They didn't call my name.
Not once. Not even as a late second-round stash or a two-way gamble.
Fifty-eight picks. Two rounds. Zero Zoran Vukic.
I sat in my uncle's garage in San Pedro, head down, body still. The kind of place where the heat stuck to your skin and the air smelled like tools, sawdust, and unspoken resentment. The TV had long gone quiet. I'd muted it after pick 41. Rico was still scrolling Twitter like he was looking for a mistake.
"Some kid from Lithuania went 47," he muttered. "Averaged nine. Can't defend. Got torched at the combine."
I didn't say anything.
I gave that kid 26 and six in an open run back in June. Crossed him twice and rotated on him until he stopped calling for the ball. But that didn't matter.
He had a real agent.
I had tape breakdowns and a quiet reputation.
He had upside.
I had questions—about my size, my position, my future.
I was six-foot-two and a half barefoot. No one cared that I could guard up or make the second rotation off a misdirection screen. They just saw a combo guard without vertical pop, too short to play wing, too lean to body up veterans.
A 'tweener' in a league that now only respects 'tools' and 'high-ceiling wings.'
Didn't matter that I never turned the ball over.
Didn't matter that I ranked top-3 in defensive decision speed at the combine.
I didn't fit.
I didn't belong in their model.
So, I didn't get the call.
The hours dragged. Rico left eventually. The wings on the table had gone cold. I hadn't eaten. I stood in silence, pulled my old Kyries from under the bench press, and walked outside.
San Pedro was still, the night air heavy with ocean damp and leftover heat. I walked to the court. Five blocks away, behind a liquor store and a church with boarded-up windows.
Cracked concrete. Bent rim. Chain net. No lights. Just whatever the moon offered.
I stepped onto it.
And moved.
Every shot had a purpose. Step-in rhythm pull-ups. Corner relocation threes. Footwork drills on wet pavement. I replayed full possessions in my mind: tag the roller, close out to the corner, cut the drive angle. Rebound positioning. Low-man rotations.
This wasn't therapy.
This was rehearsal.
The league didn't want a player like me. So I'd give them a reason to need one.
3:12 a.m.
Rain came. Slow at first, then heavy. The court turned slick. I didn't stop. The rhythm only changed slightly. My balance shifted. Adjusted. Compensated. Muscle memory took over.
And then my phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
I almost let it ring out.
I didn't.
"Zoran Vukic?"
The voice was crisp. Businesslike.
"Yes."
"This is Dana Mitchell. I'm calling on behalf of the Mavericks. We've seen some of your film—pickup games, the combine, a few open sessions at Watts. You're efficient. Smart. You don't force it."
I stood still.
He kept going.
"We've got ten guys either rehabbing or out. The front office is patching things together. Coach Kidd wants someone who can hold structure. Not score. Not sell tickets. Just hold it together."
He let that sit.
"We're offering you a 10-day hardship contract. If you accept, you'll be on a flight to Dallas at 6:45 this morning. Medical and onboarding this afternoon. Practice tomorrow. That's the window."
No pitch. No hope.
Just an assignment.
I answered without thinking.
"I'll be there."
I hung up. No joy. Just focus.
Ran home in the rain. My mom was asleep on the couch, same as always. Soap opera reruns flashing soft light across her face.
I left a note:
"Dallas. 6:45 a.m. I'm going."
Packed fast.
One duffel bag. Three practice shirts. Two pairs of socks. One notebook filled with defensive breakdowns and tendencies of every team I might face. My shoes. Worn. Broken in. Reliable.
5:36 a.m. – LAX Terminal C
I sat alone.
No music playing. Headphones over ears anyway.
People stared sometimes. I didn't care. Let them. Maybe they thought I looked out of place.
That was fine.
Because once I got on that court, they'd have no choice but to see the truth.
I wasn't here to be a name.
I was here to fix the gaps until the stars came back.
I was here to hold the system steady.
And I wasn't going to break.
[SYSTEM ACTIVATED][Baseline Assessment: Efficiency Mode – On]Welcome, Zoran. You are now being evaluated.Initial Focus: Spacing, Decision Timing, Defensive AnglesObjective: Maintain team flow and create stability.Reward: System Tier Unlock – "Flow Read"
I didn't know what it meant yet.
Didn't care.
I'd figure it out.
Because that's what I do.