October 28, 2014 – Quicken Loans Arena, Cleveland
The lights burned so bright they blurred his vision for a moment.
Michael Schmidt stood at the edge of the tunnel, hidden by shadows, staring out at the living beast of the crowd.
20,562 fans.Every seat filled.Every throat roaring.
They weren't just here for LeBron's return.
They were here for him.
The kid hailed as the greatest prospect since Michael Jordan.The kid they said was better than LeBron at the same age.The kid ESPN called "The New Standard."
Michael closed his eyes.
The noise faded to a low hum.
He could feel it.
The weight.The expectation.The crown they wanted to place on his head before he'd even played a minute.
He didn't flinch.
Expectations were for people who cared about them.
Locker Room Tension
Inside, the air felt heavy. Like breathing through thick fog.
LeBron sat with his hood up, elbows on knees, head bowed. His headphones pulsed with low bass, only faintly audible.
Kyrie bounced a tennis ball under his foot, gaze locked forward, jaw clenched.
Kevin Love taped his wrists, each wrap smooth, controlled. Like a surgeon prepping for an operation.
The staff bustled around with clipboards, last-minute matchup notes, defensive assignments scribbled down in frantic scrawl.
Nobody spoke to Michael.
Not because he was a rookie.Because he was him.
Finally, Tristan Thompson broke the silence. He slapped Michael's back with a grin.
"You ready, King?"
Michael kept his eyes on his knees, rolling his wrist slowly, feeling the tape tighten over his pulse.
"Ask me after the game."
Tristan chuckled nervously. "Damn… cold as ice."
Michael lifted his gaze, eyes calm. Steady. Deadly.
"Not cold."
"Just real."
Across the room, LeBron watched silently, a faint smirk flickering at the corner of his mouth.
Pregame Tunnel
As the announcer's voice thundered through the darkness, Michael felt the vibrations in his chest.
"STANDING AT SIX-FOOT-TEN… FROM HOWARD UNIVERSITY… THE NUMBER ONE PICK IN THE 2014 NBA DRAFT… THE MOST ANTICIPATED PROSPECT SINCE LEBRON JAMES… MICHAEL SCHMIDT!"
The arena erupted.
Screams. Cheers. Chants.
"MI-CHAEL! MI-CHAEL!"
Some fans pounded their chests like warriors. Others held up handwritten signs:
"THE FUTURE IS NOW."
"WELCOME HOME, MICHAEL."
"23 = MJ, LBJ, MS."
He jogged out behind Kyrie, chest rising slowly with each breath. Each step felt light. Powerful.
They had no idea what was coming.
Warmups
The ball felt soft in his hands. Familiar. Comforting.
He started his routine.
Catch. Quick dribble left. Stepback three.
Net.
Catch. Sweep right. Midrange pull-up.
Net.
Catch at the top. Jab step. Explode left. Cross back right. Fadeaway three.
Net.
Each motion crisp. Balanced. Efficient.
He heard a voice behind him.
"Yo, tall Kobe."
Dion Waiters. Grinning wide, sweat dripping down his neck.
Michael didn't turn. He grabbed the next pass, flicked it up from deep.
Net.
"That's not my name."
Dion smirked, bouncing lightly on his feet. "Then what do we call you, King?"
Michael dribbled twice, eyes locked ahead as he sank another three.
"Call me whatever you want."
He grabbed another pass, launching it without looking.
Net.
"You'll remember it by the end of tonight."
Dion whistled softly. "Sheeeesh. Alright then."
Tip-Off
The lights dimmed for introductions.
The Knicks starters walked out, each name echoing with polite applause.
Jose Calderon.Iman Shumpert.Carmelo Anthony.Andrea Bargnani.Samuel Dalembert.
Across the court, Michael stood with his team. LeBron next to him, eyes narrowed, chewing lightly on his mouthguard.
"Eyes up," Kyrie whispered.
Michael didn't answer. His gaze was already locked in.
Chandler won the tip. Knicks ball.
First possession. Melo caught it at the wing. LeBron slid up to him, low stance, wide arms.
Melo jabbed. Once. Twice. Rose up for the fadeaway.
Clank.
Michael boxed out Shumpert, hips low, arms wide. The rebound fell into his hands. Easy. Natural.
He turned, eyes scanning.
Kyrie was gone.
Michael flicked a perfect one-handed outlet, threading two defenders, hitting Kyrie in full stride.
Layup.
2-0.
First Statement
Next offensive set.
Kyrie dribbled left off Tristan's screen. Pause. Whip pass back right to Michael at the wing.
Shumpert stepped up, twitchy, ready.
Michael jabbed once. Hard crossover.
Shumpert shifted just enough.
Michael rose.
Release.
Swish.
The bench erupted. Fans roared. Shumpert backpedaled, shaking his head, lips curling into a smirk.
"Damn," he muttered under his breath.
Michael didn't blink. He jogged back, eyes scanning the court like a hawk circling above prey.
Knicks Adjustment
Calderon called horns. Bargnani popped out for three. Michael closed out with long strides, arm high.
Bargnani hesitated. Adjusted. Released.
Miss.
Tristan grabbed the board, handed it to Kyrie.
Fast break.
Michael trailed slightly behind. Kyrie drew two defenders, flipped it back.
Michael caught, took one dribble into the elbow, rose, buried the midrange jumper.
Timeout Knicks.
Bench Celebration
As they walked back, LeBron slapped his back lightly.
"Good shots, King."
Michael sipped his water calmly, eyes scanning.
"They're giving them to me."
He set the bottle down, gaze turning cold.
"I'm just taking what's there."
LeBron smirked faintly. "That's all this game is."
Broadcast Table
Reggie Miller's voice hummed through the arena.
"This kid… I mean, is he even a rookie? Look at that poise."
Barkley laughed. "Poise? That boy out there lookin' like prime Jordan already."
Shaq chimed in. "Better jumper than Bron had at this age. Scary, Ernie."
Crowd Murmurs
Fans whispered excitedly.
"Look at his footwork."
"He moves like he's been here for years."
"That's him… that's Michael Schmidt."
Final Sequence – First Quarter
Knicks ball. Melo caught it high wing. Shumpert set a backscreen. Switch.
Melo jabbed, tried to body Michael down. Michael absorbed the contact, chest firm, legs anchored.
Spin baseline. Fadeaway.
Michael's fingertips brushed the ball.
Short.
Kyrie grabbed the rebound, darting up court. Michael sprinted alongside him, lanes widening like parted seas.
Kyrie no-look lob.
Michael caught it mid-stride, twisted his shoulders mid-air, and threw down a violent two-handed dunk.
The rim shook. Fans rose screaming.
"OOOOOOOOH!"
For a split second, as he landed and jogged back, he allowed himself a grin.
Not because of the dunk.
Because of Melo's eyes.
They said:
"He's not supposed to be able to do that."
Good.
End of First Quarter
As the buzzer sounded, Michael walked to the bench calmly.
LeBron grinned wide. Kyrie bumped his shoulder, laughing softly. Tristan grabbed his jersey, shaking him.
"You see that shit?! You're HIM!"
Michael sat down, towel over his head, eyes closed.
He felt his pulse slow. His breathing calm. His senses sharpen.
This wasn't hype.
This wasn't potential.
This was reality.
And it was only the end of the first quarter.
First Quarter Stats – Michael Schmidt
Points: 9
Rebounds: 2
Assists: 1
Steals: 0
Blocks: 1
FG: 4/6
3PT: 1/2
FT: 0/0