Imagine: The year is 2017. You are the president of a dysfunctional NBA franchise, seemingly with no professional goals other than increasing the dysfunction of said franchise and maniacally preaching the virtues of triangles. You do not consider yourself beholden to your players or fans or, really, anyone. You’re thinking about trading away your young superstar, because why the hell not? You belong in a space jail. Also, you are a few months removed from announcing your break-up with your fiancée via screencapped paragraph from the Notes app of your iPad, captured at 6:57 a.m. two days after Christmas.
What do you do?
Food for thought, folks.