Tatum had barely released the ball when Big Lock Rock swatted it hard into the floor with a volleyball-style block.
The ball slammed into the court behind Tatum, then bounced high into the air.
Embiid, who was out on the perimeter, grabbed it. Don't ask why Embiid, supposedly a center, was on the perimeter while Tatum was attacking. Embiid wasn't a center. He was a point forward.
But Embiid had only just gotten his hands on the ball, and it hadn't even warmed up in them yet.
Smack!
A loud crack rang out from his hands. When he looked down, the ball had already been stripped away.
Embiid turned around.
The one who'd stolen it was none other than the Raptors' last pick.
Embiid didn't pay much attention to rookies, but he still remembered this second-round last pick—the very last of all the rookies—quite clearly.
After all, the Raptors had used their last pick on a point guard who was utterly useless on offense, and the decision had caused a huge stir.
Everyone had laughed at the Raptors' baffling move, so almost everybody remembered that last pick.
And now this last pick had actually stolen the ball right out of Embiid's hands. Embiid was furious.
What did it mean to be the last pick?
As everyone knew, sixty rookies were drafted into the NBA each year.
Of those, only the first fifteen had any real chance of making it.
Everyone picked after the fifteenth was just cannon fodder, with next to no chance of making it.
As for the very last pick, he wasn't even cannon fodder. He was cremation ashes.
Usually, he'd drift around the NBA for three or four years, then get cut once his rookie contract ended.
And now a guy like that had just stolen the