Ahoy, ye salt-crusted scallywags and bilge-sucking landlubbers! Gather 'round the grog barrel while Captain Iron Ink recounts a skirmish that turned the Frosty Northern Waters red with the blood of wolves. The Silver and Black Galleon, commanded by the grizzled Admiral Popovich—a man who has survived more mutinies than I’ve had hot meals—has finally unleashed its secret weapon from the deep. Victor Wembanyama, a lad so tall he could scrub the bird droppings off the crow’s nest without needing a ladder, put on a display of musketry and swordsmanship that left the Timber-Wolves’ fleet shattered into driftwood. Thirty-nine doubloons—nay, points—he plundered from the wreckage, marking a victory that echoed from the Alamo’s stone walls to the very edge of the world’s map.

The battle was no mere scuffle; it was a high-stakes broadside exchange of the highest order. On the opposing deck stood the fierce Captain Anthony Edwards, a man who fights with the fury of a cornered beast and the agility of a greased eel. Edwards swung his cutlass with abandon, rallying his pack of howling curs to seize control of the mid-Atlantic hardwood. But every time the Wolves thought they had the Spurs in their irons, the Frenchman would simply reach out his impossibly long appendages—which I suspect are actually enchanted rigging or perhaps the tentacles of a sea-beast—to pluck the ball from the heavens. "I’ve seen leviathans in the dark depths of the Caribbean, but this lad defies the laws of Neptune himself!" shouted Quartermaster Sochan, as he wiped the sweat and pine tar from his brow during the heat of the fray.

The turning point came in the final watch of the night. As the sands in the hourglass dwindled, Wembanyama began raining down three-pointers like hot lead from a swivel gun. It mattered not that the Wolf-King Edwards barked and bit; the Alien Giant remained as cool as a block of Arctic ice. He swatted shots away as if they were bothersome flies on a summer’s day, sending the Wolves’ hopes down to Davey Jones’ Locker. Lord Adam of the Silver League was seen clutching his powdered wig in the VIP gallery, whispering to his scribes that the trade routes of the Western Conference must be immediately redrawn. The Frenchman isn't just a sailor; he’s a force of nature that threatens to capsize every existing vessel in the league with a single stride.

"We were outmaneuvered by a beanpole with the soul of a privateer," grumbled an anonymous cabin boy from the Minnesota camp, nursing a bruised ego and a ration of sour ale. Indeed, the consequences of this skirmish are dire for the rest of the fleet. The Spurs, long thought to be a ghost ship drifting aimlessly after the retirement of the Great Admiral Duncan, have found their North Star. With Wembanyama at the helm, no merchant vessel is safe, and no bounty is too high. Rumors are already swirling in the Tortuga taverns that the "Process" of building other ships is being abandoned in favor of simply finding taller masts. If the boy continues to plunder at this rate, we’ll all be forced to speak French and paint our hulls silver by the spring equinox.

So, raise your tankards to the French Kraken! He has tasted blood, and the 39-point haul is but a snack before the grand feast. The Northern Wolves may retreat to their snowy dens to lick their wounds, but they know the grim truth: there is a new monster in the deep, and he doesn't need a ship to cross the ocean—he can simply walk across the bottom. Watch your maps, ye captains of the Lakers and the Celtics, for the Spurs are no longer a sunken wreck. They are a marauding force, and Wembanyama is the jagged reef that will tear your hulls asunder. To the victor goes the spoils, and to the Wolves, nothing but salt water and bitter regret!