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We embedded a secret agent in Brooklyn last night

And he almost blew his cover.


I've got a funny secret to reveal. Last night, I sent a secret agent to infiltrate the Brooklyn game.

He found his way to the arena, befriended a scalper man on the outside, and then steathily made his way into the nosebleeds where he would not be discovered.

Once embedded, he proceeded to pretend like he belonged, though he was sporting multiple articles of Warriors paraphernalia. (Also, side note: paraphernalia <<---------- is a super awkward word to spell. Why is there an "r" in the middle. wtf?)

However much we thought we had covered our tracks --erred on the side of stealth and secrecy -- it seemed that others had sent their secret agents into the stands as well.

Who are these shadow forces with the capital to fund such a mission?

Early in the game, Stephen Curry missed two free throws in a row. I was not pleased and assumed the agent and I had accidentally jinxed ourselves by flying too close to the sun.

How many secret embedded Warrior-fan agents were there in attendance, you ask? Well:

Though he had demonstrably, adversely jinxed Steph's free thows, our secret embedded agent still wanted to lay claim to the players' successes as well, foolish as that notion sounds now.

Such arrogance in the face of #science.

Another agent, monitoring the situation from the home base of California, chimed in, advocating the use of subtle propaganda techniques.

However, the Warriors were not doing well. Our charms and techniques were useless. I blamed the agent, not the system.

With the fate of the game hanging in the balance, I decided to take the high road, come what may.

However, the beloved victors -- they of 21 win streak prowess -- were not finished. Strange, mythical things starting forming out of the uncertain muck that heretofore had been this game.

Suddenly, the bench, our second string unit, decided to engage in hostile-takeover of the enemy's arena.

Our secret embedded agent, suspiciously quiet during most of the uncertainty and tie-ballgamedness (was he working for the enemy?! Where does his true allegiance lie?!!), finally checked back in.

I think he might be leaking info to the opposition. Hmm, will have to check in on this after finished writing this dispatch.

Excitable readers started asking questions, wondering who this uber-secret correspondent really was.

The match was slipping away from the enemy. The hidden correspondents sprinkled throughout the arena felt more comfortable in expressing their true identiy.

And suddenly, it was a blowout. What?!

Our agent quietly packed up his belongings, a wry smiled plastered across his silly face. He turned, walked down the stairs, and exited into the night, hidden as it were amongst the exiting hordes. From there, who knows where he went? I'm assuming to a bar.

Secret agenting is thirsty business.

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