I don’t enjoy publishing transcripts of phone calls. But I thought this one might be pertinent to the blog – my interjections in italics. And please don’t comment how everybody doesn’t record transcripts of their phone calls. I know better.
8/10/18 – 3:42 am 
“Joe.”
“Kevin?”
“Yep.”
“Hey.”
“Sorry I’m calling so late.”
“Nah. My fault. I should’ve put it on airplane mode. Oh. Boy. Need to wake up here.”
“Awright.”
“S’okay. What’s up?”
“I dunno. I, uh, just. I just…don’t…know”
“You alright?”
I wait for seconds.
“Kevin.”
“Hey. Still here. Maybe I should go…”
“Woah. Wait. No. You dialed. What’s going on?”
Another pause. “I hate August, man.”
“Uh oh. Jeez, this is bad. You called me last time in, like, late-September. Shit, it’s not even mid-August yet. They haven’t even cleaned up after the victory parade.”
“I know. It ain’t good. All this time just makes me think. And wonder.”
“Well. The same thing as last time?”
“Not really.” A pause. “Okay. You know, I signed. A lot of money. Almost $160 million.”
“Is there a silver lining to that?” Pause “Sorry. Just a joke. I mean, that’s great, right?”
“Should be…great. Yeah.”
“And?”
“I’m not sure I did the right thing.”
“Okay.”
“OUCH! Damn! (unintelligible)”
“What?”
“I hit, ow, my damned head on the kitchen doorway. Aaaah, man.”
“Ugh. Again? I know we covered this last time – maybe use some of that money and get a freakin’ loft, right?”
“Yeah. Anyway. Dunno why I’m thinking. Part of me thinks I could play somewhere else. Start over.”
“Why? You’re with, like, arguably the best team in history. I mean, yeah, you could hit restart. Sure. But that kinda has a LeBron stink to it, no?”
He snorts a chuckle.
“Well, you chose to be on the big kids team, homey. So you’d win. And you won. So.”
“You just call me ‘homey’?”
“I did…do…that. It’s what white men over 50 do in desperation when it sinks in they’re talking to Kevin Durant. So yes, I’m proud.”
“I’m just saying something’s missing. It’s no big deal.”
“So here’s the thing. Being honest. If you wanted fulfillment, you should’ve stayed in Oklahoma, man. I know probably nobody, anywhere, ever has said that exact sentence before. But. It might be true.” Pause “Hey, look at it this way: you’re getting paid one hundred and whatever million over three years not to play ball – cuz you would play ball for nothin’. You’ve done that all your life. So think of it as getting paid to feel a bit unfulfilled. That’s probably over eighty million a year. Pretty good, no?”
“But after taxes, it’s really more like…”
“No, wait. After taxes and after Trump it’s still over a $140 million at least.”
“Yeah.”
“Ha. You friggin’ one-percenters, bitching about taxes!” A shared chuckle. “Or hey…you could play for the A’s. There’s a team. You know, in the off-season. Pull a Jordan and play baseball. Just cuz why the fuck not? It’s all a circus.”
“Strange that we’re friends. I mean, do you even like basketball?”
“It’s alright. But you misdialed that girl’s number the first time. So here we are. That’ll teach ya.”
“Yeah. Just sayin’, strange we’re still friends.”
“Okay. But why? Freakin’ Rodman’s friends with Kim Jong Un, so…”
“Nice!”
“And I hear Putin needs a basketball buddy.”
“I’ll send a tweet. I’m out.”
“Later.”
I woke up to know it was a dream. Somewhere, Kevin woke up to know it was real.
Oh my! “{{POSTTITLE}}” drives home the persistent question, ‘Are we really in a dream?’ And if so, is that dream surreal, or what? And if yes, will reason and sanity ever be restored posttrump? And who butt dialed whom first? And if none of the above, does it matter when talking sport? I mean, talking sport is talking sport, right?
You betcha. And talking dream is talking dream. Gotta say, give me grief if I soon don’t have a post titled “Who Butt Dialed Whom First?”