There comes a moment in the life of every amateur basketball player, from those who barely scrape together minutes in high school to those who play only for a year at UK, when the dream comes to an end. The horn sounds with a blaring finality that signals there are no second half comebacks, no miracles at the buzzer, no practice tomorrow. It is over. The thing that you so desperately love, that has defined your life for six months, or all year, or since your dad put a basketball into your crib, is done in two seconds of electronic noise.
Don’t cry, Trevon Bluiett
