THE COLLISION: THE MYRON BOLITAR STORY

“We’ve been watching your documentary, Myron. It’s very moving.”

If you were a sports fan of a certain age, you knew the “legend” of Myron Bolitar, former first-round draft pick of the Boston Celtics. If you were not, or if you were younger or foreign like these guys, well, thanks to a recent sports documentary on ESPN called The Collision going viral, you still knew more than you should.

Fat Gandhi snapped his fingers again, and the video started playing.

“Yeah,” Myron said, “I’ve already seen it.”

“Oh, come, come. Don’t be so modest.”

The documentary started off optimistically enough: tinkling music, bright sunshine, cheers from the crowd. Somehow they had gotten clips of Myron playing AAU ball as a sixth grader. Then it moved on. Myron Bolitar had been a high school basketball superstar from Livingston, New Jersey. During his years at Duke University, his legend grew. He was a consensus All-American, a two-time NCAA champion, and even College Player of the Year.

The tinkling music swelled.

When the Boston Celtics picked him in the first round of the NBA draft, Myron’s dreams, it seemed, had all come true.

And then, as the documentary voice-over of doom intoned, “Tragedy struck . . .”

Sudden stop on the tinkling music. Cue something more ominous.

“Tragedy struck” in the third quarter of Myron’s very first preseason game, the first—and last—time he would don the green Celtics uniform number 34. The Celtics were playing the Washington Bullets. Up until that point, Myron’s debut had lived up to the hype. He had eighteen points. He was fitting in, clicking on all cylinders, lost in the sweet, sweaty bliss he found only on a basketball court, and then . . .

The Collision filmmakers must have shown the “horrific” replay two dozen times from a variety of angles. They showed it at regular speed. They showed it in slow motion. They showed it from Myron’s vantage point, from above, from courtside. Didn’t matter. The result was always the same.

Rookie Myron Bolitar had his head turned when Big Burt Wesson, a journeyman power forward, blindsided him. Myron’s knee twisted in a way neither God nor anatomy ever intended. Even from a distance you could actually hear a nauseating sound like a wet snap.

Bye-bye, career.

“Watching this,” Fat Gandhi said with an exaggerated pout, “made us sad.” He looked around. “Didn’t it, lads?”

Everyone, even Dog Collar, quickly mimicked the pout. They all then stared at Myron.

“Yeah, I’m over it.”

“Are you?”

“Man plans and God laughs,” Myron said.

Fat Gandhi smiled. “I like that one. Is that an American expression?”

“Yiddish.”

“Ah. In Hindi, we say knowledge is bigger than debate. You see? So first, we learned your name. Then we watched your documentary, we broke into your email—”

“You what?”

“There was nothing very interesting, but we haven’t finished. We also checked your phone records. Your mobile phone received a call from an untraceable number whilst in New York City fewer than twenty-four hours ago. The call originated from London.” He put out his hands, palms up. “And now you are here. With us.”