“That guy is gonna kill us.”
I was 19, just starting to find my rhythm – as a man and, more importantly to my ego, as a basketball player. I watched as a 6-foot-2-inch chiseled dude strode onto the court at Trinity College in Hartford. We were playing pickup like we always did after classes, just around 4. Nine of us had been casually shooting and Muscles McGee made it a perfect 10.
“That guy is gonna kill us,” I thought. “Just look at him.”