With its football teams in decline and fall (Landry in act one of Lear, the NCAA salting the SMU campus), Dallas, for the first time, became a basketball town. With a Mark Aguirre–sized chip on their shoulder, the Mavericks were underrated and coming off two road wins, including an upset against Jordan in full demigod mode. James Donaldson played center like a cop who had seen it all; Sam Perkins was Kevin McHale on quaaludes, somnolent but productive; Derek Harper and Rolando Blackman were the sneaky best backcourt in the league. The bench was like a casting session for Hoosiers (Brad Davis, Steve Alford, Bill Wennington), possibly directed by Leni Riefenstahl (Detlef Schrempf and the Big Bratwurst: Uwe Blab). And the secret heat check: the prelapsarian Roy Tarpley as sixth man. Their head coach was John MacLeod, who registered on the Pat Malone scale of Catholic sports stars for having carried Bellarmine basketball sometime before the flood.

Hakeem’s first shot rimmed out, Perkins rebounded, and Derek Harper brought the ball downcourt, his chin up like he had a nosebleed.

Cady whispered not so softly into Dan’s ear: “I’m so sorry about my brother.”

“Not your fault.” Dan scanned the bench for Tarpley, who had his head draped in a towel like a Bedouin. “These are great seats.”

“Yeah, I guess.” Cady looked out over the court, feigning interest.

Dan realized he had a problem. Here was the best basketball team in the world not named Celtics or Lakers, and he’d be an idiot not to watch . . . but . . . he was on a date.

“I mean, it’s great they’re together . . .” Dan blurted the rest: “You know, away from your brother. Sitting together. Us . . .” Shoot me now.

“Totally.” Cady smacked her gum, and it dawned on Dan that the Mavericks weren’t the only ones who might have trouble scoring tonight.

Fifteen seconds into the possession Perkins waddled into the paint and Harper lobbed it in. Perkins posted Hakeem, double head-faked, and then flicked the jump hook. The shot went in with a foul for reaching in. The crowd erupted like it was the first three-point opportunity in the history of the franchise.

“Do you like basketball?” Cady asked brightly.

“I love it. I love Roy Tarpley.”

“Does he play for the Mavs? Which one is he?”

“He’s on the bench. He’s coming in later.”

“Is he not good enough to play?”

Oh boy. Then he looked down at Cady’s clear manicured nails and her James Avery rings and her hands pressing the pleats in her skirt, and Dan missed Perkins’s hitting the free throw. Okay, I’m on a date until the second half.

“So you think Roy Tarpley isn’t any good? Are you saying you’re better than him?” Dan popped his eyebrows to make sure she saw he was kidding. “Should we get you down to the floor?”

“Hey, I’m pretty good. I can shoot for baskets.”