Title: The Last Spot on the Floor
In the dim light of the practice gym, five names glowed on the whiteboard like a prophecy. The final roster for the All-Time Starting Five Showdown was nearly set. Every position was stacked with greatness—Jordan at the two, LeBron commanding the wing, Hakeem anchoring the paint. Magic Johnson was the general, his no-look passes rewriting geometry. But the power forward slot? That’s where the argument had scorched for days.
“Dirk’s offense changed the game,” Coach Simmons said, fingers drumming on his clipboard. “A seven-footer with a flamethrower midrange? Ask KD, ask Jokic—he opened that door.”
But the room wasn’t convinced. A panel of players and analysts sat around the court, legends in their own right. Garnett, Duncan, even a scowling Rodman chewing gum like it owed him money. The problem wasn’t Dirk’s offense—it was what happened on the other side of the ball.
“Look, I love Dirk,” KG started, jaw clenched. “But we’re talkin’ about the best of the best here. You can’t hide him out there.”
Garnett gestured toward the floor like it held history. “You throw him against a prime Malone, or Duncan? Hell, even Draymond’s gonna cook him in a switching scheme. His lateral quickness was paper-thin. Pick-and-roll? Dead zone.”
Rodman grunted. “He’s a cone.”
The word echoed. Cone. The most damning label in modern defense—immobile, ineffective, target practice. The stats backed it up: Dirk Nowitzki’s career Defensive Box Plus/Minus was a woeful -1.1. He had just one season with positive defensive impact metrics. He wasn’t lazy—Dirk tried. He just couldn’t cover ground like the others.
“Offense is half the game,” someone countered, probably a Mavericks fan clinging to Game 2 of the 2011 Finals like a lifeline. “Dirk dropped 48 on OKC without a single free throw. He broke Miami’s defense. He’s a champion.”
“Sure,” Duncan replied, calm and surgical. “But I locked up prime Shaq. Garnett guarded one through five. Dennis… Dennis guarded everybody and their shadows.”
The silence that followed was heavy, loaded with truth. If this team was going to represent basketball perfection—no weaknesses, no soft spots—then every player had to hold their own on both ends.
Finally, the coach picked up the marker.
The eraser swept across Dirk’s name.
In its place, he wrote: Tim Duncan.
The gym exhaled.
Dirk wasn’t a scapegoat—he was a legend, a revolution. But defense? Defense was survival at this level. And on this court, there was no room for a cone.
