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letsbejoyfools · 5 years

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1. You’re on Edwards!

San Fransisco, California,

Inspector Logan Edwards could’t remember the last time so many cars were parked in front of one of his client’s house - although the term "client" is a concept Logan liked to keep to himself. Certainly the "newbie" (the nickname had stuck even after two years of service) was already teased enough by his fellow police investigators, that he could pass on them mocking him for his odd terminology. But if there was one thing the 27 years-old inspector had quickly learnt throughout his first few years in the criminal investigations department, it was that his job could be ugly. Therefore after a few sleepless nights filled with vivid nightmares of agonizing and dead bodies, Logan quickly developed some sort of protective shield.

Taking a few steps back from the morbidity of the situation, he then considered himself a lawyer defending an indictment for a client. Except in his case, said indictment was the perpetration of murder and said client no longer belonged to this world. A strange thought process people might think…but it was in those terms that Inspector Edwards was examining the corpse lying on the floor of the kitchen he was currently standing in.

The first thing Logan noticed was the throng of people crowding the room ; something he immediately found suspicious since it was supposedly just a standard accident procedure. That’s what he was told 40 minutes earlier when Lieutenant Clark Taylor required his immediate presence at the victim’s domicile. ‘Gas incident on Funston St. One victim. Get your arse over here.’ Taylor had sent him the text in his infamous ever so polite tone. Now, after running relentlessly around the lovely neighborhood of Presidio Heights where he was due to arrive ‘asap’ - as his boss so gently requested - a stream of discontent was slowly but surely invading Inspector Edwards’ bloodstream like a toxic intravenous injection.

Because one thing about Logan was that he absolutely despised being confused, especially in a job-related environment. And in that moment, Logan was in a state of upmost disconcertment. The men around him were agitated and seemed to be torn in two opposite directions. ‘Since when does the police need that many men to assess the aftermath of an unfortunate gas incident that caused the death of a hapless guy?’ thought Logan. ‘So what, a guy came home, forgot to turn his gas off and the next thing you know the FBI barges in?’

The craving for explanation extricated Logan from his flooding nonsensical thoughts. In a few seconds he spotted Lieutenant Taylor and had barely the time to open his month when Clark started filling him in on the situation. "I know it’s a freakin’ mess. I called you in as soon as we got here and it took these fuckers 10 minutes to realize the dude’s wife was also dead in their bedroom. Hence why we’re fuckin’ crammed on top of each other."

The house was nothing big, really ; but its astute architectural arrangement gave it a modernistic outline not devoid of practicality. The front door, situated on the far right-hand side of the house, directly led onto a relatively open area. A few steps to the left, was all it took to reach the center of the house embodied by the dining room - if you could call it a dining room that is. Mainly, it was just an elegant solid wood table placed on a refined rug, standing between the cooking area on the left and on the right a wall that enclosed (from furthest to closest) a guest room, a bathroom and the master bedroom Lieutenant Clark was referring to. The kitchen counters were assembled in a U-shape facing the dining table and were surrounding a small center island which provided an ergonomic and satisfactory large working zone. A little further down the ‘dining room’ and behind the kitchen, was a quite spacious living room adorned by two average size cloud-looking sofas facing a large TV.

Inspector Edwards only nodded as the two men headed towards the bedroom in question, and waited for the main report. "We should be outta here fast though, the case is pretty simple." He took a short pause and explained some more. "Linda Morris, that’s her name. She was found dead in her bed. Same thing, asphyxiation."

The room was submerged in profound darkness thanks to the thick black curtains camouflaging the window. The repulsive scent lingering in the air was immediately captured by Logan’s nostrils, testing the sensitivity of his gag reflex. It was certainly not the first time the inspector had to breath the same air a dead could no longer inhale. As discomforting as it may sound, Logan knew how death smelt. Unceremoniously tossed in a bin of a dark alley ; laying in the serenity of a luxurious hotel room or lost in the vastness of a corn field, Inspector Edwards had seen, smelt, and even felt death in all its forms.

However in that moment the stench startled him by its unfamiliarity. The odor dangerously tickling his nose was a sordid mix between sickness and oddly…vanilla candles. Logan took a minute to inspect the room, an exhaustive list of little mental notes forming itself from the most relevant observation to the most insignificant detail.

Because everything had to make sense.

The bedroom wasn’t messy per se, but displayed enough personal effects for Inspector Edwards to draw a consistent profile of his new ‘client’. This was yet another thing about Logan : he didn’t need much to get the bigger picture. It was a routine, almost part of his inner clock. ‘Observe, retain, deduce.’ A habit so deeply engraved in his procedural memory, it came as spontaneously as sneezing. So the pair of pants and socks meticulously laid on the radiator and the tablet of ibuprofen left on the nightstand had been added on the list just a moment after he first crossed the threshold of the door.

"The poor girl must have knocked herself out to sleep," Taylor’s head motioned toward the medication, "coulda maybe escaped the gas if it weren't for the pills…" he finished earnestly. Logan only hummed in acknowledgment, as he approached the bed to take a closer look at the victim and her surroundings. She looked almost peaceful, wrapped up under the thickest comforter he had ever laid his emerald eyes on. She was on her side in a fetal position, facing the nightstand where stood an empty mug and the half-used pills. He bent over the mug in order to smell the remainders of its content, but it was only for confirmation. His verdict was already made.

"She didn’t knock herself out, she was sick." He simply stated.

"Sick? Why do you reckon so Edwards?" Asked his boss in a curious tone.

"Remember two days ago, it rained all day and the wind was so hard it knocked some trees over. She must have gotten a cold because her clothes were drenched. That’s why she put them on the radiator instead of the dirty laundry basket," he pointed at the pants. "Plus she lit a vanilla candle, and made herself a cup of hot chocolate. S’what my mum used to do when I was feeling poorly… candles and cocoa," Logan explained simply to the Lieutenant.

"Impressive Edwards," he said relatively emotionless. "Might have to put you on the next serious case huh?" chuckling to himself, his eyes left his agent’s tall frame and he exited the room without muttering another word. The right corner of Logan’s lips curved ever so lightly before he found his way back to a slightly less packed kitchen, much to his delight. Indeed, the two gas experts hired to examine the gas cooker - presumed origin of the leak - were now gone, leaving only Lieutenant Taylor, the Chief of the Fire Department of San Fransisco and two other detectives hunched over the second lifeless presence the house was hosting.

Instinctively, Logan went over every detail of the kitchenette, scrutinizing the slightest corner in hope to spot any revealing peculiarity. Much like the rest of the house, the cooking area was undeniably clean. No dirty dishes were lazily lingering in the sink and the immaculate marble-like counter was free of any unwanted scattered crumbs. ‘It was a pretty neat family’ was the conclusion Logan drew. The only apparent appliances were an old-fashioned teapot settled on the side of the stove, and a plate holding a half-eaten takeaway pizza, judging by the cardboard box carefully placed on top of the bin.

One quarter of the missing half laid on the floor a few feet away from the man’s body - buttered-side pathetically facing the fancy ceramic tile. Inspector Edwards didn’t need a degree in rocket science to figure out the location of the last quarter of the culinary puzzle. A quick autopsy would surely confirm the dismal fate of the remaining slice. Logan allowed himself a disconcerted sigh before turning around and partaking in the soon-to-be-over conversation his boss and the high-ranking fireman were having.

Surprisingly so, Lieutenant Taylor quickly brought Logan into the discussion by summarizing the exchange his agent had just missed. "Edwards, Chief Hayes here and his men confirmed our suspicions ; the gas was simply left on after usage until the tank emptied itself". He then faced towards the victim and further explained. "Ian Astroff, 37, owner of a garage all the way back in Richmond District. He was found by the housekeeper. She comes over once a week usually on Tuesday mornings. She called as soon as she found him, completely freaked out. Anyway, the coroner’s diagnosis corroborates the leak theory. Said their time of death coincides and their body’s condition shows every symptoms of asphyxiation. He also said no autopsy required. The poor guy is probably the one responsible for this drama if you are right about her being sick and all that…"

Logan nodded unconsciously still processing his boss’ verdict with a thoughtful expression plastered on his face, when Chief Hayes announced his departure. "Alright gentlemen, it was a pleasure to meet you despite the nature of this regrettable situation ; although I’m still relieved there is not danger for the neighborhood." He added a genuine "have a nice day" before exiting the house.

Furrowed brows, Inspector Edwards silently conveyed his perplexity over the Chief’s last words before asking. "Danger for the neighborhood?" Clark answered abstractedly. "The main reason the fire department came here was to make sure there was so dysfunction with the gas system. All the houses ‘round here were constructed by the same company at the same time. If they were in anyway related to this accident, it could be a freakin’ disaster."

The lines on Logan’s forehead smoothed with understanding, but the wheels in his brain were still turning judging by the intensity of his emerald eyes staring at the body still spread on the floor. When he finally cleared his throat to speak, his eyes didn’t shift an inch from their inanimate target. "We don’t have to worry about it though, it’s clearly not a dysfunction," he stated in an austere tone. Logan must have felt the odd stare the Lieutenant Taylor was directing at him, because he then looked up at his interlocutor. "It wasn’t an accident either. I think Ian Astroff and Linda Morris were murdered."

Dumbfounded, Clark glared at him more persistently - if that was even possible. His eyes creased and his jaw fell slack in a ‘what-the-fuck-are-you-talking-about’ way. Curiosity got the better of him and he confoundedly inquired with arms whirling above his head. "What in hell makes you think that?!"

If Inspector Edwards was impressed by his boss’ sudden change in demeanor, he sure did a great job at not letting it reflect exteriorly. Instead, he remained collected and simply said to his awaiting superior, "There was no reason for the gas to be on."

There was a heavy pregnant pause before Lieutenant Taylor - who had already recovered form his outburst - decided to put an end to it. "That’s all you have?" he said it more like a statement. "How can you even be sure of what you’re putting forward?"

His skepticism didn’t take Logan’s confidence down though. With more zest the inspector started sharing his reasoning with a frustrated Clark, each word a step forward in convincing him. "Just think about it for a second. The guy was eating takeaway pizza ; even if he had to heat it up he would have used the microwave. And as we established earlier, Ms. Morris was sick for the past two days."

"Alright, but you forgot the teapot" his boss tried to reason with him, but it seemed Logan had an answer for everything.

"Have you seen any mug around here?" He rhetorically asked, turning his upper body as if looking for the mug in question.

"Again you forgot there is one sitting on her nightstand" countered Clark.

"Again, it was filled with cocoa. She didn’t need boiling water for that. Besides, I lifted the teapot ; it’s empty."

Another silence settled between the two men whose thoughts were currently racing from all sides. Logan was trying to judge his boss’ reaction, while Lieutenant Taylor was processing the new theory. This time Inspector Edwards spoke first, voicing one last attempt to persuade his colleague. "Listen, something just doesn’t sit right. These persons were attentive, I mean look around the house, nothing’s out of place, it’s borderline OCD. Besides, you said Astroff worked at a garage right? He would know better than fiddling with the gas in his own house don’t you think?"

For a few flashing seconds, the crease in Lieutenant Taylor’s eyes reappeared. Then he released a long sigh, his expression unreadable, keeping Logan on his toes, heart speeding up. "You’re a wanker, you know tha’?" he said dejectedly although the hint of a smirk was definitively threatening the serious expression he was trying to keep. "I guess your serious case might have come sooner than expected huh." Logan’s eyes were already starting to shine brighter. "You’re on Edwards!" the Lieutenant exclaimed before tapping his man’s shoulder and making his way out. Logan was beaming.

#crime novel #writing #whatdyathink?#san francisco #detective story #suspense #murder

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idolizerp · 5 years

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LOADING INFORMATION ON POIZN’S MAIN VOCAL GO JAEYUL...

IDOL DETAILS

STAGENAME: Saint CURRENT AGE: 27 DEBUT AGE: 20 TRAINEE SINCE AGE: 14 COMPANY: 99 SECONDARY SKILL: music production (r&b)

IDOL PROFILE

NICKNAME(S): N/A INSPIRATION: saint’s interest in music existed since he was a child and as he grew older, he became more serious about this passion and began to auditon at various companies. upon getting into 99 he grew to enjoy being a trainee more than he’d anticipated and ultimately ended up in the final line-up of poizn. SPECIAL TALENTS:

girl group dances

flexibility

impressions of certain singers/rappers

NOTABLE FACTS:

since jaeyul studied in australia for seven years, his english is fluent and he acts as the translator for the group.

he’s quite curious about fashion and often tries absurd trends with his clothes, make-up, and hair.

when poizn was a rookie group, jaeyul used to get painful stomach aches due to stress.

IDOL GOALS

SHORT-TERM GOALS:

he’s still picking up the pieces and rebuilding his reputation as an idol, and to do this, saint needs to upkeep a presence in the industry even if it’s no longer what he wants. his methods in doing so is to partake in some variety-shows and make a greater impact as a producer to help strengthen his future plans. his focus isn’t divided across many interests, giving him more time to work on these objectives.

LONG-TERM GOALS:

when jaeyul’s career experienced a set back with his scandal and enlistment immediately after, it was widely speculated and agreed that he’d peaked in his solo career. frankly, jae doesn’t agree, and his focus upon returning is to build his resume and reputation to aid in his musical career. his present interests no longer strictly align with what he’d left prior to his military service, but they are still similar. regardless, when contract negotiations come up, saint has no intentions of re-signing and has bigger plans of launching his own label.

IDOL IMAGE

jaeyul is the untamed casanova. making his mark at every chance he gets with the charming grins and flirty remarks. he fulfills this role immaculately, slipping into the act as if it’s his own skin, and in some aspects it is. there’s an added layer of luxury to his image, however. saint isn’t without his expensive clothes and attitude with a just as fancy lifestyle to match. yet, while he may appear untouchable, he creates an air of comfort, letting curiosities unfold and answering them earnestly with a soft smile.

it should be impossible to exist like him or be anything remotely similar to him, and while his portrayed character feels like something out of fan-fiction, saint is undoubtedly real. he uses his amicable social skills to bring the fans along this journey, letting them peer into his display of what an idealistically fathomed idol-life must be like: wealthy, carefree, and ridiculously outlandish. jae allows them to vivaciously live through him, making them feel a part of the excessive and enjoyable flamboyance that comes with affluence than as the subject of its elitist and criminal perception.

he’s pushed forward as the progressive and honest idol, but when his scandal comes into focus, the tender bond with the public that once felt candid and sincere is shattered. what made him likeable and drew curiosity becomes the subject of scrutiny and instrumented as the villainous influence behind his faults. when saint returns, he comes back to a refurbished image. one that is quieter and greatly contained. he’s still the fancy boy of poizn with his cars and clothes, but he’s “grown-up” into a more refined gentleman. his world is greatly humbled and shrouded under secrecy. no longer is it cool of him to show-off and cheekily brag, so he tightens his lips and adopts more caution.

IDOL HISTORY

19.

his cigarette is dying at its end. all that remains is this and the smoky embers chased away by the wind. ‘this’ stands for scattered half-hopes burning black by their rears, flames licking inwards, engulfing them slowly then all at once. it’s a recycled habit from their younger years, except this time they meet behind pubs, not schoolyards, and share burdens instead of snacks. this is a segment punctured into their minds like religion, ritualistic like the passing of time; simple heart-to-heart’s and bitter revelations as they map out their world one year to the next.

in the midnight, they’re shells of exhausted trainees chasing after a ridiculous fortune, yet this exchange concurs on the eve of results; a final line-up for boy group in the making —idol kings — as dongwoo liked to call it. sure, they’re trying to be larger than life, but what jaeyul really wants is to prove a point.

he taps his foot, tugging on his lip with the edge of his nail, fingers curled against his cheek. in his gaze there’s a storm, and on his tongue, there’s the courage to confess it. “i want this,” jae mumbles over his frown. he’s not searching for reassurance.

dongwoo huffs an annoyed breath between his teeth and rolls his eyes. they’re friends, sure, but he holds his prejudice; jaeyul doesn’t have nearly as much to lose. regardless, dongwoo utters the unneeded consolation. it spills from his mouth like honey; too sweet, too viscous in nature. “we’ve given them five years of our life, jae. that’s more loyalty than anyone deserves.” we’ll get this, is what he should’ve said, but even with egos like theirs, he lacks conviction.

13.

life is not a matter of equity. he learns this by watching his father. he dresses the part and acts it well too, but this is just pretend and he lives his reality in a myriad of dreams and false hopes. attempts to act like a ceo when he’s really the pathetic secretary on the side; the right-hand man getting mangled and yelled at like a dog.

(i’m doing it for you, he’d explained the night before jae’s flight. i’m doing it for our family. but jaeyul didn’t want it, didn’t ask him for it. they’re just empty promises to excuse his own schemes.)

life is about competition. the rigorous auditions teach him that. he’s got his fingers reaching up, plucking at the petals of any opportunity that awaits him. after all, chances are not granted to everyone. you have to rob them, you have to make them yours and mold them into what you will. you wield them by breaking them down, giving them glee in split lips and flailing hair, then strip them bare to pummel their protests into a throne and wear their gutted remains like a crown. you chew on the shards and spit out filthy ambition; all dirty and bloodied raw.

jae’s told he gets this from his mother. her nobility and class, the manner in which her docile nature fools people to lean in close, only for her to take a big bite; imprinting them with a scar, leaving them several parts incomplete, and filling herself whole again. “make them well aware,” she’d began on the morning of his audition, “that you’re not a boy.” not just a boy.

23.

he could rule a nation if he so desired. his cunning mannerisms paired with the glint of a spark, vaguely hypnotic, haunting the embers in his gaze. he could make a religion of it if he wished, yet he chooses to rule an audience instead. sit before as a king, letting them pile in to spectate his wonder and cry his name as a prayer; allowing it all to claw into his confidence and cling to it until it’s home until he thrives for more than just royalty.

(you could be a god, she’d said to him as the darkness hung around them. i can imagine it.)

there’s misery hiding within, and jae assumes it lingers somewhere in his stomach. the hues of his drink shift under the lighting; the glow of it bewitching so he indulges one after the next until nothing can be felt. his life is a show and each part is a different stage. in one he’s the foreigner boy hailing from australian influences, in another he’s the championed idol. every inch of him is subject to execute an immaculate performance.

(i’m not a god, he’d muttered, pulling away from her touch.)

it happens quick, and he’s tempted to hold his breath, hoping time will still and the moment will halt. his accident spills over into larger headlines until one assumption is drawn clear: jae is a spoiled brat. he’s the poison plaguing the group, holding them back and pushing their faces into dirt while he stands tall. he deserves the worst, and so he gets it. in june, he enlists with a dui on his record. he’s fortunate he only hit a streetlight, but they don’t see the cascading ramifications as they sear into his life, into his career, and rob him of the opportunities he held hostage.

27.

the public lay privy to his various entities and entertain themselves with the theatrics of his life. he’s never belonged to someone so obsessively before, and it’s been years yet it still takes the wind out of him. he feels breathless.

he did this to become his own man. to relish in the prosperity of his creations, but they’re not entirely his anymore. they’re not a curation of just his talent, they’re the corrected and revised essence of what perfection should look like. and it stings; burns his ache into a throb that terrorizes him in whatever he does — that he’s not good enough. that what he makes isn’t worth it. that he can’t make it alone — won’t, because he’s still bound to contracts and obligations, owned by the public, and caged in with their perceptions.

he’s become his father. twisting so far to their demands that he might as well have no skeleton; just a hollow piece of a man with flesh and blood, rotting on the insides with his body caving in. jae rubs at his eyes, he feels like they’ve sunk into his head. the lines on the screen blur further with each blink.

”you’re lucky,” the producer reminds him. the words turn over on his tongue as he mouths them, getting their taste, feeling the bitterness. “people don’t often get second chances like these.” he’s too cautious of his career to rebel against their decisions; too fretful of the outcome of his irrationality to risk what little he has. jaeyul has too much to lose.

this is better, still. better than most.

#id.bio #id.99 #id.poizn #id.kwon jiyong

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junker-town · 5 years

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6 reasons why Zion Williamson’s injury should change the way we talk about sports

Zion Williamson’s bizarre injury may have been one of the most significant we’ve ever seen in sports. You won’t — and shouldn’t — soon forget it.

Zion Williamson’s injury against UNC on Wednesday night was one of the most significant sports injuries I have ever seen, and I only say “one of” as a hedge. Racking my brain, I can’t think of anything bigger. Some were more shocking, or more gruesome, or (hopefully) longer-term. Even in the worst case scenario, say a season-ending ACL tear, Williamson may still be the No. 1 overall pick in the NBA Draft.

But even if Williamson isn’t affected by this, we have been. And certainly no one could possibly look at the NCAA or sports as a whole in the same way. The way this injury occurred, and to who, and where, and when, and how, may have forever altered how we talk about athletes.

Reason 1: This was the definition of a freak accident

Shoe blowouts happen. There was seemingly an NBA epidemic of them in 2014. I couldn’t find another high-profile instance in the college or pro game since then, but I’m sure there have been some.

But not nearly enough to make what happened Wednesday anything less than flooring. And of course, if there was anyone who could bust out of a Nike it was Williamson, a player of superhero levels of talent and athleticism.

Yes, this absolutely should add to the running list of things that constitute the Legend of Zion. This is now The Time Zion Was So Strong And Quick He Exploded His Shoes forever and always. This is branded into your brain now.

Reason 2: This freak accident occurred to a generational player

Let’s talk more about “Williamson, a player of superhero levels of talent and athleticism.” I remember when my very good colleague Ricky O’Donnell wrote this story about Williamson’s dunking prowess in high school, he was talked down from the headline “Zion Williamson is already one of the best dunkers of all time.” By Slack room consensus, it was deemed a step too far. Williamson had just, by a matter of days, turned 17 years old.

Williamson is already one of the best dunkers of all time. And guess what, dunking isn’t even what he’s best at (hat tip to Ricky once again). Heading into Williamson’s freshman year at Duke, there was no question about his potential, but plenty of questions about how a player of his unique build — at 6’7, 285 pounds, he’d already be the second-heaviest player in the NBA — and limited shooting capability would fit in the NBA. He was projected to go No. 5 overall in SB Nation’s way-too-early 2019 mock draft last June.

Today, there’s no question he would go No. 1 if healthy. He has answered, emphatically, that yes, he really moves that quick for a man that size, and that he shoots more than serviceably enough (like, 75.3 percent from two type of serviceably) to make him a menace in almost every facet of basketball.

Reason 3: This generational player was playing on a pedestal of the grossest aspects of sports

The average ticket price for Duke-UNC was more than $4,000, making it the hottest ticket ever in the history of one of the greatest rivalries in sports. Darren Rovell, sports’ dweeby unofficial cataloguer of brands and excess, laid out the horrible details.

$36,231: What someone paid on StubHub for four tickets 7 rows off floor tonight at Cameron Indoor. The face value of the tickets combined was $480.

— Darren Rovell (@darrenrovell) February 21, 2019

A ticket broker told me today that Zion Williamson alone added $1,000 to each ticket bought on the secondary market. He has, so far missed, half of the first half.

— Darren Rovell (@darrenrovell) February 21, 2019

The matchup drew a star-studded crowd headlined by Barack Obama, but also featuring Spike Lee, Ken Griffey Jr., and more. Williamson’s games have drawn LeBron James and Jay-Z in the past, too, likely in connection to a forthcoming battle to represent the phenom during his professional career.

That’s a lot of money and attention generated by one man who, I shouldn’t have to remind you, is playing for free. The NCAA cleared a billion dollars in revenue in 2017, largely thanks to a TV contract for the NCAA men’s basketball tournament, the championship tournament for the league that Williamson plays in. A league that Williamson only plays in because the NCAA and NBA colluded a long time ago to implement the one-and-done rule, which needlessly and recklessly keeps basketball players from signing with an NBA team until they are at least 19 years old. Williamson was forced to make the choice between doing an unpaid year of high-profile work or playing overseas before beginning an inevitable career playing with the world’s best.

College athletes should have been getting paid a long time ago. And in the whole sordid history of college athletics, perhaps no player has deserved to get paid as much as Williamson does. If you watched Wednesday’s game, you’d be cruel to deny that.

Pay Zion. Pay all them. Pay them their goddamn money.

Reason 4: This gross display occurred while everyone was watching

I saw it. You saw it. And if you didn’t see it, you’ll be hearing about it so much that you’re liable to forget, years down the road, that you never actually saw it.

So there’s no hiding, then. If anyone still gets aghast at the idea of Williamson resting the rest of the season to preserve his body for the pros, or that college football players probably should sometimes sit out bowl games, or for any reason still clings to the destructive idea that amateurism is good or wholesome, then screw them.

If they saw the most jaw-dropping athletes of our lives get hurt for no rhyme or reason — and they did — in a game that many people except him were making money on, then screw them.

Let these kids go straight out of HS!!! Too much on the line to be messing with college if you got a legit chance to turn pro. One injury can change somebody career, Zion sit yo ass down lol and we will be ready for you in the big boy league #LookingOutForThePlayers

— Isaiah Thomas (@isaiahthomas) February 21, 2019

Reason 5: Everyone saw rich people have a very bad day, which is good

No one should actually give a crap about the fact that Zion ripped through Nikes a few months before he’s set to sign one of the richest shoe deals ever. They should only care long enough to have a nice long point-and-laugh at a corporate behemoth that leverages the likeness and work of athletes to sell things.

Reason 6: All of this, taken together, should change the way we talk about sports

A freak accident can occur at any time, in any place, but it shouldn’t occur like this, to a future megastar who was nonetheless in the midst of being exploited.

It’s hard to tell whether we talk about that rampant exploitation — not just of Williamson, but of countless athletes — too much or too little. Paying the damn players isn’t a novel concept, and no one wants to be the one person constantly bringing down a good time for everyone. But then, nights like Wednesday show us that because of the the hype and thrill and fun and possibility of sports, it’s as jarring as ever that still nothing has been done to fix the broken parts.

If Williamson sat out the rest of the season, even if he was healthy enough to return next game, no one could be heartless enough to blame him. And if we can come to a consensus that we should be sympathetic in this case, then it ought to be a slippery slope to extend that sympathy on down the line of endless cases of young athletes being used.

Ought to be isn’t the same as will be, but whatever you believe, you’ll have to reckon with Williamson eventually. Remember that? The Time Zion Was So Strong And Quick He Exploded His Shoes? Of course you do, and shouldn’t forget it even if you ever could.

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