NBA Dunk of the Week: This Myles Turner Dunk Whips Ass, Just Like Me
As an unquestionably elite athlete, I, Corbin Smith, am here to praise Indiana Pacers forward Myles Turner and his campaign of shame against the Pelicans.
Screen capture via YouTube/NBA
This is a story about athleticism.
I had a busy morning yesterday. I had a bus to catch at exactly 9:07 AM so I could make a 10:15 AM therapy appointment in the city, but, unfortunately, I also had to pick up a prescription from the CVS near my house, which opened at 9:00 AM. I probably should have gotten it the night before, but I didn’t know they were still open when I got back home, whoops.
But I was out of meds and not taking that shit would almost certainly ruin my fucking day. And so, there was only one thing to try. I would have to go to the CVS, stand in line, get the meds as quickly as possible, RUN OUT OF CVS, get on my bicycle, and ride as fast as I possibly could to reach the bus at the PRECISE TIME THAT IT LEFT.
The pharmacist was a little slow opening and pecking through the computer. I was particularly irritated when I saw that my order wasn’t in the normal shelves, but filed away into another, more distant shelf. The pressure was building, but finally I checked out and ran out of that dumb store as fast as possible at 9:04:30, hopped on my bike, and peddled my fucking ass off, aiming to catch that bus.
It was cold and wet and I am still a little out of shape—we’re coming out of a particularly cold winter here in the Pacific Northwest—and for a second I felt a tightening in my chest, a sapping of the will. I heard that sad, stupid, little voice start to scream, Hey, it's OK if you miss therap— But I SCREAMED BACK at my spirit in my best fuck-you voice: I DON’T NEED YOUR BULLSHIT. I pressed on, goddammit, spinning my big fat legs as fast as I could to reach the last bus that was gonna get me to my appointment anywhere close to on time.
Right as I was riding into the bus mall, I saw my bus just barely edging out. I screamed, "WAIT WAIT!" The driver, with whom I’m on a face-recognition basis (I think), saw me and stopped. I was victorious. I slotted my bike on that rack on the front of the bus, got on, swiped my HOP Card, rolled to the back of the bus, and relaxed as my chariot shepherded me to Portland, Oregon, where I bought a donut and went to therapy to fret about whether I am being productive enough or not.
And so, after this day, when people ask me, "Hey, Corbin, what gives you the right to write about high-level athletes?" I can lightly chuckle under my breath, secure in the knowledge that, when the pressure was on, I was equipped in my spirit to execute a perfect athletic endeavor, a clutch moment that was nothing short of a complete victory.
I felt the pangs of doubt and I beat their fucking ass. Which brings me (uh, finally?) to Myles Turner.
As I, Corbin Smith, am now a member of the elite athlete community, I just want to tell everyone that this dunk, by Pacers forward Myles Turner, fucking whips ass. I don’t even know if I have any specific high-concept fuckery to put on it, it’s just fucking cool.
First off, he puts a pump fake on Anthony Davis—who bites into that shit hook, line, and sinker—and sends him flying somewhere into the next county. I love watching star players get subtly owned while trying to do unreasonable things like blocking jump shots. You can see, in the streaks of wind Davis creates sailing past this fake, the pure hubris of stardom itself. It's the kind of self-regard you need to accomplish what he has in the NBA, but also the kind of self-regard that tricks you into thinking you can identify and block a jump shot by a 6’10” dude whenever you want.
I also possess this high level of self-regard, as evidenced by me scheduling a therapy appointment in such a way that, if I am going to actually make it, I have to execute a half-mile bike ride in a two-minute window. And one day luck might go against me, like it does for AD here. I might fuck up, or run into traffic, or succumb to a wave of self-doubt that slows me down and spoils my effort altogether. Maybe I even get hit by a car in the rush to make my stop in time, fucking up not only my appointment but also my day and probably even my week.
But not today. Today I was victorious, and the taste of victory was worth all of the risk, all of the training, all of the spirit I put into it.
In the same way, we see Myles Turner, having sent his defender flying into the damn ocean, put the ball on the fucking floor and drive to the rim. He could have settled here. Seen the defender rotating over and taken the jump shot. I could have said fuck it and spent money taking a Lyft to my appointment, but I didn’t do that because I, like Myles, am one of the great ones, and I embrace the challenges of life, seeking not to fade away and sink soft jumpers over them, and also because I don’t really have $20 to drop on that bullshit.
Then there's the windup, and the dunk. Cheick Diallo doesn’t stand a chance. It is pure power, an athletic feat the likes of which most people can only dream. Unless they are like me, when my big fucking quads power down on some pedals and send me flying down the flat road at like 24 miles an hour.
And then maybe Turner stares at Rajon Rondo for a second there? It might just be the camera angle, but he probably really sticks some eye daggers into Rajon, that ol’ jerk. Almost exactly like when I said, “Hey, thanks,” to the bus driver, who then told me that, worst case, I could have waved her down on her way out of the lot.
Turner dunking on Diallo is almost certainly the greatest athletic act you will see this week. But only because you didn’t see me getting inducted into the Riding a Bike to Catch the Fucking Bus to Hop Through an Excruciatingly Slim Window of Time to Get to Therapy Hall of Fame earlier today. Honestly? I pity you, but I offer this cool dunk as consolation.