by Paul Shirley
Jamaal is the starting point guard for the Pacers. I am happy for him, I suppose. While we will never attend PTA meetings together, I would not have had some of the success I now enjoy if not for his contributions, so maybe I shouldn’t be so hard on him. (And by my “success,” I mean “questionable success.” Or perhaps “burgeoning success.”) Now that I have reasoned this all out, maybe our next talk will last an extra minute.
Aside from my own personality flaws, there is a veritable catalog of reasons I don’t get along particularly well with my fellow basketball players. Religion and stupidity are near the top of that list. Shockingly, those with a severe case of the latter often develop a strong belief in the former. The result is never a good one.
The religious fervor of athletes continues to amaze me. It is a phenomenon I have observed for years. Unfortunately, it seems to be worsening. I am surrounded by Bibles, crosses, and tattoos with religious overtones. My problem with all of this dedication to religion is the blatant hypocrisy inherent to it. I have known many a basketball player who will rarely miss saying grace before a meal but who will also give no second thought to cheating on his wife on a road trip. (I’ve vaguely heard of these commandments that religious people embrace. I feel like there’s something about adultery in there.) In the same vein, the player with the “Only God Can Judge Me” tattoo is often the first to find the sports page so that he can read what the beat reporter thought of his last game.
The omnipresent Bible scares me as well. I recently noticed that a teammate of mine carries a copy of the Good Book in his car. I cannot imagine the scenario wherein biblical guidance would be helpful while driving: “Well, I don’t know if Route 79 connects to this road or not. But it sure is a good thing I brought my Bible—I think there was something about that in the second chapter of Corinthians.”
In other news from the imbecilic front, the following was an actual occurrence in a locker room during a recent halftime: A teammate of mine asked the trainer for something to spray in his nose because of some congestion therein. (Congestion is my word, not his. Aren’t I an elitist ass?) The trainer told the player in question that the best he could do was an oral decongestant. The player furrowed his brow, and said, “Oral? What does oral mean?” It was no sex joke, either. He truly did not know what the term oral meant.
And another example to drive the point home: After we landed in Indiana, a different teammate, a kid fresh out of the University of Houston, followed me down the stairs from the private 737 the Hawks own—conspicuous because of the gigantic Atlanta Hawks logo painted on the side. When we got to the tarmac, he realized that he had left something on the plane. He thought for a minute and then asked me, “Are we taking the same plane back to Atlanta?”
It’s shocking that I don’t spend more time with my teammates. They have so much to offer in a conversation.
October 20
I probably ought to define what it means to “get dunked on.” (Side note: I usually avoid the use of colloquialisms and slang because reading them makes me want to suck on the barrel of a shotgun. Here, though, the term is the least offensive of the available options.) To get dunked on is to attempt to block the dunk of an opposing player…and fail. To watch a player dunk the ball from near the basket is not to get dunked on. To remove oneself from the play by ducking out of the way is not to get dunked on. (It is to be a pussy, but “being a pussy” is not the subject of the current debate.)
Most of the time, getting dunked on occurs according to a prescribed order. A defensive player (for the purposes of this exercise, I will call him Paul) notices that a teammate has just been beaten to the basket. Paul’s innate basketball sense tells him to help his teammate protect that basket, so he rotates toward the goal. At this point, the Fates have measured his length of string; the end result is decided, depending on two things—how late he has arrived and how good his opposition is. (Read: how much higher than Paul he can jump.) But Paul doesn’t know that the result has already been determined—his basketball pride tells him that there is still a chance. He arrives at the moment that may or may not haunt him for the rest of practice. He makes the unconscious decision to challenge the opposing player. He jumps, hoping that his Dikembe Mutombo moment is at hand. The dunker realizes that Paul has arrived at the scene of the crime in a cable-repairman-like manner (late) and sends the ball through the rim, leaving Paul flailing like a marionette whose ropes have been cut. With some luck Paul survives the experience without further insult, such as a foul call or an injury caused by the ball’s impact with the top of his head. Regardless of his physical and basketball well-being, the emotional scars will remain with him for the remainder of the day. His teammates—noble comrades that they are—will be sure to help him through the difficult time by reminding him frequently of his ineptitude.
Immediately post-event, Paul trots in as stoic a manner as possible back down the court, pretending that what just happened did not. In the locker room after practice, he may even try to deny that the event ever occurred: “No, man, I wasn’t even in that play.” Or “Oh, he didn’t dunk on me; I got out of the way.” Bad form, Paul. The experienced player takes the high road, admits that it happened, and leaves the locker room with much haste, hoping that the next day will bring with it some amnesia on the part of his teammates.
I discuss the fundamentals of the dunk-on because I was a party to the wrong end of the experience in a recent practice. It was ugly. It hadn’t happened in a while; I had nearly forgotten what it is like. (Remember, I played in Greece almost all of last year. The players there are decidedly more ground-bound.) The feeling returned in a hurry. The offending party was the oft-mentioned Shareef Abdur-Rahim. He put a wicked back-door cut on the player guarding him and, just as described above, I came over to help my fallen comrade.
Unfortunately, my arrival was a late one. After it happened, my pride and my chin both really hurt. I resolved to show no weakness, but then someone noted aloud that I was bleeding all over the court. The trainers opted for some newfangled skin superglue instead of stitches, so Shareef’s elbow has given me a memento by which I can remember the event when I am shaving for the rest of my life.
Of course, that I am around to be humiliated on the basketball court is not the worst turn of events. So far, three players have been released by the Hawks—leaving four of us free-agent types on the chopping block. Unfortunately, it is likely that the team will get rid of all of us, but I am glad that I still inhabit my hotel room above Centennial Park. (Six weeks now—a new same-room record for me.) Beats being the first one cut.
I speak from experience. One year ago in the Lakers’ training camp, when Dennis Scott and I were ushered into the basketball offices, I was the first to be wrestled into the guillotine. Head coach Phil Jackson and general manager Mitch Kupchak made up something about how much they had enjoyed having me in camp, and then I asked them what I could do to improve my chances of playing in the NBA. They told me to consider taking up water polo, and I went on my way. But at least Dennis Scott was there. At one time, he held the record for three-pointers in an NBA game. Of course, by the time I knew him, he weighed about 275 pounds and could barely tie his own shoes, but I prefer to dwell on the positive so as to feel better about myself.
After our first spate of preseason games, we members of the Atlanta Hawks played in two more meaningless encounters—in Alabama, of all places. I suppose the Hawks organization is trying to expand its fan base. However, their target audience appears to have been poorly chosen. I’m not sure anyone in Alabama actually has enough money to buy an NBA ticket. I also think Alabama is one of those states that is always forty-ninth or fiftieth in high school graduation rates and per capita income. When I really put my brain to the matter, I’m not entirely sure why the United States continues to allow Alabama state-hood. On our way to Birmingham, we drove by Talladega Superspeedway (NASCAR), which is home to one of the biggest white-trash conventions in the world every year, so it’s got that going for it, w
hich is nice.
I write “we drove” because we actually took a bus from Atlanta to Birmingham—on game day. We left at 10 A.M. and I rode for two and a quarter hours with my headphones on, trying the entire time to drown out whatever movie was being shown. (There will come a time when I reach the higher level of understanding that allows me to comprehend why movies shown on buses are played at such a high volume. Unfortunately, that time is not now.) Upon arrival at our hotel in Birmingham, a couple of teammates and I wandered around a nearby strip mall. One of the participants is my main competition, a fellow named Antonio Harvey. He is thirty-two and is the prototypical journeyman, having played for six NBA teams already. We are the only two remaining unguaranteed inside players. (For future reference: inside players is synonymous with bigs and posts.) We both know that if the team is going to keep a player from the pool of non-guaranteed guys, it would most likely be one of the two of us. NBA teams are generally anxious to keep around as many bigs as possible; the bell curve of height would predict such behavior (i.e., there aren’t enough tall guys to go around). While Antonio and I are rivals for what is potentially a very lucrative job, we are also teammates. Additionally, we have a fair amount in common; I’m like him eight years ago. He waffles between giving me guidance and being standoffish. He knows that I could easily usurp his position of authority if the transaction winds blow the wrong way. (Wrong way for him, that is.) Such relationships are always bizarre. I would never admit it to him, but I stay on mental guard. I don’t want to admit weakness or confusion. I’m sure he does the same. It’s a very healthy dynamic for two adults. Our relationship is probably similar to that between two cubicle groundhogs gunning for their boss’ affection in order to get the big promotion to vice assistant to the traveling secretary. Except we’re taller.
The team bus left our hotel at five for a seven-thirty game. Since I knew I wouldn’t be filling up the “minutes” column on the stat sheet, I put myself through an intense-ish pregame workout. After working up a good lather, I proceeded to sit on the bench for the next two and a half hours, the times I stood up to cheer notwithstanding. It was eerily similar to the bus ride but less constructive—at least on the bus I was able to listen to some music. With about five minutes remaining in the game, I was sent in. My job: release the energy I had been dying to use the whole game by compacting it into a five-minute period, but without blowing out any of the muscles that had been busy atrophying for the better part of three hours. Ouch. I successfully avoided snapping any tendons, we lost, and no one cared. Again, it’s preseason.
Our next outing was to Huntsville, Alabama, for another matchup with the Indiana Pacers. Before the game, coach Lon Kruger found me and said, “Paul, we have to start getting into our regular-season rotation, so there may not be a lot of playing time to go around.” Translation: “Find a good seat because you’ll be watching this one.” Which is exactly what happened. In discouraging news, Antonio Harvey got to play, if only for three minutes. I will now enjoy several days of obsession regarding the possible implications of his 180 seconds of non-glory contrasted with my own lack of playing time, which will be good neither for the quality of my sleep nor for my sanity.
I probably ought to clarify the mess that is the contract situation here in Atlanta. During the regular season, an NBA team is allowed to have up to fifteen players under contract. Of these, twelve suit up for games. Three players are placed on the inactive list. The Hawks currently have thirteen players signed to guaranteed contracts, including DerMarr Johnson, who broke his neck in a late-night car wreck and is out for the year. It would seem, then, that two spots are open. Not really. An NBA team is not required to keep fifteen players on its roster. The only real requirement—at least to my knowledge—is a roster of twelve. Given that information, one might wonder why I would willingly subject myself to a training camp under the conditions outlined. The answer: like every other cliché-spouting basketball player, it has been my dream to play in the NBA since I was a skinny, freckle-faced ten-year-old shooting baskets on the goal mounted on the deck of my childhood home. To me, it is worth the gamble. So I battle on. Other people think they’re going to drop twenty-five pounds in two pre-wedding months; I think I’m going to play in the NBA. We all must have something with which to delude ourselves.
October 25
I had a feeling that it might not be a good day when, after practice, one of the assistant coaches found me and asked me if I was still in contact with my former team in Greece. My dire premonition was confirmed when Lon Kruger sidled over as I was shooting post-practice free throws. He flashed his ever-present smile and said something to the effect that it was “cut day” and that he needed to see me in his office. My brain wanted me to say, “Tell you what, Coach, how about we skip the niceties? Let’s shake hands, I’ll tell you to kiss my ass, and we can both go our respective ways.” My mouth said, “Uh, okay.” I deal with rejection in a very healthy way.
And so I got the axe.
I was literally the last player cut. As previously theorized, the choice came down to Antonio Harvey and me. They picked him. Ouch.
I knew before practice that one of us was going to make the team and that one of us was going to clean out his locker. I talked to my agent, Keith Glass, the night before my demise; he told me that final cuts would happen in the morning. He related that the team had just learned that one of its post players was injured severely enough to require surgery. Consequently, they would keep either Harvey or me until the injured player could return. It was shaping up to be a story-book ending.
Keith’s next words were disheartening. He had learned that the general manager of the Hawks, Pete Babcock, wanted to keep me, while head coach Lon Kruger wanted to send me home in favor of Harvey. I felt a little betrayed. Actually, a lot betrayed. Lon Kruger is from Silver Lake, Kansas, which is about twenty miles from my childhood home. I grew up playing against his nephew. In fact, that nephew helped Silver Lake eliminate my high school team in the sub-state semifinals during my junior year of high school. Additionally, Keith advises Kruger. I didn’t expect these connections to help if I wasn’t close to making the team. However, given the obvious ambivalence displayed by everyone involved, it seemed to me that it would not be difficult for Kruger to look the way of a fellow small-town Kansas kid. Apparently I was wrong. If our families lived in Tennessee, I think a hillbilly hollow battle would now commence.
Armed with Keith’s confusing information, I went to bed anticipating an interesting day. As I fell asleep, I really had no idea what would transpire. I woke up feeling relatively good about my chances—an odd emotion for me. The choice was between two players with very similar abilities, who had played nearly the same number of minutes in the preseason games. I thought that either my hometown connection with Kruger or my low cost to the team would make the decision easy and carry me to the fruition of my basketball dreams. (And then I considered grabbing the pen at my bedside and stabbing myself in the eye for ever thinking of the phrase “fruition of my basketball dreams.”) Additionally, I had Babcock—the team’s general manager—in my corner. I had also placed calls to both my college coaches, Tim Floyd and Larry Eustachy, the night before. I hoped that either would be able to call in a recommendation.
I went to practice expecting some news before we took the court, but no information was forthcoming. Nobody mentioned any cuts, so I readied myself to scream at Keith after practice for sending me into a panic and making me call in favors on short notice. And then it all came crashing down around me when Lon Kruger found me after practice. During the obligatory hyperpositive meeting with the GM and head coach, the usual phrases were tossed about from their side. Some examples: “great to have you in camp,” “really love the way you play,” “great future in front of you,” and my favorite, “let us know if we can do anything to help you.” To which I wanted to respond, “Oddly, there is something you could help me with. I’ve always kind of wanted to play in the NBA. Anything you can do on that end?”
I managed to find my way out of the office and then participated in one of the most uncomfortable fifteen-minute periods of my life. I had come directly from the court to the coaches’ offices that adjoin the locker room. I hadn’t had time to shower or dress. So I prepared myself for departure from the locker room—and the Atlanta Hawks—while the real team showered and got ready to go home, finished with another average day in their lives. It wasn’t awkward at all. My former teammates tried not to say anything that might send me into an uncontrollable rage, but I could practically hear the little voice from afar saying, “Dead man walking!” as I exited the shower. I would have found the whole mess quite funny, had I not been so sad.
And was it really necessary to tell me all this jolly news after practice? It’s not like I needed the extra exercise.
November 17
I am relatively new to an existence as a professional basketball player. Now that I am unemployed, answering the obligatory second question—“What team do you play for?”—just became much more difficult. I wonder if I am eligible for unemployment benefits.
The next step is in sight, however.
Keith got married recently. Because of the subsequent honeymoon, he was able to answer one of my recent calls and the requisite question about his well-being with, “Well, we’re on a gondola in Venice.” My response was, “Yeah, well, I’m in my parents’ basement in Kansas. Again. Stick that in your pipe and smoke it.”
I feel some ownership for his marriage because I was around for the beginning of it. When I was playing in Greece last year, he came to Athens to browbeat my team’s management into paying what they owed me. To that point, I had received less than half of the $100,000 I was supposed to receive for the year. I had begun to consider the fire-bombing of the team’s gym to stimulate some transactions when, thankfully, Keith decided that a trip to Athens was in order. He had several clients there in a similar predicament. (Not to mention that none of the teams with which he was dealing had paid him either.) I was happy that he cared enough to visit and was hopeful that a resolution could be reached without any harm befalling the team’s owner or his family.