The first sound was not the squeak of rubber on polished hardwood, or the percussive dribble of a basketball, or even the roar of a crowd. It was the sharp, solitary tweet of a whistle, cutting through the humid, sweat-scented air of the Portland Expo Building.
For Kyle Wilson, the sound was a guillotine. It dropped, severing the flow of his team's offensive set, a set he had drilled into them for three weeks until he saw it in his sleep. His set. His play. His vision, now lying in tatters on the court.
He didn't need to look at the referee, who was pointing a stern finger at his young point guard, Jahmal Carter, for a clumsy, obvious moving screen. He just closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, the noise transporting him.
