Photo by Alika Jenner/Getty Images Rebuilding’s a dirty business, but someone’s gotta do it CAPTURE THE FLAG Written by Charlie INT. DARK ROOM – NIGHT A single, simple lamp glows in the corner. A card table sits in the center. Two chairs. A YOUNG MAN (MR. TEAL) sits in one of them, waiting. His face is hidden in shadow—imperceptible. Late 20s. A perfectly rumpled button-down under a tailored jacket. Lean, wired energy. A believer with tired eyes. Suddenly, the door opens. A SECOND MAN (MR. PINK), older, enters and closes it behind him. Early 50s. Sharp suit. Loosened tie. Salt-and-pepper stubble and a permanent squint. Carries himself like a man who knows too much and sleeps too little. The two stare at each other for a moment, taking it all in. Finally, Mr. Teal speaks: MR. TEAL Is it done? MR. PINK It’s done. The play-in is no longer an option. That’ll be six straight seasons without a playoff appearance. A franchise record. MR. TEAL Not the kind of records we want to be in the business of setting, I’m afraid. MR. PINK No. No it’s not. Necessary though. MR. TEAL It must be. MR. PINK When you’re in a hole, the only way out is through. Mr. Pink sits down at the table. He pulls a nondescript bottle of brown liquor out of his bag. Takes a long pull. MR. TEAL I just thought this was going to be the one though. I thought the French kid was going to, you know, change everything. Make a leap. New World Order. All of that. I thought we were ready for it. MR. PINK Of course you did. You’re young. You want it all right now, as soon as possible. No patience. No discipline. Now, now, now. That’s all I ever hear from you kids. MR. TEAL That’s not fair. Not fair at all! We don’t want everything right now! We just want a little bit. A little bit more. Nothing crazy or anything—just a little action, that’s it. MR. PINK Bah. Action. You don’t want action. You want glory, whatever that means. You want something to talk about. To gloat about. To argue with people on the internet about. You don’t care how it happens, you just want it to happen. MR. TEAL (his voice steadily rising) You’re bitter. You’re old and bitter and lost. You don’t like this any more than I do. All the sneaking around in the dark, filing injury reports, losing to the Blazers, angling for lottery odds—things of that nature. You hate it. You hate what we’ve become, and yet you have the gall to come in here and lecture me? About my patience? About my priorities? I was raised on championship basketball. The Spurs Way. Duncan, Parker, Ginobili. That’s my team. That’s what I’m all about— and all I’m asking for is to look out on the court and see a team that I recognize! MR. PINK A team you recognize? A TEAM YOU RECOGNIZE?? How do you think you got that precious team in the first place? You think Tim Duncan materialized out of thin air? You think a basketball fairy came down with a magic wand and blessed your special head with the world’s most perfect little basketball team? Grow up! I was there. I was in the trenches, tweaking Robinson’s back in ‘96. I was there when his pride tried to push him back in the mix, and we had to orchestrate a foot fracture to keep him sidelined for good. Mr. Teal rises in frustration and paces toward the lamp. He seethes—he knows Mr. Pink is right, but he hates it. Mr. Pink continues to sullenly drink. MR. TEAL (quietly) It’s just... I thought we were done with all this. We sold guys we liked. We systematically dismantled everything down to the ground— and it worked. It freakin’ worked. We got the ultimate prize. The best one we could possibly get. MR. PINK That’s right. MR. TEAL We should be set! Why are we still doing this? Why are we still chasing some pipe dream? It feels greedy. It feels wrong. It feels... desperate. MR. PINK Because we weren’t ready. Mr. Teal slowly lowers himself back into his seat. Mr. Pink continues. MR. PINK We weren’t ready. Victor isn’t enough. Castle isn’t enough. They were never going to be enough. Not in this league. Not anymore. You can’t just get a guy and draft well around him. Bring in a veteran or two. That’s not how it works. You need a guy, and then you need the next guy. And the next. You have to keep taking shots. You can’t sit around hoping that someone might find a jump shot down the road, or that you’re going to stumble into the next Eastern European superstar in the second round. This team. These guys. They weren’t going to build themselves out of this mess. MR. TEAL The Thunder did! They built it from the ground up! MR. PINK (suddenly standing, spilling his drink, yelling) THE THUNDER STOLE A GENERATIONAL SUPERSTAR FROM A FAILED STATE FRANCHISE SO DESPERATE FOR THE SLIGHTEST WHIFF OF SUCCESS THEY COULDN’T SEE SIX INCHES IN FRONT OF THEIR FACE. The room goes quiet. Both men stare at each other. The faint sound of liquor slowly draining out of the bottle is the only noise. They sit back down at the table, straightening up. MR. PINK I don’t want to hear about the Thunder. Presti did what he does—what we taught him to do, by the way. He hoarded picks, he tricked the Clippers into gifting him a star, and he drafted a tall kid. He has the world convinced it was all part of some master plan— but I’ll tell you what it was. It was luck, dressed up as analytics. It was good PR. Sure, they did good. They did it “right.” But don’t sit here and act like they cracked some code. You know what they did? They waited. They were boring. And the league let them be boring because no one cared what was going on in Oklahoma City. MR. TEAL It might not even work though. After all this. All the pain. All the injuries. All the boring nights and terrible losses. We’re throwing this season down the drain... and for what? MR. PINK For a chance. That’s all it’s ever for, kid. A chance that it might work out. A chance to recapture some of that magic you’ve been chasing. This is the way. It’s the only way. A sharp knock at the door. Three quick raps. Then silence. Mr. Teal and Mr. Pink glance at each other, instantly alert. The door creaks open. A THIRD MAN (MR. ORANGE) steps inside. Calm. Collected. Like he’s been listening the whole time. He carries a notebook and a large satchel of folders nearly overflowing with paperwork filled with notes in a tight handwriting. He closes the door behind him. Doesn’t say a word. MR. ORANGE (calmly, with a small grin) You boys still crying, or can we get to work? FADE OUT. ...read more read less