It is nothing less than the distilled essence of the Draft. There's Grandma, just proud as she can be. There's Wayne, dressed to the nines, sipping on some iced tea. There's some champagne. There's a Chinese-character tattoo. And there is the woman herself, Amanda, Our Lady of Pneumatics. Family. The accoutrements of wealth. Young love. The breast of the new world flowering before our sailor's eyes, as Fitzgerald sort of wrote.
Years from now, when the aliens are sifting through our cultural detritus, they will ask us about this bizarre annual ceremony known as the NBA Draft and what it all meant. And, my friends, we will show them this photo. And they will understand.
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