Mitchell imagined what his father might’ve said that night. The jokes, the affection. He yearned for the phone call, the ones they always shared, where his dad’s Virginian twang crept through. He envisioned the charm behind his father’s gentle voice. Tears blurred his vision and reddened his face. Inside the team’s film room, Barry Mitchell’s son wept. Ajay felt proud that he played, that he carried on, after the unexpected death of his father the night before. Barry Mitchell would’ve played. So, Ajay kept his dribble alive like he did any other night, fighting past pesky defenders, assuming his position as floor general. Sixteen points, seven rebounds and five assists later, he finally crumbled.