Sebastian Blax craned his neck in an attempt to catch a glance of the must-be approaching light rail between the crossing traffic. The train was already three minutes behind schedule and the arrival updates had ceased from the speakers mounted on the insufficient shade structure under which he stood. Seeing nothing, he pivoted back to stand near the dripping misters perspiring onto the ground behind the homeless-proof seats. The distinct chime of the train could be heard in the distance, though he could not ascertain from which direction it came and from which direction it echoed. The eastbound train was usually quite reliable but, hey, what can you do?

He felt good. Why did he feel good though? It was a Monday morning; nothing special. Well, nothing except Browns versus Bengals on Monday Night Football later but, without the Fox Halloween Robot anchoring the broadcast graphics, his subconscious was already looking for better offerings for this evening. Satanic worship in the name of M&M/Mars Incorporated was not an option. Maybe a woman? Maybe women? Booze? Drugs? If all else failed, there must be a baseball game available to distract him from his predictable evening of loneliness. He tossed back his head to enjoy the final swig from his Spookyloos Latte.

His eye caught a headline on the newspaper blanketing a marvelously-concocted hobo who was managing to sleep (stay passed out?) across four divided seats. Sebastian followed very few news stories but any morning edition piece would catch his eye if it mentioned the local professional sports teams. Holding his breath as he leered nearer to the sleeping contortionist, a vain attempt to gnarl his neck to a four o’clock angle to read the article of interest failed. He stood back up straight.

He pinched the paper’s corner and, emulating a piece from his amateur magic routine, Dinner with the Blax, one quick smooth sweep of his arm and the newsprint hung from his hand with the sleeping (dead?) man still seemingly undisturbed, all nine fingers now rested atop his tattered Monster Energy Drink tee shirt instead the makeshift soy inked blanket.

Flipping to the headline of interest, a swift breeze funneled through the station. Though Sebastian held the paper before his eyes as protection from the chain of dust and trash that pressed from the west, the homeless man —  unaffected by these changes to his daily environment — reached for his gazette before thrusting his booted-leg into the groin of the dust-blinded thief and off his platform.

Sebastian crashed face-first on the gravel between the elevated platform and the rail. Possibly concussed but with the ripped article successfully in hand, he managed to stumble across two sets of tracks before pulling himself just partially onto the opposite platform. Probably concussed. A burst of wind — still unaccompanied by any audibly discernable cause — pressed through the the platform and whipped off his favorite sandals. Had he stood in the 191st Street Subway Station rather than the open air of the above-ground Valley Metro Light Rail Station at Mill Avenue and 3rd Street in Tempe, the turbulence might have stripped off his socks in addition to the Tevas he wore to impress his favorite box office girl at Suns games sometimes. But the skies were clear and, with the final discarded paper masks exiting the station behind the horizontal dust devil like the caudal luring of a young sidewinder’s tail, his day felt better already.

A close call indeed. He smiled. It was, simply put, his lucky day. He knew what the headline read. He knew what the limited press read. During the fall, his mind’s eyes ultra focused attention exacted total management of time and, as a result, he had spent a millennia reading the limited information available and traveling downward with him. This was a watershed moment for his city. For his life. The train pulled up before him and he entered. The mechanical female voice chimed to the commuters:

“Westbound train towards Montebello/19th Avenue. Stops at Sky Harbor Airport, Diamondbacks Stadium, and Suns Arena. Please practice social distancing. Door closing.”

Phoenix, Arizona. A gentle and infinitely patient city whose professional sports championship aspirations have mostly resided in a hope chest with a rusty lock and a lost set of keys. After decades of disinterested franchise ownership, the city’s flagship Suns basketball team is destined for new control. New direction. New hope. But a Super Fan searching for new heights must always be aware that ownership control reaches not to the highest obstructed-view seats in their publicly-funded stadiums and arenas. Mr Sebastian Blax, riding an express train releasing zero carbon emissions on the commuter line to…the Twilight Zone.

“Today is the day the Lord has made,” he hummed to himself between readings of article excerpts aloud to the whole train car — followed by his emotional analysis of the limited information. This sermon to the passengers would wrap up before each stop, he would hum during the transition, paying attention for new riders wearing a Dragan Bender jersey or a Los Suns hat. When the doors closed, he would reread the article aloud before inviting others to join his personal celebration. Few takers volunteered to reflect his energy.

On the long stretch between the Priest Drive and 44th Street stops, he surveilled the car and connected eyes with a cowboy standing in the corner. His gloved handed rubbed his steed’s nose. “Now you’re spooking old Trigger with your hootin’ and yer hollarin’, city boy! What’s the fuss about?”

“Old cowboy!” Sebastian shook the headline as he approached the inquisitive vaquero, “Cowboy! Robert Sarver is officially OUT! Our long local nightmare that isn’t related to water, homelessness, or a service-based economy are over! Don’t you understand? Pro sports teams are only as successful as their ownership allows! Robert Sarver! The Worst Owner in Sports! Why, a bag of split pea soup could do a better job than Sarver! And now…NOW…we got him out!”

Trigger shook his mane.

“So who’s the new boss, tinhorn?” The cowboy barely kinked his neck as he jettisoned a cheekful into a spittoon across the rail car. He seemed genuinely interested in the situation. These rural folk could learn a lot from us urbanites, Blax thought, referring to himself and Brooklynites specifically.

“Dunno. They’re going to announce it today! Word is that it could be Jeff Bezos! Or the guy from Disney. Or Steve Jobs’ wife! Oh, Cowboy, won’t it be magical!? An owner who will spend! An owner who will care! And owner who will WANT to court the fans in this city who have done nothing but shell out good money after bad for the luxury of having irrelevant NBA basketball in our city for decades! I mean, c’mon cowboy, who could be worse? Wanna go in with me on season tickets?!”

Leaning with his back against the horse, the old wrangler gave a lick and finished rolling his cigarette. He inspected it as the train came to a halt at the 24th Street Station. “I don’t know. Who could be worse?” Sebastian searched the vacant eyes of old trailblazer, a man who must have a seen a thing or two in his days. “HEE-Yut!” The cowboy slapped ol’ trigger on the rear and the transit security guards stepped aside for 17 hands and his rider exiting the light rail.

Sebastian continued his humming as the security completed their ticket check. Once they made their way to the next car, he held up the scrap of newsprint and took a deep breath. A native man shook his medicine staff to interrupt the impending reading. “Who would it be that you would like to see own the Suns, wasichu?”

“Anyone, Chief. I mean it. It’s been too long! Anyone will be better than Robert Sarver!”

The native man reached into the pouch across his bare chest. “You clearly care. You are the fans and fans are the soul of the team. The lifeblood of an organization. You know what you want. You know what this city needs. Speak the words. Speak the words to the Wee Ko Pah spirits. What ownership would create a life of harmony with you, the fan?”

Blax stumbled. Who should own the Suns? It was a piece of knowledge he always had but never knew from where it came or, exactly, what the specific details, like a last name, illustrated exactly who SHOULD set the direction for the greater Valley of the Sun professional basketball monopoly. “Well, I guess someone with some experience in pro sports, right? I know a lot guys like Elon but I don’t know if I do and, besides, Tesla will not –”

A cloud of dust erupted from the native’s hand and lit afire in the train. Sebastian turned away from the heatless flame and hid his head. The electronic woman returned to the speakers. “First Avenue and Jefferson. Suns Stadium. Exit Sebastian Blax.” No one else on the train stood. When he turned back to continue the conversation, the native man was nowhere in sight.

Shrug.

Blax stepped out of the train unprepared but determined to bind his name to the new owner with a cord of steel . A hawk sat on the otherwise unguarded entrance to the Suns arena. He’d never been in the facility so quiet and empty. He walked in and an usher waved him to cross the barren concourse. The hardwood floor coming into view with each step, he began descending the aisle steps. A silhouetted character stood at the west free-throw line, holding a basketball with two hands.

Sebastian read this body language as a good sign. Two hands. Nothing fancy. Back to basics. Sound fundamentals. He could feel the silhouette’s energy encompass the empty arena. His attention was fully on the free throw task at hand. No worrying about removing a suit coat or having a few practice dribbles. Eye on the prize. Sebastian could have slit his arm open and bled orange and purple based off only the optimism he had for the his beloved local round ball franchise.

He toed the sideline and continued to watch. It didn’t feel right to step on the court. He stood silently, eager not to be seen until the new owner released the ball. Patience. He was accustomed to years of patience with these franchises; he could wait a few more seconds.

Which turned into a few more minutes. Then many more minutes. He signed and, barely audible to himself only, he murmured, “Take your shot.”

The lights in the arena blasted alive with energy, overhead lights dancing with the bass tones of the speaker system pounding through the empty seats. The scoreboard lightened up with one message.

TAKE! YOU’RE! SHOT!

The owner adjusted his hips back and then promptly forward, his two arms scooping the ball high into the air, well above the backboard and nowhere in line with the hoop. Following a smooth arc, the ball was immediately lost in the darkness above the court and, from the sound of it, bricked down somewhere off in the lower seating area behind the basket, where Sebastian heard a series of bangs and crashes before silence with no visible sign of the ball’s descent.

Turning with a smile of accomplishment, the new Suns owner turned around to introduce himself to the fan.

A word to the wise, now, to the hopeful fans of the world, from the title seekers, to the ticket scalpers, to everyone who would try to coax out an iota of personal familiarity with the class of folks who own their favorite teams. Check the front of that jersey before before ever worrying about the back. The disappointment you save might be your own. Case in point, Mr. Sebastian Blax, fresh from the briefest of trips into….The Twilight Zone.