“This is the best time ever to be a G League guy,” Boston Celtics head coach Ime Udoka told reporters on December 20, shortly after his team had called up Justin Jackson and C. J. Miles.
Udoka, a former G Leaguer himself, appeared in 136 games for the Charleston Lowgators and Fort Worth Flyers between 2002 and 2006. He was one of seventeen total call-ups to the NBA during the 2003–4 season—a mark that had already been surpassed in the 2021–22 campaign when Udoka uttered those words.
So, yes, Udoka was right. This was the best time ever to be a G League guy, no question about it. Since most teams were dealing with Omicron outbreaks, players were not only being called up at a never-before-seen pace but also being asked to play right away. Veteran guard Isaiah Thomas was called up to the Los Angeles Lakers from the Grand Rapids Gold on December 17. That night, he played twenty-two minutes and led the Lakers in scoring with 19 points. Two days later, he was in the team’s starting lineup against Chicago—a game in which Alfonzo McKinnie, who was called up to the Bulls from the Capitanes, also logged seventeen minutes off the bench.
Harper would not join the Pelicans until their game on December 26. Because he had signed a two-way contract (as opposed to a ten-day contract) and New Orleans had enough healthy bodies at the moment, there was no need to rush him to Orlando for the team’s next game. Harper was already familiar with the Pelicans’ system, having been at their training camp in October. Birmingham also played a similar style to their parent club for this exact purpose—it made transfers up and down far more seamless.
Hill and Cheatham were off to join their new teams within hours. After a morning of celebrating, the message from Pannone was earnest: “Learn the playbook. Start watching film now. Be professional.” Both players got their hands on the necessary material—film, sets, scouts, concepts, schemes—as soon as possible. The mindset had to shift from I can’t believe this is happening to I can’t mess this up over the course of a plane ride.
How to avoid messing up was straightforward, really: study. Or, in this case, cram. Hill and Cheatham had to treat the next ten days like a test. Pass that test decisively, and they could be in the NBA for good. Fail it miserably, and they could be out of the NBA for good. Those were the very real and very daunting stakes.
So they crammed.
Every waking second had to be spent preparing. Cheatham made flash cards in his room at the Gabriel Miami hotel on Biscayne Boulevard. Hill had to figure out how to maintain his daily routines, improvising as his schedule changed. Both pored through film and scouting reports.
Roughly twenty-four hours after arriving in Atlanta, Hill put on an NBA uniform for the first time. His jersey number was different. After rocking number 21 for over a decade—a tribute to his childhood friend who had passed away from cancer—Hill was in number 14. Hawks legend Dominique Wilkins had worn number 21, and his jersey now hung from the rafters, retired by the franchise in 2001. Hill was also sporting new shoes (courtesy of the team), swapping out the Jerusalems for a pair of black, red, and yellow Drew League PG 5s.
Having grown accustomed to much smaller, much emptier venues, Hill experienced State Farm Arena as the Eighth Wonder of the World. When the Squadron played the College Park Skyhawks—Atlanta’s G League affiliate—during the preseason, he was in awe of their facility, of how legitimate the Gateway Center, with its capacity of thirty-five hundred people, felt.
The recently renovated State Farm Arena could hold five times that amount. On this night, it was packed with a little over fifteen thousand fans, many of whom were not wearing the protective masks that were now required on NBA benches. The lack of COVID restrictions in the building was strange, given how badly the virus was impacting the team itself. Five of Atlanta’s players, including All-Star Trae Young, were currently out after testing positive for Omicron. Along with Hill, Lance Stephenson had been called up from the G League the morning prior. Two days after playing against each other at the Showcase, Hill and Stephenson were teammates in the NBA.
The Orlando Magic—Atlanta’s opponent that evening—was even more undermanned. Six of the team’s players were in the health and safety protocols, and another seven were sidelined due to injury. Freddie Gillespie, who was called up to Orlando from the Memphis Hustle, had joined the team so late that his name wasn’t even listed on the roster sheets handed to the media.
Neither team was off to a great start on the season. Atlanta was underachieving at 14-15; Orlando had a dismal record of 6-25. Then again, neither team looked anything like it had a week prior, before Omicron struck. Several fans sitting courtside cheered as the newly added Stephenson, a popular player during his nine-year stint in the NBA from 2010 to 2019, went through warm-ups. None of those fans could tell Malcolm Hill from a random six-foot-six guy walking down Peachtree Street, however.
There were a lot more unfamiliar faces on the court than just Hill’s. The game had the feel of pick-up at the YMCA, where teams are assembled arbitrarily. Guard Hassani Gravett, who played against Hill as a member of the Lakeland Magic in early December, started for Orlando. At one point in the first half, the Magic’s entire lineup consisted of players on ten-day contracts. Five blank silhouettes—like created players in a video game—were displayed on a screen behind the basket in place of official NBA headshots. Because, well, none of them had official NBA headshots.
Hill went into that night unsure of what to expect. He didn’t know whether head coach Nate McMillan—who, coincidentally enough, had coached Joe Young on the Pacers from 2015 to 2018—intended to play him. There was no hand-holding in the NBA. The constant refrain guys in Hill’s position heard was “Be ready.” It was equal parts encouraging and misleading—purposefully vague. Be ready for what? For when? On the other hand, disregard that advice and you could probably start packing your bags.
Hill was ready, but his name was never called. He was the only active player on the Hawks who did not check into the game. McMillan was familiar with Stephenson—he had coached the veteran guard for three years in Indiana—and clearly felt more comfortable throwing him out there. Stephenson received twenty-three minutes (tied for the fourth most on the team), shooting 0 for 4 from the field but adding 8 rebounds and 5 assists. Hill sat on the bench, perched at the edge of his chair, a heating pad draped over his knees. He looked antsy, prepared to spring to his feet the second he heard “Ma—” come out of McMillan’s mouth.
During one huddle, McMillan criticized the team for not competing hard enough on defense. Hill bit his tongue. Perhaps his strongest asset was the energy he brought to that side of the floor. If that was the problem, how could McMillan not play him?
“When I look back at it, I’m a ten-day, fill-in guy. That’s probably what they’re thinking,” Hill would later say. “I’m not coming from their organization. And I’m not, like, known in the basketball world like that.”
Not like Stephenson.
Not like any of the players on Atlanta’s roster.
In a “matchup of short-handed teams,” as the Associated Press put it, the Magic prevailed, 104–98.1 At the time, it was discouraging for Hill not to hear his name called—a flashback to the days when he was glued to the bench in Jerusalem. Still, it was reassuring to see guys that he had outplayed in the G League contribute on an NBA floor. He could make a difference if McMillan gave him a chance. He knew it.
“This isn’t the end goal, obviously,” he said after the game. “It’s only the first step. And experiencing this—this only makes me want it even more. So I’m gonna go harder.”
“Shit happens so fast. . . . This is crazy,” Cheatham said, gazing in wonder at the twenty thousand red and orange seats around him. He had just finished an individual pregame workout at FTX Arena. Now he was enjoying a moment just to take in his surroundings. Three days earlier, he was playing in a drab convention center—on a different team, in a different league, at a different level.
“This is a championship organization,” he added. Banners hanging from the ceiling—three of which celebrated titles claimed in the last twenty years—were proof of that. Cheatham had been at the practice facility for hours the day before, working out, watching film, listening to the rapper Future in the weight room with Jimmy Butler, trying to get up to speed. He went back to the hotel afterward to study his flash cards, all in preparation for this night—his first NBA game since the summer of 2020.
Cheatham had walked to the arena from the Gabriel, basking in the Miami sunshine. The five-minute route was sandwiched between the calm water of Biscayne Bay and the bustle of Biscayne Boulevard. Cheatham was in paradise. The city, the organization, the team—it all felt right. This was where he belonged.
Miami hadn’t been impacted as severely by Omicron, though a number of key players were sidelined with injuries, including Butler, Bam Adebayo, P. J. Tucker, Victor Oladipo, and Markieff Morris. Cheatham was optimistic that head coach Erik Spoelstra would give him an opportunity, but he was also pragmatic. His expectations were tempered. He had just signed his contract on Wednesday morning, and to take the floor for a team with championship aspirations on Thursday night would be remarkable. Even Cheatham had to admit that.
He was determined, nonetheless, to soak up every bit of wisdom he possibly could. At the very least, he would have an inside look at how some of the best in the business operated. He would get to experience Heat culture, even if it might just be for ten days.
The transition to Miami—to the NBA—was jarring. Truth be told, it didn’t make sense that the NBA was one step away from the G League. It felt as though Cheatham and Hill had leapfrogged several steps, like they had been upgraded to first class having been stuffed in an overhead compartment. The facilities and amenities were incomparable. Cheatham was no longer using the same bench press as a junior biology major at Birmingham-Southern.
Shit happens so fast. . . . This is crazy.
There was also a transition down, from the top of the totem pole to the very bottom. In Birmingham, Cheatham was at the center of everything. He was the team’s leader, its star, its loudest personality. He was the one on the jumbotron, the one fans wanted to take pictures with after the game, the one who set the mood in the locker room.
With the Heat, though, Cheatham was a nobody. Fans would need to Google him. Teammates didn’t look to him for mentorship—in fact, it was the other way around. Due to a lack of space, he was moved to the second row behind the bench, next to coaches, trainers, and security guards. Cheatham would eventually find his voice, figure out a role, ingratiate himself with Heat faithful. That is, if he stuck around long enough.
For now, he was ecstatic just to be there. It was a clear sixty-degree night in South Beach, the type of winter weather that makes one question living anywhere else. FTX Arena was at full capacity for Heat-Pistons. Cheatham was his usual animated self. He cheered for his new teammates like they were lifelong friends. During timeouts, he stood right next to Coach Spoelstra, leaning forward to catch every word. Cheatham remained on the bench—or just behind it—for the entire evening but smiled so much that his cheekbones might have required icing.
Miami went on to get the win that night, 115–112, thanks to a clutch performance from guard Tyler Herro. For Cheatham—and Cheatham only—that marked eight straight victories.
Hill would not get to spend Christmas with his family in Fairview Heights. Instead, he awoke on the morning of December 25 in a hotel room in New York City and would be working on the holiday. In a couple of hours, he would be off to Madison Square Garden (MSG) for a game against the New York Knicks.
Only a third of the NBA receives the honor of playing on Christmas each season. And it is just that: an honor. Players cherish the opportunity, perhaps more than any other afforded during the regular season. For basketball fans across the world, watching the NBA on Christmas has become a beloved tradition, as synonymous with the holiday as opening presents. Three days into his NBA career, Hill would be a part of that tradition.
Atlanta had faced Philadelphia two days earlier, eking out a 98–96 win on the road. Once again, Hill was the only available player on the team who did not receive any minutes. After a day off, the Hawks were scheduled for a 12:00 p.m. tip-off at MSG, the first of a five-game Christmas slate.
Hill had played at MSG before—as a member of the Fighting Illini—but quickly discovered that the environment was a little different for a Knicks game.
Okay, a lot different.
The fans were merciless. Atlanta had knocked New York out of the 2020–21 playoffs. Amid the five-game first-round series, Trae Young, who delivered a master class on how to dismantle a defense, became a Joker-level villain in the Big Apple. New Yorkers were still bitter, of course. And they didn’t care that it was Christmas, nor that Young was still out with Omicron. Chants of “Fuck Trae Young! Fuck Trae Young! Fuck Trae Young!” broke out throughout the afternoon.
Hill tried to stay focused. It was easy to become distracted in such a raucous environment. The volume only grew when the Knicks jumped out to an early 19–3 lead: the deafening sound of long-awaited revenge. Atlanta would never recover from such a slow start. The game was decided by the ten-minute mark of the fourth quarter, after the Knicks buried back-to-back threes to take a 21-point lead.
With less than two minutes on the clock, and Atlanta trailing 99–80, McMillan called Hill’s name. Almost three hours had passed since the game began; three hours that Hill had spent mostly sitting in a chair. The expectation remained the same: Be ready.
Most fans had cleared the building. Most television viewers had flipped the channel to Home Alone. To most of the world, those two minutes were completely meaningless. To Hill, they were a cubic centimeter of chance.
Watching from Fairview Heights, Hill’s family displayed the body language usually reserved for car chases and horror films. In Miami, Cheatham was on the edge of his seat, yelling at the TV. “Skip it!” he hollered at one point, spotting Hill open on the weak-side. “Skip it to the corner!”
The ball was never skipped. In fact, it never found its way to Hill, which was just fine. His main focus was on contributing defensively, where Atlanta’s struggles continued to drive the coaches mad. McMillan had been imploring his players to compete harder on defense, so Hill would compete like his life depended on it.
During one possession, he was matched up against the highly touted R. J. Barrett, the former third overall pick in the 2019 NBA Draft and an 18-point-per-game scorer. Barrett likely took one look at Hill and thought, Mismatch! Give me the ball! When teammate Obi Toppin threw it to him at the top of the key, Hill nearly deflected the pass, pushing Barrett further away from the basket. Now in control, Barrett drove hard to his left, but Hill cut him off. He spun, regrouped, and tried to attack the other way. Hill slid his feet and met him again. The two continued the dance for a few more seconds before Barrett admitted defeat, kicking the ball out.
McMillan stood on the sideline, arms folded, carefully observing. Atlanta won the final two minutes, 7–2, with Hill on the floor. There wasn’t much of a difference between 99–80 and 101–87—except for Hill, there was.
“The biggest thing from that New York game was the fact that I had a plus-minus of 5,” he later said. “I had no stats, but the plus-minus is huge for me because it can really show what type of impact you make on the game. Just looking back, do you know how hard it is to be ready for a game when you’re coming in with two minutes left? I made sure I did everything.”
Miami had another two games at home before embarking on the road. Cheatham would not receive playing time in either. The second game was against a decimated Washington Wizards squad that featured five players from the Capital City team that Birmingham had just faced—and destroyed—in Las Vegas. The title of the Associated Press’s game recap that evening was “Depleted Heat Hold Off Depleted Wizards, 119–112.” Emphasis on depleted.2
Although he wasn’t playing, Cheatham’s experience with the Heat was proving even more valuable than he expected. He was beginning to truly understand the level of focus and dedication needed to succeed in the NBA.
During his first shootaround, the team was running through various sets. The speed at which they operated blew Cheatham away. The motions had become second nature; players cut, screened, rolled, popped, relocated without a trace of hesitation. No one was making mistakes.
The vibe was different too. More serious—intense, even. For the first time in his life, Cheatham found himself genuinely nervous at a shootaround. The prospect of screwing up was terrifying. There was no “Oh, let’s redo that” or “How do you do that again?” like in Birmingham. Either you knew the play, or you could get the hell off the court.
Of course, the sheer talent of Cheatham’s new teammates was glaring as well. Shooters like Duncan Robinson and Gabe Vincent hardly missed. Playmakers like Herro and Butler (Kyle Lowry was out with COVID) made incredibly fast reads out of the pick-and-roll. Attacks were simple yet precise. Because players had memorized the scouting reports, they could easily anticipate what options would be open. The overall attention to detail, from the coaching staff down to the last guys on the bench, struck Cheatham the most. The preparation was so thorough that on game days, everyone seemed loose.
“I’ve always been a guy who works hard, does the little things, and plays hard,” Cheatham reflected while he was with the Heat. “But I think there’s another level that I can tap into as far as my approach, as far as my preparation, as far as my seriousness for doing every little single thing there is on the floor to try to up my team’s chances of winning. Seeing guys like Tyler Herro, Duncan Robinson, Gabe Vincent, Max Strus, Kyle Lowry, P. J. Tucker—to see these guys and the way they go about their preparation, getting ready for a game, was humbling to a certain extent.”
The Bulls were walking all over the Hawks. It was December 27, two days after their embarrassing loss to the Knicks, and Atlanta’s defense was still a wreck. Whatever the Bulls wanted, they were taking. Plain and simple.
Chicago’s stellar forward DeMar DeRozan went into the half with 21 points. Zach LaVine, another All-Star, had poured on 23 of his own before the break. Atlanta was only down by six points (69–63), but it felt like far more.
Early in the third quarter, the Bulls expanded their lead to double digits. While Trae Young was back in the lineup, the Hawks had eight others in the health and safety protocols, including key pieces such as John Collins, Danilo Gallinari, and Kevin Huerter. McMillan was relying heavily on his starters, especially as Atlanta tried to claw its way back. As the third quarter was drawing to a close, however, he decided to give Hill a shot.
After not playing in the first half, Hill was surprised to be summoned so late in the game. There was little communication outside of the proverbial “Be ready.” Hill understood, nonetheless, what the coaches sought from him. His main task was to defend at a high level. Only one problem, a considerable one: Hill soon found himself matched up against DeRozan, who, at the time, was playing perhaps the best basketball of his accomplished career. In December, DeRozan was averaging 30.2 points on a staggering 53 percent shooting from the field. It was as cruel a “welcome to the NBA” moment as a player could possibly encounter. Hill’s first meaningful minutes on an NBA court would be spent guarding one of the hottest superstars in the entire league, as some of Atlanta’s biggest celebrity fans—Cardi B, Offset, Quavo, 2 Chainz—sat courtside.
Welp.
Hill wanted the challenge, though. “I was hoping to guard either him or LaVine,” he later said. “I really wanted to because I knew off rip, especially coming into the game late, they’re not looking for any offense from me.” Hill’s best chance to stand out was on defense. And if he could do a solid job against DeRozan, then he could probably do a solid job against pretty much anyone at his position.
Near the end of the third, DeRozan was isolated on the right wing and unleashed his go-to move: a nifty side-step into a midrange jumper. Hill played perfect defense—textbook defense. His contest of the shot was so close that DeRozan could have read his palm. And yet, it didn’t matter. DeRozan still nailed the jumper. “There’s nothing you can do about that,” said Hawks color analyst Dominique Wilkins, “absolutely nothing.”
In a group text, Hill would later joke with former Squadron teammates, including Cheatham, that some of the defensive techniques that worked so well in the G League didn’t work in the NBA. Or, put more accurately, they didn’t work against DeMar DeRozan. Few things did. No one was expected to shut down DeRozan completely—he would find ways to score even if the entire state of Georgia was guarding him. Hill spent much of the fourth quarter tasked with the impossible job and performed it well, as well as McMillan—or anyone, for that matter—could have possibly expected. Hill fought over screens, contested every shot, stayed mostly disciplined (DeRozan is known for his footwork and convincing pump fake). He was active and engaged, not backing down one bit from the Goliath opposite him.
With just under eight minutes left in the game and the Hawks on a small run, Hill picked up DeRozan full court. The four-time All-Star wasn’t accustomed to dealing with pressure so far from the basket. He was gradually zigzagging his way up the floor when Hill poked the ball loose. As DeRozan scrambled to retrieve it, the referee blew his whistle. Eight seconds.
Eight seconds?
The fans erupted in approval. Eight-second violations—when a team fails to advance the ball past the midcourt line in less than eight seconds—are hardly ever called in the NBA. Why? Because players hardly ever try to force them. Doing so successfully was perhaps the best way for Hill to impress the Hawks coaching staff.
Atlanta cut Chicago’s lead to four on the ensuing possession, but never got closer than that. Hill played the entire rest of the game—fifteen minutes altogether. He didn’t attempt a single shot during those minutes. His role on offense was to stand in the corner, giving Atlanta’s primary scoring options more space to operate, and cut when the lane opened up. So that’s what Hill did. He managed to record his first NBA points at the free throw line, going 4 for 4 in the game. Overall, he finished with 4 points, 3 rebounds, 1 steal, and 0 turnovers. Nothing that would catch the eye of a fan perusing the box scores, but Hill had done his job.
As the dominoes were falling, time was also running out. Hill was already on day six of his ten-day contract. Soon he could be on his way back to Birmingham—back to the G League, where the chase would begin anew.
Atlanta’s next game would be a homecoming of sorts for Hill. It was a rematch with the Bulls, this time in Chicago. Fairview Heights was just a four-hour drive away. Hill’s mom, Machanda, and former AAU coach Patrick Smith made the trip down Interstate 55. It would be their first time getting to see Malcolm in the NBA.
When Trae Young arrived at shootaround that wintry morning, he looked around and wondered, Huh? Who are all these people? The Hawks were a completely different team. Down a whopping fifteen players due to a combination of Omicron and injuries, they had called up, in addition to Hill, Chaundee Brown Jr., Cat Barber, Malik Ellison, Justin Tillman, Cameron Oliver, and Chris Clemons. Their active roster now consisted of more players on ten-days than standard contracts. And, given their opponent that evening, that did not bode well.
It did, however, mean that Hill was in position to receive significant playing time. Just past the midway point of the first quarter, McMillan called his name. Hill leapt up and bound to the scorer’s table, adrenaline pumping. He was the first player off the Hawks bench.
Once again, Atlanta was struggling to check Chicago’s high-powered offense, led by DeRozan and LaVine. Enter Hill for some assistance. Within seconds of checking in, he swiped the ball away from guard Coby White for a steal, resulting in a breakaway lay-up. He continued to bring the energy on defense—sometimes picking his man up full court—but as a team, the Hawks just couldn’t slow the Bulls down.
On the other end, Chicago was determined to contain Young at all costs, packing the paint whenever the All-Star guard penetrated. It was the Bulls’ way of saying, “We’ll let the who’s who of NBA fringe guys beat us tonight”—a sound strategy. Despite his unfamiliarity with many of them, Young was still willing to trust his teammates. With just over three minutes left in the opening frame, he attacked the basket, drew the defense in, and shoveled a pass to Hill in the corner. Hill caught it and fired a three-pointer in one smooth motion.
Good.
A couple of possessions later, Young maneuvered into the lane and rifled another pass out to Hill, who launched without hesitation.
Good again.
Machanda looked over at Patrick, her eyes wide, and asked, “Is this really happening?”
It really was.
Hill even buried a third three-pointer not long after, prompting Wilkins to say on the broadcast, “Hill is showing people, ‘Hey, I got a wide range of things that I can do!’” Indeed, he did. By halftime, Hill already had 11 points and 3 steals.
“It was almost surreal,” Machanda would later describe. “I’ve seen him work over the years and of course know what he’s capable of, but to actually see it happen in front of you, not even on television, to actually be there and see it happen, it’s incredible.”
Such a decimated Hawks squad really stood no chance against the red-hot Bulls. They were blown out, 131–117, for a second straight game. Hill’s performance was one of few silver linings. He defended exceptionally well (again facing DeRozan), limited his mistakes, and proved his shot-making ability. He looked like a prototypical 3-and-D guy, the most coveted type of player in the modern NBA. Of the Hawks who logged fifteen or more minutes that night, Hill had the best plus-minus.
There was one more game on the schedule before his ten-day deal was set to expire: a New Year’s Eve clash with the Cleveland Cavaliers. It was a final opportunity for Hill to prove himself worthy of another NBA contract. Was there pressure? Sure. But Hill’s confidence was also soaring. With momentum on his side, it felt like nothing could possibly go wrong.