He was Buckets. Thetis in the stands for every game wearing his jersey and the jewelry he bought after his max deal. Not good enough for Zeus? she chimes, check out the bling. She’s a proud mama, front row with all the Nerieds fawning— your boy is the greatest. I know, she says. I made him. They take up an entire section the league’s biggest posse. Achilles beats down Hector’s team time after time. 40 one night, 30 the next double digit rebounds, game-winning threes. I’ve seen this movie before, he snipes to the defeated warrior on his way off the court, and I win every time. The playoffs were in the bag, they said. No one can stay with Achilles, it’s like he’s a God. But that cheat Paris, one dirty play and a career-ending injury. Achille’s heel crushed like chalk. Now the star sits at home, still the coolest house on the street, floor to ceiling windows, an infinity pool, polished trophies, game jerseys, basketballs in glass cases behind him on the wall. He sits in the dark watching game films over and over like Gloria Swanson and her silent movies. He’s put on weight, drinks too much wine, and blames Thetis (they don’t talk anymore). When asked about it he says, she didn’t finish the job. Not a closer.