Zhaire Smith and the Mysterious Fickle Foot
by Boobie
Note: this piece was written in good fun before the severity of Zhaire Smith’s foot injury was announced. We obviously wish Zhaire a full and speedy recovery, both because we love the Sixers and because we aren’t horrible monsters.
Philadelphia 76ers rookie Zhaire Smith is feeling confident at the team’s rookie development camp. After entering his freshman season and Texas Tech a virtual unknown to all but diehard Red Raiders fans, famously on the outside looking in on ESPN’s top 100 prospects after his senior year of high school, Smith had shot up NBA teams’ draft boards after showcasing a combination of toughness and dazzling athleticism while playing as an undersized combo forward, making highlight blocks and put-back dunks while playing important minutes for a mostly veteran team during the college season, then showcasing a tantalizing nascent skill set in team workouts. That the Sixers, a team in position to compete for a spot in the NBA Finals right now, had traded away the more polished hometown favorite Mikal Bridges to acquire him was a boon all its own; that his athletic gifts seemed to translate immediately in summer league didn’t hurt matters, either.
Smith is standing in the left corner of one of the myriad courts in his new team’s gleaming new practice facility in Camden, New Jersey, slowly unloading three point shots, sinking one, then missing one long; sinking one, then missing one to the right; sinking two in a row, then missing one short and to the right. He knows this will be the key to his level of contribution to the team this season, that his ceiling will be defined by how successfully he can convert himself from an energy guy to an offensive threat both with and without the ball. He misses two in a row, then makes three, struggling to get into any extended rhythm.
His concentration is broken by strange accent calling “Zhaiya!” from across the court. Coach Brett Brown jogs toward him, his weathered face adorned with his off-season beard. “Zhaiya, did you fuhget about owa film review session?” He doesn’t think he had forgotten about any such thing, but taking a lesson from Kevin Love’s rocky first season in Cleveland, he had made up his mind years ago to fit in rather than out; this is what allowed him to thrive on that experienced and tight-knit Tech team, and, he thought, it should allow him to do the same in the NBA.
“Sorry, Coach,” he says, taking one last shot that rattles around for a moment then falls in, then turning to face Brown. As confused as he is about what seemed to him to be a surprise film session, he’s excited for a one-on-one sit-down with Brown, to have his role further defined. “Lead the way.”
The two make small talk as they walk up the stairs and through the halls of the facility, Smith trying to steer the conversation toward the sort of tape they’ll be breaking down, Brown seemingly distracted. Understandable, Smith thinks, given that Brown is an important part of the Sixers current front office brain trust and currently in the midst of a GM search in the wake of the Bryan Colangelo burner scandal, though not ideal. Brown stops abruptly in front of a nondescript conference room, then opens the door. He gestures for Smith to enter the room ahead of him. “Afta you.” Zhaire Smith steps crosses the threshold.
This… isn’t a conference room at all. He turns around and sees the hallway of the practice facility disappearing as the door closes behind him, but doorway stands surrounded not by walls and carpeting but a dense, misty forest. The environment is lit only by a few torches and a small fire; the crackling of the flame is the only sound breaking the eerie silence.
Three tall, hooded figures emerge slowly from the far darkness. They walk around the fire in a single-file line before settling into a semi-circle in front of it. Their heads are bowed and obscured by shadow, and their hands are hidden by their long, billowing sleeves; the only identifiable feature is that, even to Smith, they are toweringly tall. Slowly, the one to his left points at Smith’s feet, revealing a beige-colored index finger. He looks down. “Y… you want my Pumas?” he stammers, more confused by this request than he was by stepping through a doorway into a shrouded wood. His mouth begins to form a follow-up question when the wraith in the middle lets out a bellowing laugh. “We do not want your bum ass Pumas,” chortles Joel Embiid, throwing back his hood as Ben Simmons does the same to Embiid’s right. “It is time for you to undergo the bi-yearly right of passage.”
Embiid begins chanting, “Trust the Process, Trust the Process, Trust the Process.” Simmons, behind him, murmurs “One of us, one of us, one of us” in time with Embiid. The third figure, holding a large walking stick Smith hadn’t noticed before, begins moving toward him slowly. Smith is terrified, he cannot get his bearings, and he feels ridiculous in his low-top, traffic cone orange Pumas; he finds himself paralyzed, unsure if the issue is mental or physical, and suddenly knows how Markell’s Fultz must have felt all last season when trying to shoot a jump shot.
Suddenly, a gust of wind blows the third hood back, revealing a long-forgotten face with half a head of cornrows. Smith glances down and sees bowling shoes rivaling his Pumas in ridiculousness. Andrew Bynum joins in the chanting with a full throated “RUN WITH US, RUN WITH US,” before driving the staff through Smith’s left foot. Agony courses through his body. He falls to the grass, the blood pounding in his head drowning out the chants, as Simmons, Embiid, and Bynum put their hoods up and slowly recede back into the blackness, a blackness that now encroaches on his vision. He loses consciousness.
Zhaire Smith regains consciousness on a trainer’s table. He hopes that the experience in the misty forest was some sort of dream, or that perhaps Coach Brown had dosed him with LSD as some sort of mind-expanding rookie hazing ritual, but he can tell by the the fact that he can feel the throbbing pain in his foot with every beat of his heart that it was real. He looks down and sees a sink on the other side of the room through a gaping hole in his foot and nearly passes out again, but manages to keep a tenuous grasp on consciousness. A trainer comes into the room, blocking his view of the sink. Smith glances up, expecting either an explanation of what the hell just happened or a gasp of shock from the trainer at the site of a god damn clean puncture all the way through his foot, but instead the trainer simply takes a seat. Smith looks into his eyes, but sees that the pupil, the iris and the sclera are all as black as tar, a lifeless, matte black, a black that seems to suck in all light around it instead of reflecting any of it.
“Well, Zhaire,” the trainer drones, “we’re having a little trouble diagnosing exactly what the issue is here. We’ll have an update on your recovery timeline by November, but fully expect you to be back for the season. Not to worry though; we have an incredible medical staff and they’ll take amazing care of you. Your rookie season is in no danger. We can’t wait to see you back on the court.”
