Can I Keep My Jersey?

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Can I Keep My Jersey? Page 8

by Paul Shirley

Atlanta Hawks general manager Pete Babcock to me: “Paul, we are going to sign you to another ten-day contract when this one is up. Yours expires on Saturday; since we won’t practice on Sunday, we’ll sign you on Monday.”

  Sunday,

  Atlanta,

  2 P.M.:

  Atlanta Hawks assistant coach Steve Henson states the following upon finding me in the weight room on our off day: “Chris [assistant to the general manager] will be in tomorrow before the game to get your contract signed.”

  Monday,

  Atlanta,

  9 A.M.:

  Assistant to the general manager Chris Grant appears in the locker room. He produces my next ten-day contract and then says, “Hang out for ten minutes and then we’ll get this signed; I have to go talk to Coach Stotts real quick.”

  Monday,

  Atlanta,

  9:10 A.M.:

  Head coach Terry Stotts calls me into his office. “Well, Paul, we’re not going to sign you just yet. We’re not cutting you; we’re just not signing you.” Stotts and Grant explain that the Hawks’ starting shooting guard, Ira Newble, has some knee inflammation. The team does not fully understand the state of his injury. They apologize and tell me that I will have to wait a day until they learn whether Newble’s injury warrants rest. If it does, they will have to find a guard to sign to a ten-day contract. If his knee is okay, I will be $30,000 and ten more days in the NBA richer. I watch the afternoon’s game against Chicago in street clothes from behind the bench. I am nervous, confused, and apprehensive.

  Monday,

  Atlanta,

  4:30 P.M.:

  Chris Grant calls my hotel room and tells me that no determination has been made. The team doctor wants to check Newble’s knee on Tuesday morning.

  Tuesday,

  Atlanta,

  9:30 A.M.:

  I bravely march into Coach Stotts’ office and ask him about the situation. He says, “We don’t know yet, Paul, so go ahead and dress for practice and we will let you know.”

  Tuesday,

  Atlanta,

  10:15 A.M.:

  Chris Grant finds me on the practice court and tells me that Newble’s injury is going to require the team to “shut him down” for seven to ten days. They will have to find a guard to replace him. I will not be signing a second ten-day contract. Grant continues tospeak, but my brain ceases to function, so I cannot accurately report on the remainder of his soliloquy.

  Tuesday,

  Atlanta,

  10:45 A.M.:

  I remove my practice gear and make a humiliating walk through the locker room. I give my now-former teammates my best wishes and, miraculously, manage to leave without saying anything I would later regret. Or assaulting anyone.

  And so I am, once again, unemployed.

  January 29

  Now that I don’t have a job to which I need to attend, I have time for more mundane activities, like watching my thirteen-year-old brother play basketball. When I journeyed to Perry-Lecompton Middle School to do just that, the ghost of Luke Fergus appeared before me. Luke Fergus was the kid every middle school class has—the man among boys. When we were both in seventh grade, he had hair in all sorts of strange places, the likes of which I would not see for at least three years. He had muscles bulging where I had smooth little-boy skin. He could run and jump and generally looked like an athlete; I was still somewhat baffled by the dueling basketball concepts of offense and defense.

  As the game began, the inspiration for my flashback to my own middle school days took position opposite my brother Tom, his overdeveloped triceps pushing out of his size medium wash-and-wear jersey. And, alas, like so many years ago, the Perry Kaws jumped out to a commanding lead—eight to four. But in the end my fears were unfounded. Tom’s opponent was, in fact, that more common form of over-testosteroned thirteen-year-old—the one who looks good in a uniform but can’t actually play. Tom’s side pulled its act together after the shaky start and ended the game on a 54–15 run that culminated in a thirty-five-point victory. And so my brother did not have to suffer the same humiliation that I did in seventh grade. Back then, we had no experience on which to draw, and little (or big, as it were) Luke Fergus showed us a thing or two about the game of basketball and, in the process, decimated our team.

  There is more to the story.

  We finished that seventh grade campaign with a discouraging 3–7 record. Our eighth-grade season would not bring much success either, but we did exact our revenge against one Luke Fergus in the very gym where I would later watch my brother Tom play. That afternoon, we carried our unvictorious eighth-grade record proudly into the Kaws’ arena, hoping to avenge the loss of the year before. I was fearful of another thrashing at the hands of young master Fergus and his comrades, but my trepidation was unwarranted. My rival had already done all of his growing. And most of my teammates (author not included) had done some maturing of their own in the previous year. As mentioned, testosterone remained a foreign substance within my own body. At five foot nine and perhaps ninety-five pounds, I was barely considered a full-fledged human. But my coaches had noticed that I had developed some hint of ball-handling ability and had (mercifully, for all those viewing one of our games) moved me to point guard. I learned a lot about the game of basketball that year—mostly that being responsible for advancing the ball down the court every time is not an enviable task. I learned one more thing that night in Perry—that muscles and hairy armpits do not guarantee success on the basketball court.

  My team was a well-oiled machine. For one evening. We shrugged off the pressure of (what seemed like) a brutally hostile environment and played with a fierceness not previously seen (by our parents). Late in the game, we made some key plays and walked off the court with our first, and only, win of the year. I finished the game with twenty-three points, a career high that would stand until my junior year of high school, and a tremendous feeling of satisfaction. I knew that I had overcome my pre-pubescent lack of athletic ability and had beaten the five-foot-ten behemoth that was Luke Fergus. All he really had going for him was muscles, zits, and the need for daily deodorant use. In the end, those may have helped him with the eighth-grade girls, but they did not make him a lock for success on the court.

  There is probably something profound to be found in the above tale—a relation to my current situation, perhaps. Maybe something about how I will overcome rejection by the Hawks, just like I helped my Jefferson West Middle School Tigers overcome the Perry Kaws so long ago. But that seems like a stretch. Right now, I am more concerned with figuring out my next basketball destination.

  When I arrived home from Atlanta, I had time enough to walk through the door before being greeted with a note that said, “Call Keith. Urgent.” I made the call. My agent told me that a Spanish team was interested in securing my basketball services for the remainder of the year. He did not know the details exactly but wondered if I would be interested. Since I am always open to the prospect of a trans-Atlantic trip on short notice, I assented and told him to gather some information.

  I awoke the next morning ready to contemplate my future, still trying to convince myself that, since I had never actually possessed it, I had not actually lost $30,000 because of the turn of events that had prevented the signing of a second ten-day contract with the Hawks. Keith rang in with news that the Spanish team in question was headquartered in a town just outside of Barcelona. The team’s situation was an odd one. Their American player, Maceo Baston, had left Spain under the pretense that his father was sick. I was shocked at what I was hearing—Maceo Baston is not spelled Macy O’Baston. All this time I’d thought he was an Irishman. My whole worldview was shaken.

  The team, Joventut (that’s SJUE-ven-too, for those playing at home), had not heard from Baston in about three weeks and needed a replacement. Keith’s Spanish contact told him that they wanted to sign me to a month’s contract, with the understanding that I would be signed through the end of the year as soon as the team got out from under Baston�
�s contract. If for some reason this did not happen, the team would pay me an additional sum of money at the end of one month and send me home. I considered this treasure trove of information and spoke with Keith again that night. Because the team was asking me to go on faith regarding the balance of the year, he thought he might be able to negotiate an out clause, which would allow me to return to the United States if an NBA team called in the next month. He told me to think about it for the night and then tell him in the morning. He woke me up on Sunday morning prepared to talk to the Spaniards. He wanted to know if I was willing to go, contingent upon him getting this out clause. The Spanish would want me to leave on Monday morning, so decision time was impending. As soon as I hung up with Keith, Coach Bill Bayno called from Yakima. We had spoken earlier in the week about me returning to my CBA team. At the time, I had asked about the situation there. He told me that he really “had a good rotation” and “felt good about the chemistry” that he had. Essentially, he told me that the team was doing fine without me. I can understand that; I do have a history of really mucking up the chemistry of teams, with my me-first, everyone-else-can-go-to-hell attitude.

  When I spoke with Bayno Sunday morning, he reiterated what he had said earlier in the week. He told me that he might be able to “squeeze me in” but that he really “liked the rotation right now.” Okay, loud and clear. I am not wanted in Yakima. Got it. I left the conversation with Bayno feeling pretty good about a trip to sunny Barcelona. But, after some thought and discussion, I decided that I could leave the country only if I retained the ability to return if called by an NBA team. I told Keith that if he could negotiate an NBA buyout clause until March 1, I would go. (In theory, if an NBA team such as the Hawks called, I could buy out my contract by returning some of my salary to the team and leave at any time, but only until March 1—differing from Keith’s proposal, which would have given us only one chance to leave: on March 1 specifically.) And so I waited.

  Let us review. I had said that if the team agreed to my terms, I would be willing to leave for Spain the next day. (Remember that half my worldly possessions were in a motel room in Yakima.) If Keith called back and said that the team had given the plan the go-ahead, I would be bound by my word to leave. I was a little nervous when I picked up the phone. Unfortunately (or maybe fortunately—we’ll see), the team’s front office did not like our proposal. No beach time in Barcelona for me, apparently.

  February 13

  The UPS man had no idea of the effect his delivery would have on my life. I was outside playing with the family dog when his magical brown truck made an appearance. (I say magical because a visit from the UPS truck is always cause for excitement out in gravel-road land.) He carried an overnight letter from Atlanta—my paycheck from the Hawks. I promptly began trying to guess what would be to the right of “Pay to the order of…” Since the contents of that envelope ultimately influenced my next destination, I will be forthright. I’d signed a ten-day contract worth $30,150. As I tore open my prize, I guessed—pessimistically—that I would end up with $20,000 after taxes. Realistically, I thought I would get $22,000 or $23,000. (Note that I thought that this check might be the only real money I would make for the year—my few weeks in the CBA did not augment my bank account significantly.) When I looked at the check itself, the first number that leapt off the page was $3,500. I thought, “Oh, they are going to pay me in installments. That’s not as exciting, but whatever.” Not so much. That was the first deduction—some kind of NBA escrow penalty, which has something to do with the NBA’s luxury tax. I do not understand the ins and outs of it; I know only that I will never see that money again. My gaze next fell to the net pay line at the bottom of the stub. I nearly had an aneurysm: $13,800. What the #*%@? I felt like someone had kicked me square in the genitals. I actually had to lie down and put on some music so that I could digest the news.

  I had spoken the day before with both my agent and with Bill Bayno. (I should seriously consider employing a secretary.) Bayno had called in the morning and asked me when I was coming back to Yakima. This confused me; I mumbled something regarding the disdain he had shown for my return. He told me that the team had wanted me back all along and that he had just needed some time to sort things out. Like a battered wife, I decided then that I would tentatively plan to return to the Northwest the next Monday, contingent on Keith’s approval. But as soon as I got off the phone with B.B., Keith called from somewhere in the world. (I think the man is actually in his office about thirty minutes a day.) He had just spoken with the CBA office to find out if the Sun Kings had any hold on me. In the CBA’s somewhat questionable view, Yakima did in fact have my “rights” until that very day; the team had been informed of its rights that morning. (Which explained Bayno’s call to me and subsequent explanation/ groveling session, as well as why he had earlier been pushing me to go to Spain—he did not really want me back, but he didn’t really want anyone else in the CBA to have me either.) So I was bound to Yakima and, unbeknownst to me, had been so since my ten-day contract with the Hawks expired. (Evidently this is why people always say to read the fine print on a contract.) Keith mentioned offhandedly that the team in Spain was now willing to guarantee the remainder of the year and was probably willing to pay the buyout to which the CBA was entitled. (Because I was still property of the Yakima Sun Kings, a foreign team would have to pay $25,000 to get my “rights.”) I thought nothing of it at the time, because my mind had committed to finishing my exile in Yakima as best I could. But then the UPS truck came.

  I realize that $13,800 is a lot of money for ten days’ work. However, it is not all that much if it has to last a person an entire year. I also realize that I was somehow mistakenly put in the Rupert Murdoch tax bracket and that I will be refunded some of the $10,500 I contributed to the state and federal governments. But I don’t enjoy giving out fourteen-month interest-free loans. Part of the motivation behind a return to Yakima was the possibility of another ten-day NBA contract. I thought at the time that two of them would make for a good year’s work. And if I could secure another ten-day, it was possible that a team might sign me through the end of the season. It could happen—someone might be desperate for replacements after his entire team contracted the Ebola virus.

  That Friday night I was torn. But I thought I should find out what my options were, so Saturday morning I called Keith to have him find out if the Spanish team was still interested and would be willing to pay the CBA buyout. He told me that I had to decide if I would be willing to go if that were the case—that we would have to commit to that course of action if the team assented. (I really don’t know why he continued to act with such gravitas toward the situation. I was starting to feel like I was in the Old West, with all the word-giving. Keith’s seriousness made me think that backing out on the Spanish team was going to result in them sending Boba Fett after me.) I thought about it some more, and some more, and some more. (I do have an engineering degree, remember, and we engineering types are not prone to snap judgments.) On Sunday afternoon, I told Keith that if the team would buy out my CBA contract and would still guarantee my contract through the end of the season, I would go to Barcelona. I justified my decision with the thought that the trip to Spain would allow me more freedom in the summer, at which point I can do what I want with regard to my basketball career. If I feel that the NBA is still worth chasing, I can do that without feeling like I should be a responsible human and take money offered to me from European teams. And so, I waited for a phone call. Again. It came, Keith told me they had agreed, and I got ready to go to Barcelona to join the team I had spurned a week earlier.

  February 10

  There was one problem with my theoretical trip to Spain: most of my possessions were still in Yakima, Washington. Because of some further bureaucratic hassles regarding the transfer of my rights from the CBA, I had three days after the end of negotiations to prepare for a change of address. (My new Spanish team was able to buy my contract at half price because Coach Bayno—true to
what he had told me at the outset of my stint in Yakima—waived the team’s share of the buyout. Cheers to him.) I thought the extra time might allow me to have some important items shipped overnight from Washington—my midgets and amputees porn collection, my lube, and all the rest. I spoke with the team trainer, Kyla McDaniel, whom I had found to be one of the few coherent employees of the Sun Kings, and told herabout my problem. She put me in touch with the team’s front office. It appeared to me that the process had been set into fluid motion. I wanted only a few items sent, namely, some of the limited clothing options I own. My plan called for someone to go to my motel room and call me, whereupon I could direct that person regarding the items to pack.

  When I finally got the call, I heard the friendly voice of Paul the Bus Driver—the utility infielder who had loaned/sold us the Chevy Malibu. Paul the B.D. is a great guy, but he is a little, well, old and isn’t exactly detail-oriented. I asked him if he was in my motel room with my things. He said, “Well, I’ve got your stuff, but someone just threw it all in three trash bags and gave it to me, so I’ll have to dig through them to find what you want.” Resigned to my fate, I told him what I wanted and hoped for the best. Amazingly, he came through. The items I needed arrived Wednesday morning, boxed up just as ordered. Score another one for the old folks.

  I spoke with the general manager of DKV Joventut on Wednesday. She told me that my flight was the next morning at 10:15 A.M., informed me that I would be flying business class across the ocean—producing an inner cheer from me—and wished me a good trip. She e-mailed an itinerary, which I quickly printed before rushing to the bookstore and loading up on the requisite guides to Barcelona and Spain. I retired for the night in an uncharacteristically positive state, emboldened by my previous European experience.

  It snowed that night, so after readying myself for the trip in the morning, I checked Delta Airlines’ Web site at about 7:10 A.M. to make sure my flight would not be delayed or canceled. My subsequent inner dialogue follows:

 

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