His basketball career began at Southern Omaha High School, where he was an All-American point guard, mainly because his assist-to-turnover rate was a fantastic 10:1, which more than compensated for his lack of topflight athleticism. Which is precisely why not a single D-One college offered him a scholarship, and why he eventually enrolled in Weatherford College, a D-Three school in Colorado.
Although the “Blue Storm” never had a winning season, Davis was a four-year starter and averaged double figures in points and assists, while shooting only 37.2 percent from the field. But he was so popular in the community that he became the local high school coach immediately upon his graduation. Despite, or more accurately because of, universally rumored recruiting and transcript-altering violations, Davis’s teams routinely qualified for the state tournament, and went so far as to lose twice in the championship game.
After four years, Davis became a graduate assistant to coach John Cooper at Northern Colorado University. Two years later, he married a woman whose grandfather was the multimillionaire CEO of Canada Dry. Then, after a $100,000 contribution was made to NCU’s varsity fund, Davis was promoted to a full-time position as assistant coach.
The team made four appearances in the NCAA tournament over the course of the next five years, reaching the Elite Eight twice, the Final Four once, and then losing to Kentucky in the championship game.
Shortly thereafter, Cooper became the head coach of the Oklahoma City Thunder, and brought Davis along to be his top assistant. The Thunder came close but never made the playoffs during Cooper’s three seasons in OKC. But Davis had more on his mind than the playoffs.
He went out of his way to form a tight relationship with the players. Telling this guy, “You should be playing more.” Telling that guy, “If I was the head coach, you’d be starting.” Telling the other guy, “I would have called your number to take the win-or-lose shot in that game.”
Before Cooper addressed the team whenever a timeout was called, Davis would huddle with Cooper and whisper sweet-somethings in his ear. The obvious impression was that Davis was making all the in-game decisions.
Three years before I arrived on the scene, Cooper was canned after the Thunder once again failed to make the playoffs, and nobody was surprised when Davis was hired to replace him. Shortly thereafter, he divorced his wife and shacked up with one of the Thunderettes, the professional virgins who danced on the court during time-outs.
In both of Davis’s initial two seasons in the command seat, the Thunder missed out on the money-season tournament when they lost critical games on the last day of the regular season. But the media Muppets loved what one of them called “his superactive involvement in every play. Simply put, Davis coaches his butt off.” The season before I arrived, the Thunder managed to win the eighth seed, thereby earning the privilege of being swept by the Cleveland Cavs.
Nevertheless, since the Thunder had at long last qualified for the playoffs, for the first time since moving from Seattle to OKC, Davis was celebrated as a hero in the local media and was rewarded with a fully guaranteed five-year $50 million contract.
Even so, I have to say this: Everything that went wrong in that fucked-up season began with the first day of practice. That’s because Brook Davis could talk up a storm but didn’t know squat about coaching an NBA team.
After the trainer led us through stretching exercises and we ran some half-speed sprints, Davis summoned us to join him at the midcourt center-jump circle. Strangely enough, the players positioned themselves around and outside the circle while Davis stood in the middle of it.
Then he started talking, all the while turning so that we all could hear what he was saying.
“This season will be a big challenge for us. A huge challenge. I mean a really significant one. Challenge, that is.”
But as he continued to revolve, I couldn’t quite hear him once his back was turned to me. So I took a small step forward.
That’s when the player to my right, who happened to be Rashon Williams, whispered, “No, no,” as he grabbed my arm and pulled me back. “We not allowed to step inside the circle while he’s doing his bullshit thing.”
“So,” Davis said, “it’s up to us to meet this challenge. This very important challenge. And the only way, the very only way we can meet this critical challenge is to band together and meet it together. Meet the challenge. That means all of us. Me, you guys, my assistants . . . yes, even the front office. Because that’s the only way this challenge can be met and overcome.
“Now, how do we do this? Band together to meet and overcome this challenge that the season will present. By getting to practice on time. But not just being there at the appointed hour. But being properly dressed, and mentally and physically ready to go. As you may or may not know, this takes some preparation on your part. Us coaches will have the schedule for every practice all mapped out, with every aspect of it timed to the minute. That’s how we prepare.
“As for you guys . . . veterans and rookies both . . . you also have to prepare. What does this mean? It means getting sufficient sleep, eating correctly, and being able to focus on the tasks and the challenges that face us.
“Now, what are the specifics of your own preparation? . . . What should you do and not do when you’re not here? What kinds of foods should you eat, and what kinds of foods should you avoid? Let me explain . . .”
He went on for another twenty minutes, while all of us twitched our arms, shook out our legs, did some light jogging in place. . . . But only behind his back.
By the time he was done, he invited us into the circle to pile our hands together, and instructed us on the count of three to shout, “Together.”
We were then allotted precisely four minutes to grab the balls from the racks and quickly rewarm our extremities by taking shots at random.
“Get used to it, rook,” Williams said to me. “But it gets even worse. You’ll see it for yourself.”
And I did.
During what remained of practice time, Richardson ran the drills, put in the first elements of the offense, the defense, and the in-bounds plays, orchestrated the scrimmages, and made the necessary comments and criticism of everything we did. Meanwhile, the other two assistants—two youngish white guys named Shawn Butler and Jamie Samuelson—basically fetched loose balls, rebounded and passed in shooting drills, and mopped the floor whenever somebody fell.
And Davis?
He sat on a courtside bench and silently watched the proceedings.
As for me, I thought I performed at the top of my abilities during the drills but not so much during the scrimmages. For sure, I made some mistakes, and trying to defend the veterans was an unsuccessful and frequently embarrassing task. Yet, I shot and passed well, and understood the offense.
Then the exhibition games began, and my concentration simply disintegrated. At both ends of the court I was a lost fart in a shit storm. But Richardson remained supportive, and his positive instructions were valuable.
Indeed, the games were similar to the practice sessions. Davis spent the pregame time in the locker rooms boring us all with clichés about winning and playing together. Leaving precious few minutes for Richardson to do some grease- board work to focus our attention on which offensive sets and defensive alignments we would be targeting in the game at hand. It was also Richardson who presented a brief scouting report on the individuals we’d be facing as well as what the opponents’ general game plan might be.
•••
I really liked Richardson. His expertise. His manner. His positive attitude. His fearlessness in upbraiding even the likes of Williams and Mosley when they were out of position on certain offensive sets, were lazy in transition defense, or blew a defensive rotation.
Richardson had been a solid if unspectacular small forward variously for the old Baltimore Bullets, the Clippers, the Pistons, and the Thunder over the course of his fourteen years in t
he league. While he was never much of a shooter or scorer, he was named to four NBA All-Defense first teams and two second teams.
Although he’d interviewed for several vacant head-coaching jobs, Richardson had remained an assistant with the Thunder for ten years. The rap on him was that he was too honest (whatever that meant) and that he was too confrontational with wayward players.
Davis went along with Richardson’s desire to keep a low public profile by prohibiting him (as well as the other two nondescript assistants) from talking with the media. With any of them for any reason at any time.
Davis’s rationale was to make sure that “the organization always speaks with the same consistent voice.”
In any event, during the preseason games, Richardson did ALL of the coaching. Calling plays, sometimes making substitutions, diagramming adjustments during timeouts.
All the while, Davis sat passively on the bench. Rousing himself only to schmooze with the refs.
“Nice call, Ronnie. You still got the good eye.”
“Great position on that one, Bruce. That’s why you got that one right.”
The traveling was a cinch. We left our packed bags in our hotel rooms and the next time we saw them they were on the beds in our next hotel room in the next city. Our flights were charted so we didn’t have to wait on any lines, and were never subjected to any kind of personal inspections.
Which is why I later learned that a certain veteran player from a certain West Coast team muled discreet baggies of coke for drug-dealing buddies of his throughout the league.
In any event, we split our six preseason games and I slowly, but gradually began to get comfortable. Overall, I managed to average 20.2 minutes, 9.6 points, 2.0 assists per game, while shooting 41.9 percent from the floor, including 38.1 percent from downtown. While also getting routinely abused on defense.
“Doing good so far, rook,” Richardson told me, “but the real games are a different story.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
We opened up at home against the Celtics.
Zack’s dressing stall was next to mine and, as we laced up, we shared our anxieties.
“I never been so nervous in all my life,” he said. “Even more nervous than the first time I got laid.”
“Me, too. I just hope I don’t shit in my pants out there.”
As it turned out, both of us had plenty of time to calm down, since we were bench-bound for the entire first quarter. Which gave me plenty of time to observe Davis’s antics.
Unlike his behavior in the preseason games, the guy was in constant motion. Running up and down from one end of the coach’s box to the other. Bouncing around like his ass was on fire. Clapping his hands, shouting out play calls that his players ignored, pointing at who-knows-what, yapping at the refs. All in a madcap frenzy designed to publically (and successfully!) demonstrate what a terrific and involved coach he was.
In the time-out huddles he simply jabbered, drawing meaningless lines on his miniature court board. “You go here,” he said as he scribbled. “And you go here.” Not identifying who each “you” was or when the “you’s” were supposed to follow the route lines, nor to what purpose. And Davis repeated the score and the time remaining several times.
Zack and I plus the other brothers-of-the-bench gathered around Davis, studied what he drew on the board, and nodded in shared bewilderment. Meanwhile, the veterans directed their attention to the nearest seats and nudged one another whenever a beautiful woman was spotted.
At the same time, Richardson kept whispering into Mosley’s ear. During the second time-out, I leaned toward them to hear what Richardson was saying. “Run a one-four iso for yourself and keep on it until they double you. Then go to a pin-down for Rashon.”
Davis’s parting instructions were always, “Let’s go! Let’s go! Let’s go!”
From what I could tell, either Richardson or the players themselves made all of the substitutions. Even so, Davis made sure to intercept the ingoing players on their way to the scorer’s table to pat their backs and give them private instructions.
Then, two minutes into the second quarter, while Paul Pierce was shooting the first of two free throws, Rashon Williams came over to the bench and, without consulting Davis, pointed at me and said, “You’re in for me, rook. Go out there and bust your cherry.”
Then Williams sat down on the far end of the bench, putting six players and three assistant coaches between him and Davis. But as soon as Davis saw me get off the bench, he hustled over to pat my back and say this to me: “Go get ’em! All right?” Thereby forcing me to nod my head in agreement and perpetuating the lie that his instructions were important.
Despite Davis’s repeated reminders in our huddles, as I pointed toward the scorer’s table, I had no idea what the score was.
So there I was. On the court. In a “real” game. Then, suddenly, Pierce made the free throw and Darren Mosley was dribbling up court.
I was in a daze.
I didn’t know what I should do or what I shouldn’t do. So I just ran around in aimless circles, hoping that nobody would pass the ball to me.
The game was much faster than the preseason games. Much, much faster. Multiple decisions had to be made so quickly that they seemed to be simultaneous.
Plus, everybody in the green jerseys seemed bigger, stronger, and more vicious than they had any right to be. Like they were monstrous aliens who were here only because of some space-time warp.
I was so surprised when Mosley passed me the ball that I immediately dribbled it off my foot and out-of-bounds. At the other end of the court, I felt like I weighed 300 pounds.
The postgame stat sheet had me down for six minutes of daylight, 2 turnovers, 3 fouls, and a make on the only shot I took (which happened to be a long 3-ball that I dimly remembered).
Otherwise, my debut was mostly a blank.
Several media peeps clustered around me after I showered and started to dress.
What did I think of my NBA baptism?
“I think that I have a lot to learn,” was the only response I could think of. In the face of more questions, I just shrugged and said, “An awful lot to learn.”
Which certainly was the Trouthe.
Then the media bunch turned their attention to Zack, who, besides the 5 in the minutes-played column, had zeros in every other category. Before he had a chance to answer any of the “How did it feel to play in your first game” questions, the Thunder’s trainer approached Zack. The guy’s name was Joe Mueller, short, muscular, broad-faced, clean-headed, who I’d been warned was a spy for Davis.
“How’s your ankle?” he asked Zack.
“What you mean?” said Zack, totally puzzled.
“Let me see,” said Mueller as he poked and gingerly rotated Zack’s bare left foot. “Hurt any?”
“No.”
“Okay. Just checking.” Then he left.
Meanwhile, the scribes were convinced that, unbeknownst to them, Zack had suffered an injury. After the media squad moved on to huddle in front of Williams’s cubicle and wait for him to come out of the shower, Zack said to me, “Ain’t nothing wrong with my ankle. What he talking about?”
Damned if I knew.
As I left the locker room, I overheard Davis saying this into another proffered microphone: “They lost because they failed to execute my game plan.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
To complete our short home stand, we got pounded by Cleveland, then barely beat New Jersey.
I played a total of thirteen minutes and, still aimlessly wandering around the court, I missed 4 jumpers, made 1 bucket (a fast-break layup), and was routinely chumped on defense.
Although I had mastered all the intricate options of team defense—knowing when to rotate, when to show and recover, when to go over or under screens, when and whom to double-team—I was simply unable to stay with
veteran players when forced to guard them one-on-one.
Once again, here’s what Davis said after the Miami game: “They lost because they failed to execute my game plan.”
After the win over the Nets, he said, “We won because we successfully executed my game plan.”
As usual, whenever the lights were on, Davis continued to act like he was totally involved in calling plays and making substitutions. Dancing and prancing on the sidelines, never seated, shouting, clapping his hands, jabbering nonsense in the time-out huddles, and being totally ignored by us. If not for Richardson whispering instructions to Williams and Mosley, our offense and defense would have been totally ad-libbed.
Zack didn’t get off the bench in either of the games, yet the same puzzling scene was repeated afterward, when the trainer would ask him about his left ankle. And, on both occasions, the trainer made sure there was a media presence when he did so.
“I dunno what’s going on,” Zack told me. “I ain’t never had no problems with my ankles. Never even sprained one a them or nothing. I don’t understand.”
Neither did I. Until, that is, after an early practice on the morning after beating the Nets. The itinerary called for us to be bused from the arena to the airport for a flight to Detroit, and Zack had already collected promises from his teammates to let him have their comped tickets when we played the Pistons the next day.
“Man,” he said as we changed into the suits and ties that the league had decreed were the only proper traveling attire. “I got my two brothers, one sister, three cousins, and about fifteen old friends including some’ve my high school teammates, and even two old girlfriends. But, man, I sure do hope I can get into the game.”
“Don’t worry, Z. I’ll call you to sub in for me.”
“I thought only the vets could do that.”
“Well . . .”
But before I could finish my sentence, Davis approached Zack. “I need to talk to you in private,” he said, so I went into the bathroom to make sure my necktie was straight and my fly was zipped.
Trouthe, Lies, and Basketball Page 12