There’s a supercut of all of Aaron Gordon’s dunks that’s waiting to be put together. Score it with “Oui” because that song sounds like being in deep love, floating through sky. He gets intimate with rims. Wines them, dines them, Seabasses them.
He won the slam dunk contest last year even though he didn’t. If you close your eyes you can see him in the thermosphere. He jumped over Stuff, moving the ball under his body from his right to hand to his left, sitting in an invisible chair in mid air. He’s higher than dragons. He’s not an astronaut, he’s a satellite.
His celebrations were gleeful. The smiling and nodding and over and over, in the midst of roars, he’s saying Let’s go. He gave us a choreographed handshake with Mario Hezonja, Hezonja dressed in that vest like he was on his way to a farmer’s market to meet his new girlfriend’s parents for the first time. Gordon illuminated all involved. Shaq showed himself to be a buzzkill. John Stewart is very, very ivory.
Gordon played a year Arizona. Sean Miller longs for the past. He sweats, night visions of Gordon, his shirts become pools. If Old Spice doesn’t do an ad with Miller for the tournament next year, I have to question their sanity. The commercial writes itself.
Miller’s on the bench, sweat pouring off him. Players are slipping, falling. Salmon are jumping. Terry Crews comes up through the floor shouting Bear Glove. Miller looks down at his hands. Miniature bears have wrapped them. Crews tosses a stick of deodorant to him. One of the bears catches it with its teeth, Miller takes off the cap, runs it under his arms. He’s dry. Live wolves attach themselves to his shoulders. Cut to a bald eagle smoking a pipe and sitting in a red velvet throne with his talons crossed. He lifts his head up from the Sex section of the newspaper he’s reading to say to Miller something like Put me in coach. Miller does. The eagle grabs the ball. It flies toward the goal, about to dunk. The eagle is shot. Feathers, falling. Cut to Crews, holding a shotgun, screaming, making his titties bounce. The opening piano riff to Vanessa Carlton’s “A Thousand Miles” begins. Crews sings the beginning of it, like he did in the movie White Chicks. Then he says Watch those marshmallows, like he did in the movie White Chicks. Old Spice whistle.
Calling what Gordon does jumping is like calling Antarctica cold. It doesn’t really do it justice. He should partner up with moon shoes. Get a PE of these. If his friends were his friends they’d make him change his name to Bunnies. He jumps like puppies sprint, so happy to be doing it. He’s a creative. At 6’9″ 220 with springs like that he’s something like a Clydesdale that happens to be able to fly. There’s no fat anywhere. He looks drawn.
drawllin 
