Can I Keep My Jersey?

by Paul Shirley

  Our game in Fresno was quite a spectacle. When we arrived at the gym, I asked a janitor if he could find a wet mop (for the uninitiated, a wet mop is a dust mop with damp towels wrapped around it, used on a gym floor to pick up dust and unwanted detritus). I told him that if he could find one, I would be willing to mop their sorry excuse for a basketball court. I didn’t actually expect him to make me do the mopping; my sarcastic remark was meant to imply that someone ought to get that done. After a wait of entirely too long, he reappeared with a mop-and-bucket combo of the sort used to clean up vomit trails in elementary lunch rooms. I told him I didn’t think we actually needed to disinfect the wood, but he didn’t really understand me. With no other option availed me, I set about sweeping the filthy floor myself, with only a large dust mop I found in a corner at my disposal. (Reason #487 I’d Rather Be In the NBA: no sweeping of the floor by participating players prior to the game.)

  About halfway through my janitorial internship, I noticed one of the opposing players shooting around in street clothes. After admonishing him for befouling my freshly cleaned area, I asked if he would be playing that evening, thinking he was perhaps injured. He misunderstood and replied that he didn’t know; it looked like there might be a players’ strike, as no one on his team had been paid for five weeks. I told him I supported his socialist-leaning tendencies, and went about my work.

  At about 6:15 P.M. (tip-off set for 7), we took a uniformed, on-court appearance by the opposition to mean that the strike had been broken. (I learned that most of the players had chickened out when the coach asked their intentions in the locker room.) A few minutes later, we were told that the game would be moved back to 7:30 because the referees would be late. Eventually, the officials appeared and, magically, tip-off was reset for 7 P.M., to the joy of the fifty-five impatient souls in the stands. We went about performing a quick warm-up for the game. With four minutes still remaining on the time-until-the-game clock, while we were doing layups as a team, we heard, “Ladies and gentlemen, would you please rise for the national anthem,” which sent us scurrying for the sidelines, a bit less warmed up than we would have liked. The game was played, but with a few minor hiccups. For example, every time he scored, one of Fresno’s players, a guy named Randy Holcomb, was announced as Ray Holcomb. Also, it was brought to my attention late in the game that a runner had been sent from the scorer’s table to the home team’s bench in order to find out another player’s last name. We lost to the Heatwave, but at least the floor was clean.

  February 1

  I will now set about destroying any and all remaining credibility I ever had as a basketball player, or even as a human being.

  On a recent wintry evening in Kansas City, we played a game against our ABA arch rival, the Long Beach Jam. The game was highly anticipated because Dennis Rodman was to suit up and play for Long Beach. For a change, the attendance register tipped out at over a thousand. In fact, Hale Arena was sold out.

  I was not as excited about the matchup as were our fans. I was tired from our recent road trip. I am bored with the ABA and am beginning to wonder if I will ever get back to the NBA. The night’s events did nothing to bolster my self-confidence.

  I air-balled the first free throw I ever attempted in interscholastic competition. Seventh grade. Oskaloosa Middle School. I listened to Vanilla Ice on the bus en route. I was excited and nervous about my first “real” basketball game; I had looked forward to the day for months. When I stepped to the free-throw line for the first time, I did so with confidence. That confidence quickly dissipated when I tossed up a shot that found no rim, net, or backboard—the dreaded air ball.

  I hadn’t air-balled a free throw since. That is, until the game with Long Beach, when I did it three times. Out of four attempts. In one game. The probability of such an event is ridiculous. I would say, conservatively, that I have attempted 1,500–2,000 free throws in competition in my basketball career. Meaning that—prior to this late meltdown—the chances of me sending up an air ball on a free throw were something like 1 in 1,500.

  I don’t know that I can even describe how it all happened, but I will try. It was late in the game and I was tired, but that is hardly an excuse. I had played fairly well considering the long road trip we had finished only the day before. It was a close game when I stepped to the line late in the fourth quarter for my first free throw of the game. (An odd occurrence, actually—I spend a fair amount of time of my ABA experience getting hacked and chopped near the basket.) I took my customary two dribbles, bent slightly at the knees, and then watched with dismay as the shot I had just released fell well short of the basket. I looked around to check for another sign of the impending apocalypse, took a deep breath, and prepared for my second shot. Determined not to repeat the event, I launched that effort with gusto. It missed off the back of the rim and I jogged back on defense, ready to forget the entire thing had happened.

  I found myself back at the line soon after. It should be noted that I have had some struggles with free-throw shooting this year. Free throws have never caused me a great amount of stress in the past; throughout my career I’ve been an average-to-decent free-throw shooter. This year has been different. The lingering effects of the bizarre shoulder injury I suffered last spring caused my shot to develop an undesired in-motion hitch. That, combined with a recent ability to obsess in a Howard Hughes–like way over the possible repercussions of a few missed shots, has twisted my mental view regarding the difficulty of a free throw. My mind seems to be convinced that it is a very challenging shot, which is simply not the case. (Seriously, free throws aren’t that difficult. Professional basketball players do not air-ball free throws. If I randomly selected a child with Down syndrome, blindfolded him, sent him to the free-throw line, and told him to really try to make four free throws, I would wager that he would do better than to air-ball three of them. If I were to add a wheel-chair and subtract an arm, we might be discussing three air balls out of four attempts.) However, my unstable little brain’s skewed view of the relative difficulty of an unguarded basketball shot hardly justifies air-balled free throws.

  The previous paragraph played through my mind just prior to my second pair of free throws. I told myself to relax and shoot the ball as I normally would. Result: another wounded duck that traced a smooth arc ending well short of the basket. I didn’t know what to do. The crowd had forgiven one transgression; now the rumblings of disbelief were becoming noticeable. I tried to block out the external chaos and concentrated, simply, on making a goddamned free throw. I was unsuccessful. Yet another air ball.

  Whatever the cause of my complete loss of motor ability, I was not pleased with myself afterward. One would think that I, as a semi-functional adult, would be well equipped to deal with an air-balled free throw at this stage—at least better equipped than the thirteen-year-old version of me who last violated the aesthetics of the game so wantonly. However, I do not recall bursting into tears after that seventh-grade game.

  I could be wrong, but I think my inability to shake off an air ball points to a larger problem. It is a game, after all. But perhaps I take this game, and myself, a little too seriously. I feel like I should have been able to laugh off the first occurrence in that game against Long Beach. Maybe, to show I was a good sport, I could have shot the next one with my left hand. I didn’t. I actively tried to recover. In doing so, I became more uptight about the fact that I had just air-balled a free throw, which obviously didn’t help me make the next few. I think there’s a lesson in there somewhere.

  I woke up the next morning legitimately thinking that I had dreamed the whole thing. I wish that were true; instead I will just treat it as such. The good news, as I told several people, is that I now have a new benchmark for a bad night. Even after the worst game I ever play, at least, I can say that I…am not a one-armed kid with Down syndrome.

  February 12

  Day 1. Location: Fresno, California.

  My phone rang at 6:30 A.M. My first thought was, “Shit. I forgo
t to turn off my phone last night.” My second was, “Keith must have something important to say to call this early.” (Actually, that was a lie. My second thought was, “I have to pee,” but nobody wants to hear about my bodily function needs.) Keith was calling because my former team in Spain, Joventut, wanted to inquire about potentially purchasing my basketball-playing services again.

  It may seem counterintuitive that I would consider leaving the country to take a basketball job in Europe. After all, I have dedicated most of this year to the hope that an NBA team would find room on its roster for me. To give up on that now might seem folly. However, since I haven’t been called up yet, it is possible that it isn’t going to happen. The $700 a week I am making here in the ABA is not going to provide much justification for this lifestyle. At some point, I probably need to make some money playing basketball.

  As we pulled out of the Fresno Holiday Inn parking lot for the last time this year, my brain was already in high gear. I was happy that we would have no further contact with the Fresno Heatwave; we had played them four times in the previous two weeks and I was getting entirely too familiar with their personnel. Our encounters were becoming near-intrasquad scrimmages. (I should note that I will miss the baskets at their gym. My last two nights there netted thirty-one and thirty-two-point outings, respectively.)

  Keith called again as we set out on our bisecting journey of California, final destination the U.S.-Mexico border and a game the following night in Tijuana. He told me that Joventut was willing to offer $15,000 for one month of gainful basketball employment. Last year, it was $20,000 a month, guaranteed for a four-month stint. This year’s offer was insultingly low. Of course, I was half an hour into a seven-hour bus ride through the desert, so I probably would have seriously considered indentured servitude to be a viable option. In the end, I told Keith to take a harder line with regard to my salary.

  By somewhere north of Los Angeles, I resolved to go to Spain if the team was willing to guarantee three months at $20,000 per. Some of the impetus for my decision came from Tim Floyd, who told me that the Hornets were not likely to sign anyone else this season. I knew that my best chance for a contract was probably with the team with which I had gone to training camp. If that team had no interest, my NBA fate might be sealed for the year. Because I like to maintain the illusion of being a stand-up guy, I walked to the front of the bus and told Coach Wedman of my dilemma. He became appropriately flustered but was supportive of any decision I had to make.

  We stopped somewhere between LA and San Diego for a practice at a Boys and Girls Club. After our brief workout, we worked with some kids to give back to the community or whatever the appropriate cliché is. While we played with some of the ragtag bunch, our most, um, aggressive (some would say “dirty”—not me) player, my good friend Derek Grimm, managed to unwittingly knock down an eight-year-old who had just shot the ball. The poor kid left the court in tears. It had no bearing at all on my decision-making process.

  When we got back on the bus, I called Keith once more. He had not learned much else; by this time, it was nearing two in the morning in Spain, so we resolved to pick up the matter in the morning. While we spoke, I wondered how much of the information I was receiving got from the Spanish team to me in correct form. They probably were actually offering me a two-year deal worth $14.

  Day 2. Location: Very Near Mexico, California.

  My day began, not with a conversation with my mother or my girlfriend, but with a talk with my agent. (Of course, that comparison is an invalid one due to my complete lack of a dating life at this point. What a glamorous lifestyle I lead.) Keith informed me that Joventut had counteroffered with a two-month guarantee—exactly what I had feared. Since I had resolved to go to Spain if offered a three-month contract and to stay if offered only one, it was fitting that Joventut had offered two.

  What followed was a day of flux. (Derek’s term, not mine. I’m not that creative.) I waffled back and forth. By the afternoon, I was shopping online for a flight back to Kansas City that night before being reined in by, of course, Keith. I do not know what I would do without him, although the term “nervous breakdown” comes to mind. He told me to relax, to play in the night’s game with Tijuana, and to quit worrying so much, as the decision would become easier as we gained more information. Seriously, he’s a good agent.

  Our game with Tijuana was rather thrilling. I accomplished my main goal of remaining injury-free. (A blown-out knee would have re-moved the Spanish option for sure.) After the requisite controversial call by the referees, Ryan Sears hit the game-winning jump shot, and we managed to get out of Mexico with all of our possessions. It was a good night.

  Day 3. Location: see Day 2.

  Coach Wedman woke me at 7:30 with a knock on my door. He asked me to join him in the hotel lobby for breakfast. I donned some clothes and moseyed down as I wondered why the world is united against my quest for sleep. Wedman proceeded to tell me that my confusion had made him realize that it was time for me to get called up to the NBA. He had risen at 5 A.M. and had begun making calls to NBA teams. He had finished six, and promised to get to the remaining twenty-four later in the day. I was taken aback. I was a little disappointed that it had taken my impending departure to light an inspirational fire under him, but I was glad he’d had the revelation, whatever the cause. My only motivation to play in the minor leagues stemmed from a need to get back to the NBA. I certainly wasn’t doing it for the paycheck or the cushy travel schedule. I left breakfast somewhat touched by his kindness.

  When I got back to my room, I called Keith. He told me that Joventut was not going to budge from their two-month offer. I said that I would think it all over and get back to him with a decision fairly soon.

  I wasn’t going to leave for Spain. The team’s reluctance to meet my demands didn’t help its cause, but the real impetus behind my desire to stay was Coach Wedman’s efforts. I don’t want to get too melodramatic, but I will say this: not many people have really believed in my basketball ability over the years. I mean, really believed in it. I’d say the list contains my parents, a few coaches along the way—most notably in high school and AAU—and Keith. Finding another person to add to the list means a lot to me.

  I waited until we arrived back in Kansas City to tell Coach Wedman that I would finish the year in the United States, one way or an-other. He looked really happy, which sort of made me want to cry. (There is no limit to just how emotionally screwed up I am, by the way.) He promised to do all he could to assist in my quest to get back to the NBA.

  February 17

  After confirmation that Scott Wedman was to be my fairy godmother, we traveled to New Jersey for a game in the cavernous Hoop Zone of East Englewood. When I took note of our locker room accommodations, I realized that I was going to be lying when I later used the term “cavernous” to describe the Hoop Zone. Coach Wedman’s pregame talk in the eight-by-eight-foot room we were provided was interrupted when a woman knocked on the door to request use of the bathroom facilities for her daughter. He looked around, said, “Sure, nobody’s going in there,” and held the door for the two of them as they passed through to the next room. Madison Square Garden it was not.

  Our trip to New Jersey began with my team in fine shape. We had just played a back-to-back home set with the Las Vegas Rattlers, so were rather fatigued when we boarded a plane bound for Newark at 11 A.M. on game day. We had won both of the games against a somewhat depleted Las Vegas squad. The Rattlers’ main protagonist and financier, the rapper Master P, had recently departed the scene, taking several of the team’s players with him after learning that a team manager had been embezzling the money he was supposed to be routing to the players. Fittingly, the team’s uniforms had also disappeared. To combat this, we were instructed to bring both our home and away jerseys to the first game of the pair; in case the opposition couldn’t drum up some apparel, they would wear whatever we did not, which would have—I’m confident—really upped their professionalism in the eyes of thos
e spectating. The Rattlers were able to secure uniforms of some sort, so the intrasquad-scrimmage look never came to be, thankfully. After two games under those dubious circumstances, we were looking forward to a relaxing and problem-free journey to New Jersey. (The previous was, of course, meant to be sarcastic. However, we did have cause for some optimism. Supposedly, the team in New Jersey had signed two NBA veterans who were hoping to keep the dream alive, so it at least seemed that the team still existed, which, in the ABA, is reason for a rose-colored worldview.)

  After we got off the bus at the Hoop Zone, I resisted the urge to try out the attached batting cages and followed my teammates inside. I noted the broomball game going on behind the check-in desk while we were guided to the gym by, well, no one. With an hour to go before tip-off, I took in a few minutes of a pickup game that was pitting some Jews against some Gentiles. (I can only assume that the ones without the little beanies were Gentiles; they wore no identifying headgear.) After gorging myself on bad basketball, I took note of the court on which we would be playing.

  I have seen an impressive number of YMCA and rec-league basketball courts in my time; this one was a conglomeration of all the stereotypes I have come to expect from the format. Our court was separated from the aforementioned interfaith scrimmage by a curtain that dropped from the ceiling. Between the curtain and the lines denoting out-of-bounds were several chairs that served as the teams’ benches and as the scorer’s table. On the opposite side of a court just barely wide enough to support a full three-point arc were two sets of metal bleachers, each with three rows of seats. The three-point lines did not intersect with half-court, but it was close—the distance from the top of the key to the midline was about twelve feet. The floor itself looked a lot like wood but gripped more like ice. Other than that, it was a fine place to hold a professional basketball game.