25 NBA players who can help you survive a zombie apocalypse

15. Marcus Morris

Let me tell you a story.

When I was 12 years old, my brother and I were playing in the local junkyard. It was our thing. We’d fire hubcaps at each other with fanbelts and play catch with nails. It was what we’d do after Sunday mass. These are treasured memories, and I don’t appreciate being judged.

Anyway, one day while we were playing car trampoline, my brother got his leg stuck in the hood of an ’85 Camaro. It was funny at first, but when his injury appeared to be a bit more serious than a couple broken bones, I started to feel panic set in.

The tire fire we used to roast marshmallows was submitting to the wind and it started spreading to the trampolines. The Fords went up first. Then the Chryslers. Our favorite gasoline puddle was only a few feet away.

Panic turned to resolve. Sweat turned into adrenaline. I tried to tear the hood with my hands, but my hands were all blistered from the batteries we were smashing earlier. I tried using my teeth, but biting through car is different than biting through soda cans, and not nearly as fun.
What was I to do? Toby was unconscious, the conflagration was nearing, and I didn’t want to be tattled on.

I’ll tell you what I did. I bent down next to the passenger side door (from my knees, not my back. I’m not stupid), grabbed the frame with my finger tips, hoisted the car onto my back, and carried my brother and my new car to safety.

I don’t know where I found the strength, but the love for one’s brother can make people do things one wouldn’t think possible. You can save lives in ways that shouldn’t be possible.

I mean, I think that’s what can happen. That story isn’t true. I don’t have a brother. But Marcus Morris does.