“Mr. West, excuse me, Mr. West,” my voice cracked as I attempted to get the attention of the imposing West Virginian quickly passing us by. An aide was scurrying him through the corridors of the still relatively empty Thomas and Mack Center, but he stopped and looked our way after my second, high-pitched salutation. “Can you autograph these basketballs for my sons,” I managed to ask while he glared at me. He glanced disapprovingly at the aidebut then grabbed one of the balls. My youngest, Cash struggled to get his Sharpie out of his bright-pink-Spurs Coyote face plastered shorts and handed it to the man in a hurry.
The Kings of Summer League
