[ WP ] `` I 'm on fire ? ''

Conflagration. 
 
 I've always wanted to use that word. I graduated college, and never got to drop that on anyone. I suppose it sounds pretentious, just to throw it out there for the sake of using it. 
 
 I was used to that behavior. I'd been around sports my whole life. When I played basketball at Duke, I used to use the national broadcasts as replays. Guys like Dick Vitale would always find the latest and greatest verbal bombs to bring the excitement to the next level. I know it reduced the tedium of studying hours upon hours of tape to get a leg up on your opponent. And Vitale was the shit. 
 
 I eventually went pro. I am so thankful my moms pushed me to get a degree in business because the Minnesota Timberwolves could n't ball their way out of a wet paper sack. I was supposed to be the Minnesavior. You ca n't put that on a rookie. I folded under the pressure. 
 
 I fell into obscurity after retirement. I had enough money, so I got a decent house and put my son and daughter through a nice school. I *retired*. I could still take the Phys. Ed. teacher in one on one at the school gym, but I let him win now and again to impress his students. Nobody wants to play you if you beat'em all the time. 
 
 With the kids out, my wife Janet said I needed a new hobby. I'd never really had anything besides ball, so I took to the web to see what else I might like. 
 
 Arcade machines, man. Pinball, Pac-man, *Ms. Pac-man*, Mickey Thompson's Off-Road, Space Invaders. Whatever. Did n't matter. Pretty soon, we had a damned museum dedicated to arcade games. The neighborhood kids would come over and play for free once a month and we'd have pizza and grape soda. 
 
 I got a call a few months ago. Some weirdo asking me if I wanted to buy some machine. Sure, whatever. At the very least, I'd check it out and say, `` No thanks.'' If only. 
 
 The guy's house was n't really a house. He hoarded machines. What should have been a normal entry way to the dining room was a tight causeway with vintage machines to the left and right. I did n't recognize any of these games, and I thought I'd become quite the aficionado. 
 
 `` Follow me. Thanks for coming.'' 
 
 His voice was weak and shaky, like he never used it. Like he was always gaming, never socializing. 
 
 `` Sure, man.'' 
 
 Of course we went downstairs. Dude was creepy. Maximum creep. 
 `` Here it is,'' he said, unceremoniously. 
 
 `` NBA Jam Tournament Edition? This was the big deal?'' 
 
 `` Oh, no, no. You must play.'' 
 
 `` Dude, I know this game. It ai n't special, I have an emulator that can run it back ho-'' 
 
 `` Please, I insist.'' 
 
 Sure, whatever. I'll play his stupid game and go home. Dude probably wants an autograph. 
 
 But I was n't going home. He handed me a quarter. I laid my hands across the controls and popped the money in with a satisfying *ka-ching*. The screen flickered. 
 
 `` Dude, this thing is broke-'' 
 
 `` Be patient.'' 
 
 And that was it. I was playing ball again. I'm not sure how it happened, but I sat in my old tunnel, awaiting to hit the floor with the T-Wolves. But the whole team was n't there. 
 
 `` Yo, Chris. What are we doing here, man? Where is everybody?'' 
 
 He did n't have time to respond. It was tipoff. I took center court. It was as if I had never left. I turned around one more time, but only Chris Laettner was standing there. 
 
 `` Dude, is this really two-on-two?!'' 
 
 He nodded and told me to get my game face on. In the moment I turned around to face the opponent, I was pushed violently to the floor. 
 
 `` Man, I'm not here to play prison rules.'' 
 
 Before I could finish, Alonzo Mourning was soaring 25 feet overhead, coming back to earth with a *boomshakalaka*. 
 
 `` Vitale?'' 
 
 Yep, it was him. I was inside the arcade game now. I knew what to do. 
 
 Laettner threw me the ball. I quickly navigated to half court, pulled a crossover dribble, and put down a major jam of my own. 
 
 The Hornets checked the ball. It was payback time and I hit Alonzo with a cheap shot. I grabbed the ball and put one in from downtown. Vitale was in step with his commentary. I could get used to this, man. 
 
 It only took one more. I did n't mind being trapped in a video game if it felt more satisfying than playing with buttons. I had almost forgotten where I was when I stole the ball again. 
 
 From the free-throw line, I leapt up for an enormous reverse dunk of which the likes have never been seen outside of a video game. Coming down, I could feel the heat picking up to the point where I thought the ball would melt. Contact. 
 
 I threw down with authority. Dick Vitale said it, but I did n't fully comprehend what was happening until I turned around. I looked at the net, and looked down at my scorched hands. 
 
 `` I'm on fire?''
