Turned to the NBA Draft for my #500WordWednesday inspiration. Enjoy.

“The Commissioner looks like a cancer-ravaged turtle with alopecia.”

I’m about to hit “Send” on Twitter when my phone is rudely snatched from my hand. Strange. I usually don’t get stuff snatched. I’m the one doing the snatching. It’s kind of my job. Steals are kind of important when you’re vying to be the top point guard in the country. Leave it to guys like LeBron and Kevin to fill it up, I’ll do the rest.

Except rebound. Fuck that — I’m 6'2 on a good day.

But still, that was a good tweet. I turn around and find Mom looking ahead with a cool, glassy stare at the stage. I can see the red and white spotlights mirrored in her eyes, my phone clutched menacingly in her gnarled, oaken fingers.

Without moving her eyes, face, or (seemingly) lips, she says, “If you tweet anything derogatory about that skinny little man so help me God I will beat you silly.”

I’ve always found it funny that Mom could adapt her threat volumes to the environment. This was a church threat. Very hushed, very menacing, very low likelihood of it being actually carried out. That’s in contrast to the home threat, where she explained in great detail what my (and my older brother’s) bottoms would feel like after taking the mixing spoon to them.

Those were real threats. We tested her once — just to see. And also, the squirt gun in the house game was way too fun to stop.

We were sore for a week. Showers were difficult. Sleeping was worse. Going to the bathroom was no longer a sit-down activity.

But this threat, here in the Barclays Center in Brooklyn, New York, just minutes before the first pick of the 2016 NBA Draft, wasn’t happening.

Damn, man. That tweet was good.

Shit. It’s starting. Who’d they just call? Oh, ok. Someone up on the left. Jones? Yeah, he’s a good player. He’ll fit in there too — they need rebounding bad.

I turn around to see if I can get my phone back, but Mom’s put it in her bag. She turns her eyes to me and they crinkle around the edges — she never smiles with her mouth. But sometimes you can catch one in her eyes.

“…BA Draft, the Denver Nuggets select, Tarran McIlroy, point guard, Iowa State.”

OH fuck. That’s me. That’s definitely my name — it’s the one teachers and my mom and aunt have been yelling since I was old enough to run around the hou-

“TARRAN! STAND UP BOY!”

That’s Mom, pulling me up and out into the aisle. It acts like a cold bucket of ice water straight to my veins and now I’m in my element. Swagging for the cameras, red-on-yellow suit game on point. I’m about to meet that alopecia dude.

2nd ain’t quite first, but it beats third.