I circled his name in ink and hope,
Jeff Hornacek—pure and true,
A shooter’s touch, that steady form,
A guard who always knew what to do.
I watched the clock, I planned the round,
My strategy flawless, airtight, neat.
Just one more pick till it came to me,
Till destiny slid into my seat.
Then a name was read, not mine to claim,
Spoken too soon, like a theft in the air.
Hornacek—gone. Another grin,
Another drafter in my chair.
My list went limp, my backup dreams
Scattered like chalk from a coach’s hand.
The draft board blurred, the moment froze,
Ruined by someone else’s plan.
Now I sit with regret and a lesser guard,
Box scores mock me late at night.
Somewhere he’s draining midrange jumpers,
While I replay that pick in spite.
Oh Jeff, you were almost mine to cheer,
Almost my steal, my perfect fit.
Instead I’m left with a sigh and a shrug,
And the sadness of what might’ve been—just it.