You realize that at some point in the six years since you left Houston, you’ve developed an allergy to the yellow pollen that coats almost every inch of the city at this time of year. And with bleary eyes and uncontrollable sneezing, you head out onto the road to find yourself entangled in traffic at 10AM that’s worse than a combined week of rush hour in Fort Worth. And in spite of your best efforts, you find your affection for your hometown waning. And it’s disorienting, because who are you if not a Houstonian at heart? And like Tom Wingo, you feel the words building inside you. You can’t stop them, or explain why you say them. But as you drive past the familiar skyline, these words come to you in a whisper. You say then as a prayer, as regret, as praise, you say: Olajuwon, Olajuwon.