You're a homeless man, living on the streets of Miami for nigh on three decades. You're minding your business on a sunny day under a highway overpass, perhaps looking for a new place, when suddenly a naked psychopath high on bath salts starts tearing into your face with his own teeth. After a brutal, 18-minute attack that leaves you in critical condition, your assailant is shot dead and you're rushed to Jackson Memorial Hospital. After several agonizing weeks of facial reconstruction in which you dip in and out of consciousness, you finally awake in a daze. You try to open your eyes, but they're covered in bandages. A voice asks if you have anything to say. Do you have anything to say? Your last memory is staring into the eyes of a frothing maniac as took a chunk out of your nose. Your forehead burns with the piercing stabs of a million tiny daggers. You've been face to bloodied face with Death himself. Do you have anything to say? Perhaps a message for everyone who's been following your shocking struggle for survival? If you're Ronald Poppo, of course you do. Your message: "Go Heat!" And you goddamn mean it. 

Huge basketball fan.