Note: The following is fictional and written by a Pennsylvania-raised sports writer who dreams of being a Hoosier.
I had the funniest dream last night.
I was dining at Cozy Cottage Restaurant. Sitting there minding my own business, I got a phone call from an unknown number. Staring fate in the face, I answered.
“Aaron McKrell.”
The voice was deep, smooth and steady, like that of someone who helped Shaq and Kobe win three rings in the early 2000s.
“Yes?” I asked.
“Meet me outside in 30 seconds.”
I dropped my fork. Somehow, I knew what awaited me.
I walked outside to see a 1975 Lincoln Town Car posted across the street. The lights flashed once. I crossed.
Rick Fox sat in the driver’s seat.
“Get in,” he said.
It wasn’t a suggestion. I obliged.
“Do you know what this is about?” Fox asked me as he started the car.
“Is the sky blue?” I replied.
He stared at me.
“Not the kind of attitude that will make you a Hoosier,” he said. “That’s why we don’t hang out with Shawn Kemp anymore.”
I apologized and complimented his vehicle.
“Borrowed it from Al Rhodes,” he told me.
The rest of the ride was in silence. We came to a four-way stop in the middle of a cornfield.
“This is where I leave you.” he said.
I looked at him, perplexed.
“Go left,” he told me.
And so I did. I walked all day, all night, and into the next day. I could have sworn that at some point in the fog, I saw the ghost of John Dillinger. But, maybe that was just my weary eyes.
Finally, I saw it: Larry Bird Ford-Lincoln-Mercury in Martinsville. I instinctively knew what to do. I walked in to find Scott Skiles behind the counter.
“State your business,” he said.
“I’m here to see the Hick From French Lick,” I said.
He stared me down. All of a sudden, Larry Legend himself came out of a back room, surrounded by a green-and-white aura.
“Scott,” he said. “Stand down.”
Skiles scowled. Bird smiled at me.
“Come on back.”
We went back to his office, where a framed photo of Michael, Magic and Larry hung behind an oak desk. Isiah Thomas’ photo was nowhere to be found.
Bird sat with his hands folded at the bridge of his nose and peered at me over his fingers for a long time. I never broke his gaze.
Finally, he asked me one question.
“What’s the problem?” he asked.
“Excuse me?” I said.
Suddenly, his eyes grew cold, yet his voice remained calm.
“You heard me,” he said. “What’s. The. Problem?”
I stared into his soul, and saw Robert Parish duking it out with Bill Laimbeer in there. As if the answer fell from the sky, and into my head, the words spilled out of my mouth.
“The class system ruined the game,” I said.
He grinned.
“You’re one of us,” he said.
He rummaged in the desk’s top drawer and came out with a ring that said “ISU.” He handed it to me, and I put it on.
The office dissolved, and all of a sudden I was gliding down Babyface Highway. Highlight reels moved at the speed of light on either side of me.
ISU vs. Michigan State in 1979. Michael Jackson doing the moonwalk on Motown 25. Bryce Drew’s shot in 1998. And, for some reason, John Cougar Mellencamp, telling me I could save 15 percent or more on my car insurance by switching to Geico.
The rushing stopped, and then I ended up in the middle of a cornfield, content to be in the middle of all that green.
