Meanwhile, somewhere, at some secret location...a 10 foot sculpture made entirely of 24 karat Gold captures a man frozen time. A prim business cut lines the crown of a visionary with eyes of diamond covered by 100 % crushed jasper, burgundy, eyeglass frames. His chiseled chin points forward while his eyes look directly into the possibilities of man’s future. A four-in-hand knot lays snugly around a hulking neck, as rippling arms shine, lined in white gold to accentuate the bulging muscles at rise beneath the finely stitched gold leaf tweed of his Brooks Brothers suit. His chest is a mountain of itself that sits directly above his powerful 16 pack abdomen. With a deflated basketball crushed in the grasp of his right hand, and his left hand pointing to the unknown, his exposed belt is lined in rubies. The power seized in his legs mirror that of a Greek god, while his moderately sized ivory tusk penny loafers irradiate reflecting the 15 buffs per day they receive. Inside this secret location, David Stern stands beneath himself monitoring the 29 Scantily clad women, from 29 prestigious cities prancing about what can only be described as a castle, in NBA sponsored bathing suits, each donning a specific emblem of the 29 NBA franchises he has helped to expand, serving Chteau Petrus Pomerols, Pinot Noirs, Dom. Romane Contis, and Royal Demaris to business partners, owners, noblemen, Presidents, and dignitaries of very well off countries.
“Mr. Stern” a small voice squeaks accompanied by a finger that can’t help but poke David’s shoulder.
“What Thomas?”
“Mr. Stern…I’ve…I’ve got some bad, well not so good news”
“Well spit it out Thomas, you know I don’t enjoy waiting” David remarks, taking a long sip of Royal Demaris, and slapping that chipper Dallas Maverick wine girl on the bottom“I do love a champion.”
“Well…well Mr. Stern, the f-f-f-former players of the greatest basketball league in the WORLD have announced they are going to start their own league” Thomas squeals bending his head in shame.
“By the bristles of Jamie Naismith’s mustache”
“James Naismith sir”
“Don’t you dare correct me Thomas, not when I’m right and BY GOODNESS not when I’m wrong, ok?”
“Y-y-y-y-yes sir”
“Now, kick these people out, and put on my Biz Markie…I need to think.”
“Y-y-y-es sir”
In his study, sitting at a mahogany chair carved in the shape of a microfiber basketball made from countless undisclosed capitalizing bonuses David Stern stares at the gargantuan picture of Larry O’Brien hanging on the wall. His thoughts are bouncing about his hardwood floors like, well like a basketball. Baffled and quite frankly peeved David broods over his next course of action as NBATV, the child of his intellect, replays classic games you’d have to pay to see on the muted 80’’ TV that hangs to the left of him illuminating the otherwise darkroom. Nobody Beats the Biz blares through speakers heard but not seen.
As the CD churns and David thinks a lightening thought strikes his mind “So respect the architect, as I begin to build, science and my reliance is on my rap, like Carl Lewis, I get to it, so let’s go the lap, NOBODY BEATS THE BIZ.”
It was decided there, if the UBA wanted to play ball it was going to be Hardball. David J. Stern was a veteran in the professional league arena and it was time he showed it. If these players wanted to pretend they were businessmen David was ok with that, it would be doubly fun to defeat them and have them crawling back crying for entry into the NBA! For a significant pay decrease, of course.
Chapter 1 below
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