same. No one wanted to ruin the moment, though. Cato, the man averaging 5 points and 8 rebounds a game was going to stop Shaq? It was humorous just to ponder. Cato indignantly grabbed his jersey and his bag and strode out.

Everything was completely still until Griffin exclaimed in the low-pitched, deliberate voice they were all so used to, “Umm…okay…” Rudy T. looked to where Cato had walked out in admiration. “I believe you, Kelvin,” he said quietly to the door. Francis listened solemnly to his coach’s words, and he realized there was no doubting the determination in Cato’s voice.




* * *




Sweat streamed down Francis’ face as he leapt for the ball. Diving for it, he got his hand around the cool orange rubber and cradled it with his arm. “Time out! Time out!” he yelled to the closest black and white-striped blur.

“Time out!” the referee called, signaling toward the Rockets’ goal. The players ran to their respective benches, and Francis studied the scoreboard. 99-98, no timeouts left. The Lakers had the lead but the Rockets had the ball. With 14.1 seconds left, O’Neal had scored just 13 points, a result of Cato’s ferocious defense. However, Bryant’s 46 points left the Rocket’s season on the line.

Francis looked at his coach, but he could not hear him. He couldn’t even hear the roar of the sell-out at Staples Center. Everything was happening in slow motion. This is it, he thought, the biggest moment of my career. As his coach pointed at him, he knew he was the one to take the shot.

It seemed like an eternity before Griffin positioned himself at the half-court sideline, as Rudy called the play once more. “R-three!” his coach yelled from about 10 feet away. Francis cut hard to his left, then darted into the backcourt. After he caught the ball, he felt it pound near his feet as he sprinted up the court. 10 seconds. He looked around as the play unfolded. Kenny Thomas set a firm pick on Derek Fisher just inside the three-point line. 8 seconds. Francis cut right off his teammate’s shoulder and elevated for a 17-foot jumper.

As it sailed through the air, the Rockets guard knew it was going in. As it neared the rim, a burst of adrenaline shot through Francis' body. It swished, and the next thing he knew, the rest of the Rockets were jumping all over him. All grins, Francis’ stomach suddenly turned when he saw the game clock, and quickly the smile was wiped from his face. There were still 5 seconds left. The Lakers could still win! Before he knew it, Robert Horry was inbounding the ball to Bryant, and he flashed up the court. Mobley cut off his path, however, so Bryant quickly threw a dart pass to Shaq. The big man jumped, going up for the game-winning dunk. Suddenly, a looming figure rose up and reached its fingertips to the ball, blocking the attempt. The buzzer sounded as the ball fell backwards to the floor.

Kelvin Cato had done it. He had risen to the challenge.

And the Houston Rockets were on their way to the NBA Finals.


Boy, I hope this comes true.

 

I really tried to capture the players' emotions.