Some men are trappers in open gym. Devin Booker is a hunter. Heading into a pivotal fifth season with the Phoenix Suns, this hunt needs to be different to change the narrative.
Devin Booker had heard the criticism before. It was always one thing or another, especially at this time of autumn, when the game had all but dried up. Like the trees of the forest around him and his fellow hunters, even the most minuscule spark spread like wildfire when it was this dry.
Booker was a predator with a mindset from an era long gone, but no matter where he went, no matter the quarry he snared, no matter how efficient he was while he hunted, controversy followed. His individual talent was never enough to elevate his hunting party, and his skills had become overrated because of it.
The debate about trappers during open season was just the latest incident to incite a skirmish about whether Booker deserved his reputation as a stone-cold killer. A lifelong critic seized the opportunity to chime in yet again. Another writer told him he was flat-out wrong. An expert on a rival, more prestigious hunting party called him “lame,” while a wide-reaching news organization escalated it even further with its snide label of “weenie.” Even a journo from his own gazette told him to get used to traps.
Devin had tried to laugh it off, but the rest of the world wanted none of it. Even some of his fellow hunters — active and retired alike — jumped in as they gathered around the campfire to observe Book’s latest kill. Or rather, ignore it entirely.
“From a killer to the future, if you want to be an All-Star, your complaint is correct,” Gilbert interjected from out of nowhere. “But if you want to be a superstar, you accept double-trappers in open season.”
He picked up a framed picture from his glory days as a huntsman in Washington. A lone gunner stood among four trappers, searching for the opening to take his shot. It wasn’t a clean shot, but it was a different time then.
“You seen this?” Gilbert demanded.
Booker nodded. He had seen it dozens of times.
“This is from back when I was a rookie,” Gilbert continued. “You see this double-team of trappers around me? I still shot that s**t, because I’ve been in that position before. That’s how you become an assassin, Book.”
Again, Devin nodded politely. He knew what Gilbert had been capable of at his peak. He was practically a wizard. His career also ended far too early for much bigger and more complex reasons, one of which was a blatant disregard for the association’s rules. Even the deadliest of hunters weren’t allowed to carry illegal firearms on league grounds.
That mistake had nearly cost Gilbert his license. Devin respected his words but took them with a grain of salt. Some men could only trap. The strong hunted.
“I feel what you’re saying, Gil, and the only reason I’m responding is because I respect you,” Book replied. “But I didn’t want to spend my lovely Tuesday afternoon passing up my shot because of a trap. I can work on that with the homies back home.”
Booker stared back into the fire. His eyes narrowed as the flames crackled. The heat was not unlike his hometown of the last four years in Phoenix, roaring on his face like someone had opened an oven. Booker was used to taking heat from all angles. It didn’t bother him. If anything, it charged him.
Detractors relished the opportunity to bash him and his hunting party at every turn. His supporters were adamant the rest of the world was wrong, and their vitriolic rush to defend him just fed into those critics’ jokes about his fans’ sensitivity. It was an unending cycle. A snake that kept eating itself.
Another recognizable voice danced its way across the campfire.
“A couple of those guys who went out there, I saw Ben Simmons out there,” Jalen teased. “They play on playoff teams.”
He snickered.
“But Devin Booker? ‘These are my playoffs! Y’all need to let me cook right now! I hunt in Phoenix.'”
Gilbert guffawed, while Joakim sneered at Jalen’s imitation. Devin ignored him. After all, his own idol had once racked up 81 kills on Jalen’s watch during his failed time as a trapper.
Trae Young, the smallest and youngest of the group, piped up. “Leave Book alone,” he squeaked. “He’s trying to work on his game! Only a few understand.”
He looked to Booker for support. Devin gave him a curt nod.
The scrawny youngster’s words warmed his heart. Young was small in stature, and his voice lacked the seasoning of his more mature peers, but he was already respected throughout the league as one of its most promising up-and-coming hunters.
“It’s part of the game,” Joakim sneered in return. The brusque, beetle-browed rival had come up empty-handed, but it was his trapping that impeded Book’s hunt in the first place. Irritated, Devin looked up to respond, but another voice came to his defense from the shadows.
“MAN UP,” the cloaked figure boomed as the rest of the circle fell silent. “It’s open season. If you weak, then work on it in the summer. Because if you need to trap during the real hunting season, then your captain’s sitting you down.”
The hooded man sat back down. Kevin, or “KD” as he was called, was one of the most respected gunners the sport had ever seen. He was a living legend, and though he was still on the mend after wounding his leg in a hunting accident last spring, his place among the all-time greats was undisputed.
He also never hesitated to chime in on a debate from the shadows. Even so, Devin appreciated KD coming to his aid. And, of course, he was right: Book had outmaneuvered more traps than anyone in the last campaign.
He was used to that when the real hunt was on but in open season? While he was trying to hone his craft? And what did it matter that he objected anyway? Book knew he wasn’t perfect, but he was also still young, and far from Phoenix’s biggest problem as its most lethal assassin. At 22 years old, he was still learning how to set up others but made drastic improvements in that regard last season.
He was on the path to individual greatness, but also sick of having to set up inferior teammates, and then shouldering the blame when they missed their shot. His hunting party was a joke to the rest of the association, and despite his singular talents, they were never able to crack even 30 tags in a season.
Was it his fault that Josh had possessed the mindset of a hunter but none of the skills? Or that most of his shooters misfired on wide-open shots? Or that he had hunted under four different captains, and with more than 100 different huntsmen, during his four years in the association?
Book realized he had zoned out as the retirees continued to jazz it up with jokes, but he preferred to stay lost in thought. After four straight seasons with so many inefficient marksmen and disappointing results, he knew Year 5 needed to be different. He hoped his new companions — the Spaniard, the Homie, Bangers and Frank the Tank — were going to help in that respect.
Ricky, the Spaniard, was renowned for setting up his teammates for efficient, easy shots. The Suns hadn’t seen a facilitator with that kind of vision in years. He commanded a heady salary, but would be worth the investment.
The Homie was a physical, gruff foreigner who could spread out Phoenix’s point of attack when prey entered his sights. Bangers was a rigid, massive individual who wasn’t afraid to get into scrapes or defend his team’s territory when rival hunters tried to score on their grounds.
Frank the Tank was tall, lanky and goofy, but had skill from a distance and only bolstered their ranks. They had all been here before. They knew the landscape, and almost all of them could grow a menacing beard. They looked the part. They were grown men.
Phoenix still had a few prospects to develop. Deandre was just a rookie, but he quickly proved himself as one of the game’s most efficient marksmen from close range. Mikal didn’t rack up as many kills from long distance as expected, but he trapped as well as anyone. Kelly would be around for another two seasons, and his skills were almost as formidable as the good looks that distracted fans and competitors alike.
Between the new additions and another year of growth for the youngsters, Book finally had the supporting cast he needed to crack 30- or even 40-tag territory. Another unfruitful hunt for Phoenix would be proof he couldn’t elevate his party’s status. A leap up the standings would be vindication for his loyal, unwavering fanbase. It was all coming to a head soon.
Booker poked Tony Snell’s smoldering corpse with a stick. It was almost time to feed again. Time to prove himself as a true winner, not just a skilled loser who could rack up scores without the tags to go with them. Time to provide clarity on this debate once and for all.
Only this time, at the apex of the Devin Booker discourse that made him such a love-him-or-hate-him figure throughout the league, he would finally have help.
The insider’s perspective
by Adam Noel
Despite only playing 64 games last season, Devin Booker put on a show for fans. In his fourth season with the Phoenix Suns, Booker averaged career-highss in scoring (26.6 points per game) and field goal percentage (46.7 percent). Although he just missed becoming an All-Star, the stage is set for Booker to take that leap this season.
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