Nick Collison walks into Irma’s in Midtown and all in it stop eating and fall to the floor. They cannot take the glory.
He’s at Ted’s Cafe Escondido. They give him his own private collection of tortillas. There are four newborns in the restaurant. They immediately start walking.
It’s not an exaggeration to say if you locked him in a room with thirty grizzly bears it would only take five minutes for them to start bowing to him, gain speech, call him God.
It’s my personal belief that Collison’s hairstyle is a symbol for all that is good and true in this world, the flowing locks rendering hate in its many forms obsolete, uninteresting, pointless. It’s not a pompadour that sits firmly on his head in a gelled statue. There’s movement to it, strands of black loosening themselves, shimmying, Clark Kenting on his forehead.
He’s Iowa Falls, Iowa’s favorite son. There was a Kansas-Texas Big Monday game when he was a senior I still remember. He went for 24 and 23. Vitale gave him a standing ovation. Dick’s prone to excess, but this was not that. Collision controlled everything. Rick Barnes started involuntarily weeping halfway through the second half. TJ Ford had not yet entered his headband phase. Jason Klotz’s actual name is Jason Klotz.
He would be a good time to hang out with. His favorite movie is Anchorman. His favorite TV show is Curb Your Enthusiasm. His last four Halloween costumes have been Walter White, Egon Spengler, mid-desert run Forrest Gump, and Pablo Escobar. “Jim and I” is how he captioned a picture of him setting a screen for James Harden.
Collision is the wise sage of these Thunder, has been for a while now. He plays in such a way that when he inevitably starts bleeding, either from court or from elbow, it seems like it somehow belongs on him, like that’s his base state, how he’s meant to be.
drawllin 
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