The Boban looks like the galaxy. His hands are rakes, his feet Audis. He’s 7’3″ 290, which I believe is the size of a county. He has to duck under, what, 80% of the doorways he sees? More?
This is a picture of him and his wife.
The Boban is almost translucent here. Those trunks would reach my knees. It’s still incredible that Yao Ming was 7’6″. The Boban is elegant, graceful, righteous. He is compassionate, enduring. When he sings newborn doves land on him. He walks the streets with them, he their branches, their home.
This is a picture of him holding a gallon of Bush’s Chicken Fresh Brewed Sweet Tea.
I think that is an actual outfit. Like, a choreographed one. The kind they sell at Dillard’s and you can’t buy the top unless you buy the bottoms. An all cammo everything setup. The Boban‘s knuckles are the size of my triceps. He tries to mask them with the glasses, but in his eyes are billion year old secrets, the mysteries of our universe, the answers to prayers. He knows what you dream of at night. He knows your desires.
This is a picture of him staring into the soul of San Antonio Spurs assistant coach Becky Hammon.
The Boban is older than the sea, speaks without opening his mouth, his words in the heads of the people he’s near. A seer, ever stalwart. In January of 2016 he walked into the maternity ward at Children’s Hospital of San Antonio. Every single child stopped crying. Every adult started to. He once baptized Jeremy Evans in the waters of his mercy, Evans speaking only through blinks and tongue clicks ever since. Tattoos of The Boban‘s face appeared on the lids of his eyes. He can see with them shut now. The Boban looks for him.