SWISH: A Made Up Story About J.R. Smith

The year is 2024, and at the ripe young age of 39 years old, Earl Joseph “J.R.” Smith III found himself in a familiar position but under unusual circumstances.

For what felt like the millionth time, he was at the podium of a post-game NBA press conference, about to answer a series of different questions from a series of different reporters.

But what J.R. knew that nobody else did, besides for his wife Jewel and his daughters Dakota, Demi, and Peyton, is that it would be his last press conference as an NBA player. It would be his last press conference ever.

Ever since it started, he slowly grew tired of the questions; really, the question.

He had grown so tired of that one damn question.

J.R. could sense what was coming, but it didn’t make things any easier.

With the Larry O’Brien trophy by his side and tears welling up in his eyes, J.R. Smith adjusted the microphone and pointed to the first raised hand he saw.

Reporter 1: “J.R., how does it feel to win Finals MVP for the first time?”

Smith smiled and replied politely. “It means more than you can know. It’s a dream come true.”

Reporter 2: “J.R., how does it feel to win your 5th NBA title?

Smith smiled and replied politely.

“It was a blessing to win with the Cavs, it was a blessing to win with the Heat, it was a blessing to win with the Spurs, it was a blessing to win with the Clippers, and it’s been a blessing to return to New York and win with the Knicks.”

Reporter 3: “J.R., you haven’t missed a three-pointer since hitting the last shot in the 2017 NBA finals. It’s been seven years. You finished this season as the all-time NBA leader in three-pointers made and attempted, and you have the highest shooting percentage in NBA history. How do you explain it?”

His smile turned to a scowl.

“Are you new? I thought I asked you guys not to ask me about that. We’ve been through this before. We went through this when I hit 50 in a row, and 100 in a row, and even when I hit 1,000 in a row, you kept asking. I thought we’ve been through this already. If I knew how or why it was happening, I would tell you, but I can’t, so I won’t. I pick my spot, I shoot my shot, and it goes in. It may not be that simple, but it’s that simple. Next question.”

Reporter 4: “J.R., what’s next? You’ve beaten Lonzo, LaMelo, and LiAngelo Ball’s Los Angeles Lakers in the playoffs for three consecutive years. Are you going to sign another one-year deal and win somewhere else, stay with the Knicks, or accept Lavar Ball’s offer to join his boys on the Lakers and help them win their first ring since the Kobe days?

J.R. was smiling again, because he was finally about to answer the last NBA post-game question of his career.

“Now that’s a great question. It has been a privilege to play the game of basketball for so long. I think it’s time for me to put the ball down and let these other fine gentlemen in the league have their fun, shoot their shots, and win their titles. I can rest easy knowing that the last shot of my career went in, for the win. Tonight is my final game as an NBA player. I look forward to spending time with my family and I hope you’ll all let me do that in peace. Thank you, God bless you, and goodnight.”

He stood up, walked away from the podium, and never looked back.

J.R. sat in his backyard, cozied up next to Jewel, sipping on a glass of Hennessy and smoking a cigar. Their nest was empty for the first time in years.

Demi and Peyton were on the road hosting events for the J.R. Smith Foundation, raising money to provide financial support for families with prematurely born children.

He anxiously refreshed his email, waiting for an update from Dakota on the first week of her freshman year at UCLA. She promised an email, but what he got instead was a phone call. She never calls, he thought to himself as he put down his drink, stood up, and answered.

“Dakota, baby, your mother and I have been waiting to hear from you. How is school? How is your roommate?”

The voice on the other end of the phone wasn’t Dakota Smith.

“Hello, Earl. Before I say anything else, I should tell you that your daughter is perfectly safe.”

There was only one person on this planet who still called him Earl.

“Lavar, you son of a bitch, what have you done with my daughter?”

Jewel immediately perked up, a look of concern on her face, and J.R. put the phone on speaker.

“Oh, Earl. Watch your mouth if you know what’s good for you, and listen up. You think you can beat my boys, MY LAKERS, year after year, shatter their confidence, tarnish our brand, reject my offer to join us in front of the world, and then just retire to your mansion in Westchester and think that was it?

I had it all planned out so perfectly. We were going to be the next Lakers dynasty. Now LaMelo is in Memphis, LiAngelo is in Orlando, and Lonzo is sitting on the bench in Houston with two bad knees.

Do you think you can fuck with Big Baller Brand and not expect there to be consequences?

You think you can send your daughter to UCLA, to my fucking city, and expect me to sit back and do nothing?

We were born to win, and I don’t how you did what you did, but you weren’t supposed to stand in our way. Now you’re going to pay.”

Jewel and J.R. exchanged worried looks, but he knew what he had to do.

“What do you want, Lavar?”

He knew what he wanted, but had to hear him say it.

“I want you to come to California, Earl. I want you to fly to Los Angeles, drive to Brentwood, and walk through the doors of Big Baller Club. I want you to come to the back room and play me one on one, with your daughter watching, and I want you to lose. I want you to miss every shot you take. And I want to live stream it for the whole world to see. If you alert the authorities, you’ll regret it. See you tomorrow.”

He hadn’t shot a basketball in years. He hadn’t touched one since he was inducted to the Hall of Fame in 2022.

But J.R. knew that was all about to change.

He packed his bag, gave Jewel a kiss, and went to JFK Airport.

There was a line outside of eager UCLA students waiting to get in, and at that moment, J.R. realized that his daughter walked right in Lavar’s trap on her first night out.

The bouncer recognized him immediately and led him inside. As they walked along the left side of the main room, through the crowd and pulsing music, J.R. picked up an unopened bottle of champagne from a table and cracked it over the bouncer's head, hard enough to knock him out but soft enough to prevent it from breaking.

Nobody noticed as he hit the ground, the thud of his body drowned out by the sounds of a Justin Bieber remix.

J.R. saw the doorway a few yards in front of him, closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and walked towards his next challenge.

He expected to see Lavar, Dakota, a tripod, and a basketball court, but instead, he saw a room with 4 guys that looked like Shaq holding metal pipes, waiting for him. Waiting to attack.

It was a trap.

In an instant, his instincts kicked in.

He shook the champagne with vigor and fury, pointing the bottle in the direction of the light switch.

The cork erupted in an instant, flying across the room with precision and speed towards his target.

He didn’t miss, because he never could.

Darkness. A level playing field.

He threw the bottle in the direction of his closest foe, got as low to the ground as possible, and scurried across the floor to the opposite side of the room.

He turned the lights back on and watched his enemies lose their balance and tumble to the ground as they realized their shoelaces were tied together.

He walked over to Shaq #1 and stepped on his wrist until the grip around the pipe loosened, and J.R. bent over to pick it up.

He looked down at him in disgust and anger, the pipe in his hands now, his grip tightening around the cold metal weapon.

“YOU” *THUD*

“TRYING” *THUD*

“TO” *THUD*

“GET” *THUD*

“THE” *THUD*

“PIPE?” *THUD*

J.R. Smith had rage in his eyes. Shaq #1, #2, #3, and #4 laid still, the blood slowly pooling around their massive, fractured skulls.

He walked toward the only other door in the room and kicked it open.

That’s when he saw her, and him, and the hoop, and the ball, and the bright lights, and the camera.

“You didn’t have to kill them, Earl.” Lavar grinned and removed the blindfold covering Dakota’s eyes.

“You didn’t have to kidnap my daughter and hold her ransom just so you could play me one-on-one in basketball, LAVAR.”

She saw her father standing just a few feet away from her and tried to stand up and run to him, only to realize her arms and legs were tied to the chair she was sitting in. She struggled, but then she smiled.

She knew she was safe now.

She knew that her dad was going to save her.

“Daddy, you made it. I missed you so…”

Lavar cut her off before she could say another word.

“Enough chit-chat. Earl, you know why you’re here. We’re playing to 7, winners ball, no fouls. Every bucket is a point, no matter where the hell you shoot it from. If you win, you get to take your daughter home. If I win, she can go home, but you have to stay with me. Forever. I don’t know if you still have it in you, but if you do, I’m going to get it out and give it to my sons before it’s too late.

“Lavar, you are a madman. For the last damn time, I have no idea why I can’t miss, but if you want to play and see for yourself how it works, it’s your funeral.”

“We’ll see about that. If it goes in, your ball. You miss, it’s mine. Shoot your shot, Earl.”

Lavar started the live stream and threw J.R. a perfect bounce pass from under the hoop to the top of the three-point line. He stared at his daughter, then down at the ball, and for the first time in a long time, he rose up, released, and watched.

Swish.

“Well, well, well. It looks like you still got it, Earl.”

That’s when Lavar realized the flaw in his master plan.

He told J.R. to miss every shot, thinking he would listen, but he simply couldn’t miss.

It was beyond his control.

The game was over before it started.

Like clockwork, Lavar checked the ball, J.R. rose up and released the most beautiful shot the world had ever seen.

Swish.

1–0.

Swish.

2–0.

Swish.

3–0.

Swish.

4–0.

Swish.

5–0.

Swish.

6–0.

With 15,000,000 people watching live, Lavar checked the ball to J.R. Smith one last time.

He pump-faked a three and Lavar bit, rising up to try and block the shot. J.R. bounced the ball as high as he could, caught Lavar in mid-air, and body-slammed him into the court with such power that the floor cracked.

The ball descended back down from the heavens into his hands.

Standing over Lavar’s broken, defeated body and spirit, he rose up one last time, in front of his daughter and in front of the world, and released the ball.

“Never fuck with another man’s family.”

Swish.

The End.