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| (Dorell Wright is a good-lookin' man in NBA 2K14.) |
And I got it. I got my augmentation in the form of a complete jackass.
My opponent was Jay-_-Swagga, who exuded all the maturity one might expect from a dude with a grouchy face emoticon in his name. Swagga was playing as the Miami Heat (because why even bother playing a weaker team, amirite?). I was the Portland Trail Blazers and was on the road (which probably doesn't matter, but it always feels cooler to get a W in the other team's fake gym).
It didn't take me long to realize that I absolutely despised this guy. Swagga was doing all the douchey things you can do in NBA 2K: taking charges at half-court, replaying every dunk and block ad nauseum, pausing and unpausing the game every few seconds during a timeout, hovering select over the quit button. More than I anything, it was his usage of the Miami Heat that pissed me off the most. I can understand being brash or arrogant when you're using a slightly formidable team, like the Nets or the Mavericks. But Miami? I'm sorry, but when you play as the best team in the NBA, you lose the right to be a cocky asshole when you do something right. (And while we're at it, you can't celebrate when you're using Bo Jackson in Tecmo Bowl either, damn it.)
In the first half, Swagga relied almost entirely on outside shots. In particular, he was spamming the hell out of Ray Allen, who kept getting open shot after open shot behind the arc. In the third, Swagga decided to become truly loathsome, attempting only Ray Allen three-pointers off of screens. I was into the game; I wanted to kill this guy, to beat him so thoroughly that he'd never again attempt such infuriating tactics. But holy crap if it's not hard to stop digital Ray Allen from connecting on an open three-pointer. And what was especially irksome was that there was nothing I could do, no setting I could enter, to make Blazers guard Wesley Matthews stick to Allen like a glove. Inevitably, Matthews would drift aimlessly into the lane for some inexplicable purpose, giving Allen just enough room to hoist an unblockable three. And even when I'd control Matthews, and later Nicolas Batum, to stay as close to Allen as I could, that still left LeBron James and Dwyane Wade at the mercy of automated defenders, who should never be relied on to get the job done.
And so the game went. Swagga started to pull away in the fourth quarter, with me cursing the game's mechanics every step of the way. I was mad that hand-checking fouls had seemingly disappeared entirely, making it ludicrously easy to lose the ball or have it stolen. I was also mad that the controls weren't as responsive as they were in NBA 2K13, that it would take a split-second longer for the ball to be passed or for a player to react. Mostly though, I was just mad that this dude was beating me so convincingly.
I called timeout with 2:40 left in the fourth. Swagga's lead had ballooned to 77-62. It was insurmountable. I came to peace with my impending defeat, sending all my starters to the bench in the universal sign of surrender. In their place came in Mo Williams, C.J. McCollum, Dorell Wright, Thomas Robinson and Meyers Leonard. Swagga stuck with the lineup that had gotten him this huge lead: Dwyane Wade, Ray Allen, LeBron James, Michael Beasley and Chris Andersen. There'd be no compassion from Mr. Swagga, who paused the game to toggle to over the quit button, just in case I hadn't already considered it.
Coming out of the timeout, I found Mo Williams wide open in the top right corner, just in front of the three-point line. Swish. 77-64. I switched to full-court defense, the most desperate and easily-exploitable of the all defensive settings. And sure enough, a few quick passes later, Chris Andersen was completely uncovered, without a Portland defender around for miles. He could have dunked it and made it a 15-point differential again, but he didn't. Swagga wanted to humiliate me, to show me just how little he thought of my admittedly-lame gaming skills. So he dribbled back behind the three-point line, waited for Beasley to come across half-court, and swung it over to Beasley, who promptly fired a ludicrous three-point heave that had zero chance of going in.
I came down the court. Mo Williams curled to the corner once again, and I passed it to him. This time he was behind the line, and this time LeBron James was right in his face. No matter. Swish. 77-67, with 2:05 to go.
Chris Andersen took the ball out. The full-court defense had everyone blanketed. He was controlling Wade and I was controlling Williams. I guessed that he would have Wade dart to the right and then toss it to him, and I guessed right. I intercepted Andersen's pass, took one dribble, and drilled a 10-foot floater. Now the lead was down to single-digits with 1:57 left. Encouraging, but not enough for me to get my hopes up.
Swagga called timeout. Just a few passes into his possession, he again lost the ball. And on transition, Thomas Robinson converted a lay-up that was goal-tended by LeBron James. With 1:42 to go, it was 77-71. Sure, it was getting closer, but I still needed a few defensive stops.
Swagga dropped all pretense of his superiority. He swung the ball around, anxiously looking for the best shot, but couldn't find anything. He settled for another Ray Allen three that was well-defended. It was only then, as I grabbed the rebound, that it dawned on that I wasn't just making the game more competitive cosmetically; I actually had a chance to come back and win this thing!
I drove the basket with Mo Williams and got hacked. Mo, who's not exactly Mr. Clutch in real life, drilled both freebies, making it 77-73 with 1:24 on the clock. This was possible. I could actually pull off this comeback!
Another missed shot from Swaggga. I had the ball, down only four, with over a minute to play. I was going to do this. It was only a formality. Well, except that it wasn't. After failing to score on back-to-back possessions, LeBron James was intentionally sent to the foul line, where he promptly hit consecutive freebies to make it 79-73 with 26 seconds left.
I called timeout and subbed in Damion Lillard and LaMarcus Aldridge. I drove to the lane with Mo Williams, and lo and behold, Dorell Wright was wide open at the top of the three-point arc. LeBron charged at him, but it was too late. Wright drilled the three, making it 79-76 with 15 seconds left. It was exciting, but I still needed a miracle.
Andersen took the ball out underneath the basket once again, and this time he was able to connect with Wade. Had Wade just stood there like a statue, holding the ball as if it had been surgically implanted to him, there's no way I could've won. But Swagga wasn't interested in holding the ball and shooting free-throws. He wanted to score an easy lay-up, and Michael Beasley was all by himself at the other end of the court. So he threw a full-court pass, much as he had to Andersen just a few minutes ago. Only this time, the pass was horribly off-line. Beasley caught it near the sideline, tip-toeing as best he could. But his right foot slid out of bounds, and just like that, I had the ball with a chance to tie the game.
No timeouts. I put the ball in the hands of Damion Lillard, who I felt was the Blazer best equipped to knock down a clutch shot. I dribbled around the top of the key, hoping to find just enough separation to hoist a three that had a chance to connect. Under 10 seconds left. Suddenly, LeBron James came out to trap Lillard, and in a moment of epiphany, I swung it over to Dorell Wright, who I knew was wide-open at the middle right of the three-point line.
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| (Wright's final shot of the fourth quarter.) |
Out of a timeout, Swagga failed to hit a game-winning jumper, sending us to a three-minute overtime. Destiny was on my side. The virtual reality gods were going to curse Jay-_-Swagga for his hubris, and my victory was going to be the stuff of legends -- an inspiration to all dorky-ass white dudes who suck at NBA 2K14. Or at least, that's what I told myself.
The extra period was a back-and-forth affair, with Swagga and I trading buckets on almost every possession. LaMarcus Aldridge was having success down low, while once again, Ray Allen was proving to be an annoying cover on offense.
With under a minute to play, I was again driving with Damion Lillard when deja vu struck. LeBron James came running at me from the top of the key, and yet again, Dorell Wright was all alone for an open three. By now, I had eternal confidence in Wright's long-range prowess, and he rewarded my trust, nailing yet another monster three to put the Blazers up 91-90 with 31.5 seconds left.
Swagga inbounded the ball from the length of the court. He crossed halfcourt and dished it to Ray Allen, who was in the top left corner. I charged at him with Damion Lillard; I wasn't going to let Ray Allen beat me. Allen pump-faked, and I bit, leaping into the air. Allen drove to the right and might have taken a pull-up jumper right there. But something unexpected had happened. In celebrating Wright's go-ahead shot, three players on the Blazers bench had taken a step onto the court and were actually crowding around Allen at that exact moment. In fact, as Allen dribbled to the right, you can plainly see in the image below that Allen physically passed through Wesley Matthews, who had both feet planted firmly inbounds despite being out of the game.
I'd like to think that for just a split second, Ray Allen, Wesley Matthews and the basketball fused together and become one symbiotic being: "Raysley Matthen." I wondered what life would be like for this conjoined creature, how difficult it'd be logistically for Allen and Matthews to play for teams on opposite ends of the country. I wondered how Allen's wife Shannon would handle the news upon learning that her husband had actually melded with another human being. And would the basketball in Matthews' hip eventually deflate over time, or would the shared lungs of Allen and Matthews perpetually pump air into it until one of them died?
The split second ended, and Allen passed cleanly through Matthews without consequence. Allen squared up along the right wing of the three-point line. He elevated for a shot. Aldridge was there, but I lunged at him with Meyers Leonard just to make sure it couldn't possibly go in. At the last second, Swagga adjusted and pass the ball to Chris Andersen, who was open at the right box. Andersen immediately passed it to Beasley, who was right under the basket. I adjusted swiftly with Wright, but I was a half-second too late. Beasley slammed it down before Wright could swat it out of existence. Miami was up 92-91 with 22.1 seconds left.
Now it was my turn to respond. I drove to the right baseline with Lillard and was able to slip past Allen. It looked like I had an easy lay-up on my hands, but just as I was going for the score, Andersen squeezed me along the baseline. I got the shot off, but it was oddly contorted and only managed to graze the underside of the rim. Fortunately, LaMarcus Aldridge was right there to collect the ball. After pump-faking to get Andersen into the air, I shot the ball and found the bottom of the net from just a couple feet away. 93-92, 11.4 to go.
After a timeout, Swagga gave the ball to LeBron James. I told myself that this was it. With the score uneven, there wasn't going to be a second overtime. The game was going to be decided by this one possession. Hold him off and win or let him score and lose. Those were the options.
Less than 10 to go, LeBron at the three-point line, Allen lurking dangerously elsewhere, trying to pass through a screen and get open. I shielded LeBron with Wright, thinking that I'd give him enough room to drive, but not enough to blow past me completely. Mo Williams came over to double-team.
Five seconds left on the clock.
LeBron drove to the left to avoid getting trapped. The middle of the lane was clear, but Aldridge and Leonard were right in front of the basket. Four seconds left. LeBron was sprinting at an angle from Wright. He crossed the free-throw line. He leaped, elevating into the air for a left-handed, off-balanced lay-up. He got by Aldridge but Wright was there, his outstretched arm forcing LeBron's attempt to come at an angle. There was no way it could go in. This was over!
A whistle.
I watched in horror, my mouth agape, as Dorell Wright was called for a foul, presumably for grazing against LeBron as he was in mid-air.
After all the effort I'd exerted to vanquish this bastard, after doing everything in my power to procure a victory, I was going to lose this game in the same way the Mavericks lost to the Heat in the 2006 finals: by getting horribly lame foul calls. Were virtual Dick Bavetta and virtual Bennett Salvatore making these calls? Were the Heat predestined to get the benefit of the officiating even in the digital realm?
LeBron hit his first free-throw, tying it up at 93. And then came the second one. 94-93, with 2.5 seconds left.
I used my last timeout, knowing that it all came down to this. I had Lillard take the ball out from mid-court, just to make sure that I wouldn't throw the ball away. I thought about setting up a post play for Aldridge, but there were too many variables with him. What if he got doubled? Unless he was single-teamed underneath the basket, I didn't like my chances.
No, I was going to put the game in the hands of Dorell Wright, who'd been hitting all the clutch shots for me. For better or worse, the ship was gonna go down with D-Wright.
The official handed Lillard the ball. Wright was at the top of the key, defended by LeBron. This time, Swagga was controlling LBJ -- he wasn't going to let LeBron leave him for another open shot.
My plan was initially to drift backwards, to wander just long enough that I could pass the ball to Wright and have him hoist a reasonable three-pointer. Then an idea hit me. The lane was wide open. I had Wright make half a move to the right side and then immediately dart forward. Swagga, thinking that I was only interested in putting up a three, over-committed with LeBron and blew past him.
My eyes lit up. There was a clear path to the basket now. I raced into the lane with Wright and had Lillard feed him the ball immediately. LeBron turned and started sprinting towards him. Wright took one dribble and went up for a left-handed lay-up as LeBron flew into the picture, trying in vain to swat it out of bounds. Wright's lay-up banked in. 95-94, Portland with the lead, with 1.8 seconds.
Swagga called timeout. Again, I was on defense, guarding LeBron with D-Wright. Everyone was covered, even the illusive Ray Allen. Swagga was running out of time to inbound the ball. In desperation, he tried to connect with Michael Beasley, who was standing along the baseline. But the ball sailed past him out of bounds, giving me the rock again with the same 1.8 seconds on the clock.
I tossed it to Lillard, who was fouled with just 0.4 seconds to go. I drained both foul shots, making it 97-94. Swagga, with no more timeouts remaining, could do no better than a Ray Allen Hail Mary prayer from fifty feet away. Ray-Ray's shot clanked off the rim, bouncing off into the distance as the horn sounded, officially signalling the end of the game. The Portland Trail Blazers had won. I had won. Jay-_-Swagga, wielding the mighty Miami Heat, had coughed away an easy win. I sent him a message -- "Comeback!!!" -- and didn't get a response. I imagine Mr. Swagga doesn't take losing that well.
In the end, Mo Williams was named the game's MVP, though there was little doubt in my mind that it was Dorell Wright who deserved it. Wright finished with 17 points, all of which came in either the fourth quarter or overtime. Ray Allen finished with a silly 49 points on 12-29 shooting from the three-point line. The 12 three's tie the real-life single-game record held by Kobe Bryant and Donyell Marshall; the 29 attempts would be eight more than the current mark held by Damon Stoudamire (weirdly), who launched 21 three-balls in a game back in 2005. Chris Bosh, meanwhile, did not score.
So what's the ultimate moral from all this? Is it that being overly cocky can be a bad thing? Is that we should never give up, because no matter how down and out we think we may be, a comeback (figurative or literal) is always possible? Is it, perhaps, that I have too much time on my hands to be writing such elaborate recaps of random video game adventures?
No. (Well, maybe on that last one.)
The real lesson is that it's UNBELIEVABLY satisfying to crush an annoying jerkwad's hopes and dreams in a video game. Sure, Mr. Swagga probably resumed his life of general dickishness not long after this defeat -- a life of pushing elderly women into crowded intersections and refusing to give waitresses tips. But for one moment, for one incredibly brief interval, this cocky dickweed was humbled and embarrassed.
You're welcome, America.
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