Can I Keep My Jersey?

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Can I Keep My Jersey? Page 7

by Paul Shirley


  We (the Yakima Sun Kings) played at home on a Tuesday against the Dakota Wizards. We won the game and then boarded a bus for Boise, where we would play the next night. We lay down for the “night” at 6 A. M. and slept until 12:30 or so. While Alex and I were contemplating our breakfast/lunch options in the hotel restaurant, our assistant coach sidled in wearing a beaming smile. He told me that Coach Bayno wanted to see me. I had no idea what was going on; I thought maybe he was trying to make me think I had been released. (I was functioning on very little sleep.) When he ushered me into the hotel bar where Bayno was waiting, phone in hand, I could tell that something positive had happened. Bayno handed me the phone and said, “Congratulations, buddy.” Obviously, the Hawks were on the other end—this story would not go too well with the theme here if not. I listened in disbelief as the assistant to the GM told me that the team was going to sign me to a ten-day contract.

  It is quite possible that I spoke to Alex and/or one of the coaches after I got the call, but I can neither confirm nor deny such an event. My brain switched into a different mode. I sprinted down the hall of the hotel to my room and gathered my luggage. (In truth, I may have broken into a skip. There is also the distinct possibility that I pulled off a heel click à la Dick Van Dyke in Mary Poppins at some point.) I bid farewell to my teammates and was at the Boise airport within an hour for my 3:00 flight. Because of the most easily endured flight delay ever, I did not arrive in Atlanta until 2:30 A.M. I got to bed at 3:30 but didn’t really sleep; I knew I had to get up at 6:30 for a physical and was as excited as I had been…ever. The relaxation required for actual sleep was elusive at best. I passed my physical in the morning and was whisked off to the gym to sign my contract. I did not have to sell my soul, nor was it all an elaborate hoax, and I became a contracted NBA player. Amazing.

  We (the Atlanta Hawks) have played two games since I have been in town. Both were at home, both were wins. The Paul Shirley era is off to a rousing start. I haven’t played—I don’t know if I will play. The Hawks signed me because a player who was supposed to return from an injury sooner was not ready and was put on the injured list. Additionally, a few of the Hawks’ other players are a little beaten up. So the team needed a player for practices and for game-time emergencies. That player is this guy. And that job is just fine with him.

  For once, I cannot come up with anything cynical or sarcastic to write about the events of the last week. My call-up to the NBA is truly one of the most amazing events of my life, and I won’t trivialize it. So that’s it. For the next six days, I will be a player for the Atlanta Hawks. After that, I don’t know—the team could sign me to another ten-day contract or it could send me on my way. I will do my best to make sure that the former happens, but for my own sake, I will try to enjoy this dream while I am living it.

  January 19

  It was set up perfectly. I had just entered the game and I had the ball. I had played one minute and twenty-three seconds the night before in Milwaukee but hadn’t found a chance to shoot the ball. Now was the time. I was in Boston, where Larry Bird and Kevin McHale had shown me via television waves the way to play basketball in the 1980s. It was not the Boston Garden—that arena had been torn down to make way for a new one with less personality and more luxury boxes—but it was close enough. With my back to the basket, I calmly took two dribbles to the middle, setting up a jump hook. I gracefully turned into what would have been my shot, but since I was in Boston, I gave my best McHale fake and turned to step through toward the basket. I left the floor with visions of glory and…threw up a complete brick. The ball didn’t even clip the rim. I guess I can’t have everything.

  Yet.

  (Wink.)

  I was only in the game because we were getting bashed handily by the Celtics. I entered the game with four and a half minutes to play and managed to cast up four shots. None of them went in, but no one can accuse me of timidity in my first real NBA opportunity. (Incidentally, I was fouled on the aforementioned fairy-tale first shot, but I didn’t really expect a call. Referees are not generally sympathetic to a rookie twelfth man who gets his only minutes in garbage time.) I am actually kind of proud of myself. I often wear a Rage Against the Machine T-shirt that carries the following quote by Emilio Zapata: “It is better to die on your feet than to live on your knees.” And while I am not a Mexican revolutionary, and while the above quote is both overkill and overused, I do figure if I get the ball, I may as well shoot it.

  I find myself suppressing smiles these days. While sitting on the bench during a game or standing on the sideline during practice, a realization that I am finally in the NBA hits. The result: the overwhelming urge to break into a huge grin—not an impulse I often have. Thankfully, I am usually able to successfully stave off reactions of jubilation and maintain the illusion that I belong here. (Or at least the illusion that I am maintaining the illusion.) Actually, such moments are not new to me. During my freshman year of college, I would often find myself reacting in the same way I do now—with complete amazement. (This was, of course, before I became spoiled by it all, back when the idea of playing for a Big 12 basketball program was the beall and end-all.) I’m glad that I remain capable of such childish glee. And I’m heartened that I never became overwhelmed and was able to achieve goals I never though possible as a skinny college freshman.

  The achievement of one’s goals is like the progression of dating. None of us is ever really satisfied. Let’s say I spy a girl waiting in line at a music store. She’s beautiful—tall, with brown hair and blue eyes. Since I’m ready to leave, I get in line behind her. I make a remark about the band on the T-shirt she’s wearing. She turns slightly, laughs, and brushes the hair out of her eyes. Inside, I’m jubilant; she hasn’t given me the “I have a boyfriend” stare-down, so I have a chance. I introduce myself. We make small talk. She dawdles after paying, and I walk with her to the parking lot. She gives me her number and then drives away. For a moment, I am ecstatic. If a fellow music store customer had told me that I would end up with the beauty’s phone number, I would have (1) asked him for advice, and (2) made a self-deprecating remark about my ability to approach strangers.

  I call her, we go out. During dinner, I can think of nothing except to wonder how I might be able to kiss this girl at the end of the night. I can’t concentrate on the conversation; I just want to know if she likes me. I walk her to her apartment. I consider my move as we chat nervously. (I have a Y chromosome and so have no real ability to read her emotions. She might be nervous or she might hate me. I can’t tell.) She stands on the first step and I move in. If, back at the restaurant, our waiter had told me that I would now be kissing this gorgeous creature, I would have (1) asked him for advice and (2) slapped him for speaking in such a way about a lady.

  We make plans to meet at a bar with some friends one night. After a few drinks, she’s sitting on my lap. She whispers in my ear that it is time for me to walk her home. I do and then follow dutifully up the same stairs where I kissed her a week earlier. I wander around her apartment, looking idly at pictures, and wonder how I’m going to segue from whatever conversation we are about to have into a trip into her bedroom. She returns from the kitchen. I grab her hand and tell her that I am going to give her a tour of her own apartment. We collapse on the bed and before we know what has happened, everyone is naked. If back at the bar…well, I think I’ve made myself clear.

  For now, just being in the NBA is plenty. But every achievement is quickly lost in the quest for the next. Which is good. Without short memories, we would accomplish nothing. We would be content with whatever we had just done. Without a short memory, my basketball career would never have made it this far…and I never would have had sex with the girl in the story.

  After my first few days in Atlanta, I realized that I was facing a clothing shortage. When I got the call from the Hawks, I was on a CBA road trip. I didn’t exactly have time to peruse my closet for the choicest clothing selections before my trip to Atlanta. This made the requisi
te dressing up for games and plane rides somewhat difficult. Because I had packed for a ten-day CBA trip, I did have enough extraneous items—socks, underwear, and the like. But I was lacking in the real clothes department—I had only a pair of khakis and two decent shirts. And those were last-minute additions; I had planned to wear my new Yakima Sun Kings sweats for about 85 percent of the trip. (The semi-nice clothes were packed only because my minor-league road trip was supposed to include a trip to the CBA all-star game. Which is like being named a cover model for a plus-size fashion magazine. Vogue it is not.)

  By my second game with the Hawks, I had exhausted my clothing options and so felt that it was time to embark on a shopping trip in order to save myself the public ridicule that was sure to follow if I pulled the wear-the-same-dress (Seinfeld reference) routine. I did some research and learned that there was an Eddie Bauer store in a mall near my hotel in Atlanta. Because half of my wardrobe comes from Mr. Bauer’s racks—due to their remarkably vast selection of clothes that fit six-foot-ten guys—I was pleased, and set off on a quest for some items that would open up my options. I braved the Atlanta subway (aka the moving homeless hotel) and found the correct mall. Upon arrival, a pleasant-enough man asked me—while I was staring with puzzlement at a color-coded mall map—if I needed help. “Why, yes,” I said, “the phone book says that there is an Eddie Bauer at this mall…but I don’t see it on the map.” He knowingly replied, “Oh, that closed a while back.” Strike one. I moved on to the next option: Macy’s. Uppity stores like Macy’s no longer have a presence in Topeka, so I was not particularly familiar with the chain. But I thought I could fake my way through the encounter. I sauntered into the men’s department, only to have a man there tell me that not only did they not have anything that would fit me, but that I would fail everywhere else in the mall. Strike two. I was becoming somewhat flustered: we had a game in a few hours and I did not have time to be wandering around malls aimlessly.

  From the depths of my memory, I remembered a time when, by some fluke, I had found some clothes at the Gap. I dodged some teenage loiterers and found my next potential savior. The racks were filled with clothes neither large nor long. In fact, I think a pathetic Napoleon may have taken the reins at the Gap and decided to seek retribution on all larger examples of humanity—not only were the clothes too small, they weren’t even close. Strike three. (This baseball analogy would be useful only if someone changed the rules and it took five or six strikes to strike out.) I was getting desperate. My next plan involved homage to one of my college coaches, Larry Eustachy, and the mock turtleneck he wore for games. Or at least a long-sleeved T-shirt. I didn’t think that two sporting goods stores would fail me. But they did, miserably. (Am I already at strikes four and five?) At the end of my mental rope, in a foggy, recycled-air-induced haze, I thought, “What the hell, I can wear a plain T-shirt with khakis.” I found a five-for-$20 stand at another store and finally secured a few well-crafted selections. So what if the next road trip was to Milwaukee? It isn’t cold there in January.

  The beauty of the whole situation is that because I am in the NBA, if I wear a ring-necked T-shirt, everyone will assume that I paid $35 for it at Kenneth Cole. They have no idea it cost me $3.99 at a mall chain store that doesn’t exactly specialize in dress clothes. And so I wore my new shirts with pride and survived the next few days without any further wardrobe problems. And that was great, for shirts. My pants options were limited to khaki or khaki, which was fine, because I’m white and middle-class and think that khaki pants will go with anything. But I ran into a snag when I woke up the morning after the game in Boston to find a mysterious oily stain on the left thigh of my one pair of decent pants. I solved the problem temporarily by carrying my laptop bag in front of me on the left side anytime I had to move—from the bus to the plane, and so on. When we arrived in San Antonio that afternoon, I summoned a hotel worker and sent my pants off to be dry-cleaned. My trousers came back the next morning. I was quite pleased with my efficiency—my pants had been on the disabled list, but they were going to get healthy just in time for the game. But, alas, the healing process had gone awry. Someone in the laundry room had allowed me to keep the stain and had added a random hole for no extra charge. I was nonplussed. I called the service people and told them my story. They were quite agreeable and—after an hour or so—called back to ask for a quote. At first I thought they wanted to hear some Shakespeare, but the lady quickly righted me and said they needed to know how much the pants had cost. She didn’t care what I said next. I could have said $100, $150—she wouldn’t have minded. The hotel’s cleaning was done by an outside firm, so my quote wasn’t going to come out of her employer’s coffers. So, of course, I said, “Oh, $40.” I hung up the phone and immediately gave myself an internal verbal lashing. But I got over it and found a nice big and tall men’s store nearby and found the exact same pair of khakis. For $55.

  While suiting up for our game in Milwaukee, I heard some shouting and carrying on next door. It sounded like a maintenance man was being whipped for insubordination. In fact, a Bucks player was leading members of both teams in a religious service. As previously noted, I struggle with the embrace of religion in sports, but I have learned that it is part of the circus. (In Yakima, our coach—prior to leading us in prayer—said exactly the following on several occasions: “Let’s go get these motherf——s! Now let us pray.”) Whether or not religion is appropriate to the basketball court is not my current debate. It would be a good one to have; right now, though, I’m more worried about whether I will see some sinning. I made it to the NBA. I want to see some NBA behavior. I need to watch a player use the halftime break to snort cocaine out of a bathroom stall. I want to see—or at least hear about—a pregame rendezvous with multiple groupies. Allow me to catch wind of some kind of scandalous behavior. Teammates I had in college were not afraid to come to practice drunk or to kick the odd policeman in the teeth from time to time; it doesn’t seem too much to ask for the exaggerated version now. Instead, I get pregame prayer groups. I’d like to see the real NBA now. While all this religion and saintly behavior probably looks great on television, it is not nearly as interesting as one might think.

  I am learning that most NBA players understand the stakes. Each player knows that one mistake could jeopardize his next contract. Beyond that, he understands how important the public-relations machine is. A lack of godliness on the part of a particular player could result in one fewer endorsement contract. Opportunity cost, as it were.

  There is some debauchery—it just goes on behind doors that are closed to me. Groupies exist. They are not, however, awaiting the team in the hotel when we arrive at the next hotel. Believe me, I’ve been paying attention. Instead, it seems that most groupie action happens thanks to careful planning. For example, when we arrived in Milwaukee, someone with a decidedly feminine voice was waiting for the player staying immediately to my right in the hotel. And I don’t think she was his girlfriend. Nor do I think that the moaning I heard was caused by a deep-tissue massage.

  The NBA experience is rather amazing (I think I may have mentioned that), but there are some depressing aspects. It really is great…as long as I don’t have to be around other NBA players too much. Most of them are decent enough fellows, but there is something missing. And I think that “something” is the ability to relate to the average person. It is apparent that many of them were really good guys at one point but have become so jaded by an insular lifestyle that they now cannot remember what it was like to be just another guy. I relate the following as evidence of the problem: I sat in the locker room, preparing to watch another game while wearing a uniform. As I anxiously anticipated another pregame warm-up, I spoke to Shareef Abdur-Rahim, who is one of the Hawks I like and admire the most, while he idly opened some mail. He found a huge manila envelope, tore it open, cursorily examined the contents, and then tossed everything in the trash. I asked him what he was doing. He said that he had just thrown away the letters that fans sent him. I was
taken aback and was offended enough to say, “You realize that people took time to write you those letters, and you just disregarded all of them.” He thought about it, looked at me, and said, “Yeah, that just doesn’t make any sense, does it? It’s sad, but I do it anyway.” I could tell that he regretted it, but I certainly did not see him digging through the trash to retrieve his fan mail.

  It is true that I do not know what it is like to be a star in the NBA. I can’t understand the pressures or demands. But in my opinion, if a person cannot even take the time to open a note from a fan and give it a glance (and this doesn’t even address answering that mail), then he may need to rethink his priorities.

  On a more positive note, I have been extremely impressed by the bag-handling procedures in the NBA. Before each road game, a bellman from the hotel in which we are staying comes to my door and says, “Bag pickup.” Then he actually takes my bag and puts it on the bus. After the game, someone else takes my bag and puts it on the plane. The reverse is true as well. I never have to handle my own luggage, except to move it to and from the bus at the beginning and end of our trips. Will wonders never cease?

  In truly fantastic news, the Hawks have decided that they haven’t had their fill of me after ten days and have decided to sign me to another ten-day contract. Yippee! (Remember, I do not use exclamation points lightly.)

  January 21

  The sequence of events regarding the signing of my second ten-day contract went something like this…

  Thursday,

  San Antonio

  , 4 P.M.:

 

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