This is not Derrick Rose's story alone.
This is our story.
From the dusty courts on the streets of Chicago to the NBA's dazzling Walk of Fame, Derek and I - people later called him the "Windy City Rose" - were each other's most solid shadows.
We have shared the same bottle of water, witnessed each other's first fadeaway jumper, and spent countless late nights vowing to dominate the NBA in front of an empty basket. We arrived as promised, and he became the youngest MVP in history. The Windy City was boiling because of him; and I was the sharpest shield beside his throne.
However, when ruthless injuries wrapped around his knees like thorns, and when the bright rose suddenly withered, the whole world thought the story was over.
But only I know that the thorns of roses are born for protection.
When the spotlight goes out and the crowd disperses, I will hold him and say to him:
"I will walk with you on your road. Let us cut off your thorns together."
This is a thorny road watered by sweat and tears, and it is also a passionate war song about brothers, basketball and immortal faith.
