1995

Elijah stirred awake, a dull ache threading through his body like a quiet protest. His muscles grumbled as he stretched beneath the rumpled sheets—shoulders stiff, thighs tight, a faint burn lingering in his forearms from the late-night shots he'd poured into the street hoop. He blinked against the gray dawn seeping through the blinds, the room still cloaked in shadow save for the faint glow of his Jordan poster catching the light. Rolling over, he squinted at the cracked clock on his dresser: 6:22 a.m. Early enough to hear the neighborhood waking—car doors slamming, a distant dog barking—but late enough that Martha's slippered footsteps would be padding toward the kitchen, her shift looming. He had a sliver of time before school, a breath to let his mind unfurl.

He sat up, wincing as his calves twinged, but a flicker of energy buzzed beneath the soreness—a spark he hadn't felt in his old life, not since the injury snuffed it out. Last night's grind had left its mark, and he wore it like a medal. Rubbing his eyes, his thoughts drifted, snagging on something bigger than Lincoln High's creaky gym or the asphalt court down the block. The NBA.

Leaning back against the headboard, he scratched his chin, brow furrowing. What month was it? He lunged for his backpack, fishing out his school planner from a mess of loose papers and chewed pencils. Flipping through, his finger landed on the date: September 17, 1995. A slow grin spread across his face, the realization sinking in like a perfect jumper at the buzzer. September '95. He'd been so buried in his own hustle—drills, shots, the system's quiet hum—that he'd barely glanced at the basketball universe beyond Chicago's South Side. But this wasn't just any year. This was a seismic shift, a season etched in history, and he held the playbook in his head.

Michael Jordan was back. Elijah's grin widened, a thrill rippling through him. MJ had stunned the world in March '95, ditching baseball's minor leagues for the Bulls' hardwood, swapping his Barons jersey for a Chicago uni—number 45, not the sacred 23, a jarring sight for fans who'd worshipped him. He'd returned midseason, still shaking off rust, and dragged a patchwork Bulls squad into the playoffs. They'd faced the Orlando Magic in the Eastern Conference Semifinals, a brutal clash—Shaq dominating the paint with 25.7 points a game, Penny Hardaway slicing through with 19.6 and 7.7 assists, their young legs outrunning Chicago's creaky gears. The Magic took it 4-2, a gut punch that sent Jordan home early, his 45 jersey sweat-soaked and his fire rekindled.

But the 1995-96 season—kicking off November 3rd against the Charlotte Hornets—was the one. Elijah could see it unfolding: 72 wins, 10 losses, a record that would stand like a monolith. Jordan, reclaiming 23, would average 30.4 points on 49% shooting, his mid-range jumper a dagger, his will a sledgehammer. Scottie Pippen, the league's best wing defender, would lock down stars while dropping 19.4 a night. Dennis Rodman—traded from the Spurs for Will Perdue in August '95—would crash boards with 14.9 rebounds a game, his neon hair and wild energy a perfect chaos for Chicago's machine. They'd sweep the Magic in the Conference Finals, then take the Finals 4-2 over the Seattle SuperSonics—Gary Payton's glove-like defense and Shawn Kemp's thunderous dunks no match for the Bulls' relentless precision.

It wasn't just Chicago rewriting the script. Hakeem Olajuwon was still the king, fresh off a masterclass with the Houston Rockets. In June '95, he'd led a sixth-seeded squad to back-to-back titles, sweeping the Magic in the Finals with a stat line that sang: 32.8 points, 11.5 rebounds, 5.5 assists, 2 steals, 2 blocks, all on 48% from the field. His Dream Shake—those hypnotic pivots and fakes—had left Shaq grasping at air, a 23-year-old giant schooled by a veteran's grace. Clyde Drexler, traded midseason from Portland, had added 21.5 points in the Finals, his slashing a perfect foil to Hakeem's post artistry. The Rockets had toppled the Jazz, Suns, and Spurs en route, a Cinderella run that cemented Olajuwon's legend.

Shaq, though—he was a storm brewing. This season, his third with Orlando, would be his swan song in Florida. Elijah knew the arc: Shaq would average 26.6 points and 11 rebounds, his 7'1", 325-pound frame a wrecking ball in the paint, dunking on fools with a grin. Penny, at 24, would shine beside him—21.7 points, 7.1 assists, a silky guard who could've been Jordan's heir. They'd push deep again, maybe even to the Finals, but by July '96, Shaq would bolt for the Lakers—$121 million over seven years, the glitz of LA calling. The Magic, despite Penny's All-Star glow, couldn't afford both, and the dynasty-that-wasn't would crumble.

The league was a kaleidoscope of rising stars and shifting tides. Kobe Bryant was still a senior at Lower Merion High, torching Pennsylvania prep defenses with 30.8 points a game, his fadeaways a preview of the Mamba to come. Next June, the Hornets would draft him 13th, then flip him to the Lakers for Vlade Divac—a trade that'd haunt Charlotte like a ghost. Allen Iverson was at Georgetown, his crossover a blur, averaging 25 points as he prepped for the '96 draft, where the Sixers would grab him first. Steve Nash, a lanky Canadian at Santa Clara, was two years from Phoenix, his 17.8 points and 6.1 assists a whisper of the maestro he'd become. Ray Allen was lighting up UConn with 23.4 points, Jermaine O'Neal dominating at Eau Claire High—names Elijah knew would redefine the NBA.

And then there were the newborns. The Toronto Raptors and Vancouver Grizzlies, expansion teams, were prepping for their debuts—November 3rd for Toronto against the Nets at SkyDome, November 5th for Vancouver against the Blazers at Memorial Coliseum. The Raptors, with Isiah Thomas as GM, had snagged Damon Stoudamire seventh overall in the '95 draft—a 5'10" sparkplug from Arizona, nicknamed "Mighty Mouse," who'd drop 19 points a game as a rookie. The Grizzlies took Bryant "Big Country" Reeves second overall, a 7-foot, 275-pound center from Oklahoma State, his 21.5 college points promising heft in the paint. Both teams would flounder—Toronto at 21-61, Vancouver at 15-67—but they'd scrape and claw, planting flags in a league ruled by giants.

Elijah ran a hand through his messy hair, the enormity of it sinking in. He knew the future—every pick, every trade, every ring. It didn't hand him a fast track to the pros, but it gave him an edge, a lens to sharpen his grind. He could train for the game's evolution—spacing, shooting, pace—while his peers stumbled blind. The thought ignited a hunger in his chest, and he leapt up, tugging on a faded Bulls tee and jeans, the day pulling him forward like a whistle at tip-off.

Lunch at Lincoln High was a sensory assault—trays clanging, voices shouting over the hiss of the fryer, the air thick with the tang of ketchup and overdone fries. Elijah slid into a seat at their scratched table, flanked by Malcolm Lewis and Derrick Hayes. Malcolm was a whirlwind, all elbows and wild gestures, his sandwich shedding crumbs as he waved it like a conductor's baton. Derrick, lean and quiet, lounged with a soda, his nods punctuating Malcolm's rants like a bassline.

"Yo, you catch Shaq and Penny in the preseason clips?" Malcolm said, swallowing a bite with a grin. "SportsCenter had it on repeat—Shaq smashed some Heat scrub into next week, and Penny hit a step-back over Mourning that was straight filthy. Orlando's gonna own the East, watch."

Elijah smirked, popping a fry, the salt sharp on his tongue. "They've got juice for one more run, maybe. Shaq's dropping 26 a night easy, Penny's at 22 with 7 dimes—top-five duo, no question. But I wouldn't bet on them sticking long."

Malcolm's eyes narrowed, sandwich paused midair. "What you mean, 'not sticking'? They're unstoppable, bro—Shaq's a freaking freight train, and Penny's got that smooth sauce. Who's breaking that up?"

Elijah leaned back, careful not to spill the future he couldn't prove. "Penny's All-Star caliber—could lead his own squad. But Orlando's cheap. They won't max both out, and Shaq's got bigger dreams than swamp life. Teams like that split fast when the money talks."

Derrick cocked his head, his deep voice rolling slow. "You sound like you've got their contracts in your locker, man. Since when you a GM?"

Elijah laughed, dodging with a grin. "Just watch a lot of games, fam. You see the cracks if you squint."

Malcolm snorted, flicking a fry at him—it bounced off Elijah's shoulder and skidded across the table. "Cracks, huh? What's next, you predicting Jordan's hanging it up again?"

"Nah," Elijah said, flicking it back with a smirk. "He's just warming up. Playoffs lit a fire—Orlando punked him, and he's pissed. This season, he's back in 23, dropping 30 a night, and the Bulls are running it up—70 wins, book it."

"Seventy?" Malcolm whistled, long and dramatic. "You're dreaming, Reed. They got smoked last year—Pippen's slick, but MJ was creaky. You really think they're that deep?"

"Deep?" Elijah leaned in, eyes glinting. "They grabbed Rodman in August—traded Perdue for him. Dude's a nutcase but pulls 15 boards a game, dyes his hair green for fun. With Pippen locking wings and Jordan burying jumpers, they're a freight train. Orlando's toast this time—swept in the Conference Finals, bet."

Derrick cracked a rare grin, shaking his head. "You're wild, man. What about Hakeem? Rockets just swept Shaq—Dream's still king."

"Facts," Elijah said, nodding. "Hakeem's untouchable—32 and 11 in the Finals, made Shaq look like a rookie. That Dream Shake's a cheat code. But Houston's peaking—Drexler's 33, legs slowing. They won't three-peat."

Malcolm laughed, tossing another fry. "Listen to this dude—breaking down the league like he's Hubie Brown! What's got you so locked in?"

"Just love the game," Elijah said, his voice softening, the weight of two lives behind it. In his past, the NBA had been his lifeline—hours glued to highlights, mourning what he'd lost. Now, he was in it, tasting it fresh, every moment a chance to rewrite the script.

The bell rang, scattering the table, but the buzz lingered—Jordan's fadeaways, Hakeem's spins, Shaq's dunks replaying in his head like a mixtape from tomorrow.