The Curious Case of the $100 Million Guard and the Ghost of Ben Simmons
by someone who cannot dunk
It always starts the same way—some rumor farted out of a back room filled with cold coffee, power ties, and stale ambition. Boston, she’s no stranger to wild talk. Trade winds blow hardest where the banners hang heavy. And right now, those winds are whispering something odd. Something half-crazy, half-desperate, and strangely familiar.
They’re saying Ben Simmons might make sense.
Yeah. That Ben Simmons.
The ghost in the machine. The $35-million-a-year shadow of what once could’ve been a generational playmaker before his game crawled into the corner and refused to shoot. And the Celtics, freshly bruised by Finals expectations and one giant what the hell happened in the postseason, are supposedly sniffing around the perimeter, asking, what if?
Over at NBC Boston, Chris Forsberg and Brian Robb went toe-to-toe on the idea. One man trying to find logic in the wreckage, the other waving a red flag soaked in doubt. Simmons, they argue, still can pass. Still can defend. Still can fill gaps like drywall. But “can” doesn’t win banners. And Boston doesn’t hand out second chances unless you’re willing to bleed green and shoot when it counts.
Simmons has been a shell in Brooklyn. A body without a rhythm. A mind without trust. But if—if—he can play 60 games, average 10 assists, and actually be the menace he was supposed to be? Maybe there’s a universe where he fits. Maybe not in this one, though. Not with the ghosts of Game 7s still howling in the rafters.
But that’s just half the noise.
The real pulse, the blood-under-the-nails kind of rumor, comes from Sports Illustrated, where the Celtics are reportedly “exploring” a trade for a $100 million guard. A mystery man. A name unspoken. But if you squint hard enough, the usual suspects start to glow in the dark.
Malcolm Brogdon’s name floats like a half-empty whiskey bottle in harbor water. The guy’s dependable. Smart. Professional. But he’s got the same injury history as your uncle’s knee after two decades of roofing. And if Boston’s looking to re-tool, he might be the first piece to go. Salary, fit, flexibility—it’s all math. Cold and efficient.
So who is this nine-figure knight in waiting?
Names like Dejounte Murray, Tyus Jones, or maybe even Collin Sexton come to mind. All of them underappreciated. All of them capable of lighting up the parquet if they land right. All of them, perhaps, more trustworthy than the Simmons experiment.
Still, Stevens is no fool. He doesn’t shuffle the deck unless he thinks the river’s going to deal him something better. And Brad’s been staring down this poker table long enough to know that a bad hand played right beats a flashy one played soft.
In the end, maybe none of this happens. Maybe Simmons stays a net, Boston holds, and the world keeps spinning its crooked axis. Or maybe, just maybe, they pull the trigger. Roll the dice. Trade safety for volatility, caution for upside.
Because that’s the thing about Boston. She doesn’t sleep. She dreams in trades and titles. And even when the roster looks like a masterpiece, someone’s still out there sketching a new ending.
So we wait.
We drink. We argue in bars. We light up comment sections. And somewhere, in some quiet office, a phone buzzes on a desk—and the future of the franchise might just be one missed call away.
the parquet creaks. the rumors swell. the city leans forward. and ben simmons waits in the hallway like a bad idea with fresh cologne.