I'm outside of Kevin Durant's old home "in the Seattle area."  If I stare hard enough and squint I can see myself in the reflection of his storm windows.

I begin pantomiming the last three minutes of the recent Thunder- Jazz game without a ball in Kevin's driveway. My cheeks puff out with each plant and cut and I make exaggerated  whooshing noises that distinctly accent my heavy breathing. 

After a forray to the rim in which I gently graze a neatly pruned azalea bush I aggressively whisper: "two shots." 

I know Kevin remembers that play. We should have got that call.