by Paul Shirley
Only four players who travel with the team are older than me. The Bulls have drafted some chronologically challenged players in the last few years, leaving them with a raft of players who are just above legal drinking age. I can’t claim to be all that young—at least not in the world of professional sports—but twenty-six hardly seems old. These guys who were drafted three or four years ago remain younger than me but obviously are no longer rookies, so they sit on the bus while I and the other “rookies” haul their bags around. Under normal circumstances, if someone four-fifths my age told me to do something as menial as carry his bag, I wouldn’t even have to consider it a valid request. In fact, I wouldn’t even have to speak. I could give a quick cock of the eyebrow and he would rethink his query.
A person with a small capacity for imagination would now probably say something like, “Well, Paul, what are you going to do when you someday have a boss that is younger than you?” First, I would reply that there is about a 75 percent chance that the questioner would receive the GFY treatment mentioned earlier in this entry. If not, I would respond to the actual question with the following: if I were ever in a position where it was contained in my job description to carry another human’s bags, it would mean one of two things: (1) I had sustained a massive brain injury and was lucky to get work release from the mental institution in order to work as a bellman for Embassy Suites, or (2) I had said to hell with it all and had begun a life as a Sherpa somewhere in the Himalayas.
Really, though, the main issue is not so much whether I am a rookie or whether I have to cart bags around. I resent the imperious looks from players who I know to be complete losers, both in the literal, basketball sense and in the more general, parlance-of-our-time sense. I think it speaks to the reason the Bulls are so bad that the players on the team actually have the gall to ask another human being to carry their bags. A large portion of me wants to tell Tyson Chandler the following: “Look, Tyson, I know you think you hung the moon because you are seven foot one and can jump. But you didn’t work hard to gain that ability. You were given that. Up to now, it seems to me, you have squandered it. You don’t know how to play basketball, and you certainly have no idea how to help your team win. Until you do understand either of those things, you hold nothing over me. I know, I know. I have not played much in the NBA. But check out my past. I do understand the game. I know what it takes to win basketball games. I can’t move like you, and I’ll never be able to, but I will always know that I earned this, while it was given to you.”
But I don’t say it, because I am on a ten-day contract and Tyson Chandler could easily make it known that he doesn’t want me around, and off I would go.
It should be evident that I am questioning the reasoning behind this NBA commitment of mine. Am I really enjoying myself? I am making $3,750 a day to play a game. Adjectives used to describe that pay scale include exorbitant, absurd, and ludicrous. The money I have made playing basketball is going to give me a nice jump start on life. And let’s not forget that I will receive this jump start based on my ability to play a game. I know of few people who would refuse such a gig. My “job” is a better one than the jobs held by most everyone I know. I think, though, that certain things remain true, no matter what one’s station in life. I hear from almost everyone that one’s colleagues make a job tolerable. I don’t like most of my colleagues much. This isn’t quite how I envisioned life in the professional ranks.
When I was a kid, the highlight of any trip to “town” (Topeka, which was all of fifteen miles from my childhood home) was an excursion to the library. My brothers and I weren’t allowed to watch a lot of television, so much of our entertainment was provided by books. At some point, I got hooked on biographies. I loved baseball, so the natural progression led me to the section of biographies about baseball players. As I mowed through books about Cobb, Mantle, and DiMaggio, I took note of their lifestyle. At the time, I was sure that I would one day play professional baseball and assumed that my life would be like theirs had been—filled with postgame dinners with teammates who, like me, loved baseball more than anything else. I think this colored my view of the life of a professional athlete. My affinity for baseball was lost at around the same time as my face’s first encounter with a pitched ball; as I improved at basketball, I began to dream about the NBA. When I thought of life in the pros, I assumed that when I got there I would find people just like me—whatever that means. I thought we would play games, congratulate one another after triumphs, console one another after defeats…and then all go out to dinner. Instead, I found a bunch of angry guys interested in dumb girls, jewelry, and the advancement of their own careers. The ’49 Yankees this ain’t.
March 17
With my time in Chicago off to a rousing 0–5 start, the Bulls management decided they were thirsty for more of my brand of applause, ass-slappage, and random jump shots, so they signed me to another ten-day contract. This only means more money for all the illegitimate Shirleys roaming the earth. And if they’re happy, I’m happy.
When the Bulls signed me to a second ten-day contract they also signed a point guard named Jannero Pargo to bolster the backcourt. When we left on a trip to (editorial comment: picture me sitting at my computer, face screwed up in concentration as I attempt to remember what city was our destination, when a cramp in my hamstring sends me bolting out of my chair—hilarious to be sure, so long as you’re not me, stretching and furiously trying to rub the rear of my left leg. Then, not so funny. The cramp, I’m sure, was a direct result of the practice I endured earlier today, but more on that later) Cleveland, Pargo asked me for a ride to the airport. I groaned inwardly, having been through the routine before, but couldn’t come up with a legitimate excuse fast enough and was relegated to taxi duty.
As I sat in my car outside his room at the Residence Inn, preparing for honk number three, I was reminded of another reason I dislike basketball players so much. They’re so goddamned unreliable. If I weren’t one myself, I would recommend against ever putting oneself in a position wherein one has to deal with them. Eventually, my charge showed himself and we set off for the airport, already behind schedule. The conversation was a dull one; at first it dealt mainly with what we thought of our respective lots with the Bulls, but the lack of material with which we had to work made the ride a long one. I made a valiant effort, though, and we kept up the sparse discourse until we arrived at the terminal where our 727 waited.
The ride back to the hotel the next night was another matter. I had been dreading the trip since fifteen minutes prior to landing—the moment when I recalled that uncomfortable conversational work remained ahead of me. I had little time to prepare, but I did come up with some material I thought I could work in if things got stale. We had exhausted both “What do you think of Coach Skiles?” and “What problems do you see with the team?” by the time we got on the highway, so I knew the next twenty minutes would be long ones.
I’m not above giving someone the cold shoulder. If I’m on an airplane next to some mustachioed, 250-pound woman, I feel no obligation to carry on a conversation. But if I am in the car with a teammate, someone with whom I probably ought to develop some kind of bond in order to make travel at least tolerable, I feel I should make some sort of effort. Unfortunately, we had developed fully the obvious home town and college inquiries on the ride to the airport. (Pargo was from Arkansas. I was not.) I had to stretch the imagination a bit. We passed a massive car accident, so I asked him if he had ever been in a wreck. His reply: “Yeah.” Okay, press on, Paul, he just needs prompting. “Really? When?” “A while back.” Right, that narrows it down. I was beginning to wonder if you had a time machine. Which would have been amazing. It’s good that we verified that this mishap did in fact occur in the past. Me: “Oh yeah?” Him: “It was back in high school.” Good, good, now we’re going places. We’ve reached back into the memory banks. Keep him warm. “So did anyone get hurt?” “Naw, man, nothing really.” Damnable seat belts! Killing my potential conversation. I
f only someone had been thrown through the windshield, we would have easily had ninety seconds of material. But his car accident had to be boring, so I let the matter die. Johnny Carson I am not. Later, though, Pargo rallied and tried to begin a conversation on his own. His opening volley: “You got any kids?” Not “Are you married?” or “Do you have a girlfriend?” Just “You got any kids?”
I reached a new career high last night, scoring six whole points in our loss at Cleveland. I say loss, but I mean drubbing. It was ugly. I played a little in the first quarter but came out quickly because of an early missed box-out. After the game got out of hand, I was inserted to do cleanup. Good times. I actually played pretty well in my garbage time, and my mates and I kept the score at about the twenty-seven point deficit at which it stood when we took the reins. Mission accomplished. In addition to my NBA scoring high, I also dished out my first ever NBA assist. Good job, me.
When I was informed that I would get to stay in Chicago for a second ten-day session, I was told that if I wanted the team to extend my contract through the end of the season (after two ten-days, their only recourse, other than sending me home), I would have to start making more shots. When given the above message, I was coming off a game in New Jersey in which I had played about six minutes and managed to get off three long jumpers, none of which felt the need to go where they were intended to go. It’s not cool to tell a basketball player, “Your future is dependent on whether you make jump shots.” The statement may be true; it just is not said. It’s similar to telling a bowler, “You really just have to roll a strike here.” He would say, “Well, dude, I’m going to try, but I can’t guarantee success.” I would say the same. As in, believe it or not, I never try to miss—sometimes it just happens.
If someone who watched me play in college were to read this, he would be confused. When I was at Iowa State, I rarely—if ever—shot the ball from outside the lane. My team had plenty of players casting up shots from everywhere on the floor; we didn’t need one more. I’d always been a good shooter, so my new role was a change for me, but I was willing to accept my new station in life, if only as a way to get in the game. As an unheralded non-recruit coming out of high school, I had to be creative; it seemed to be that playing really hard did the trick, so I stuck with that, maybe for too long. When I decided to attempt this professional basketball thing, I decided that I would do it only if it was fun for me. A big part of that newfound philosophy was playing the game the way I wanted to play it, which included shooting the ball from the outside more. A lot more. Turns out I am pretty good at it. However, I am not necessarily a shooter, in the basketball sense of the word. I don’t stand around on the perimeter hoping for the ball to come my way so I can chuck it at the rim. I do shoot if I am open, but I think I have a good feel for when that is the best thing for the team’s chances. It can’t be every time; I think (or used to think) that there exist situations that call for suppression of one’s own glory for the good of the team. It turns out that not everyone agrees with me. Even Coach Skiles tells me to shoot more. I’m still learning about this shooter’s mentality; if I miss a couple from the outside, I usually think I ought to make a layup before resuming the exterior onslaught. Again, I don’t find much acceptance of this theory. “Zero for fifteen from there? Shoot the sixteenth one.” And so with nothing to lose and everything to gain, I have decided on a new approach: to hell with it, it’s going up. The only way to make more is to shoot more.
I mentioned that we Chicago Bulls (still has a nice ring to it, even at 18–49 for the year) had a rough practice today. I don’t know if I have been as tired after a basketball practice since college. Skiles was irked by our performance the night before and displayed it with his choice of a practice plan. Rebounding drills, running, scrimmages, more running. Fun stuff. Due to the regimen of psychological and physical torture I was fed in college, I thrive in such a situation. It is as if I’ve been in the Marines. We survivors of the Floyd-Eustachy regimes all had our own personal four-year course of basic training (five for me), and nothing we could encounter at this point could possibly be as hard as what we endured then. It’s an empowering feeling. I just hate that those coaches were right when they said we would thank them later.
Eventually, the Bulls’ practice devolved into multiple short scrimmages sandwiched around sprints for the losing team. It worked out that I was put on the day’s first team, which was chosen not so much because of its aggregate talent as much as for its capacity to listen and play according to the wishes of Coach Skiles. My teammates were Kirk Hinrich, fellow newbies Ronald Dupree and Linton Johnson, and Antonio Davis. We were opposed by all comers—Jannero Pargo, Eddie Robinson, Marcus Fizer (who was practicing with something of a chip on his shoulder, obviously, as he had been told he had played his last game as a Bull), along with Tyson Chandler and Eddy Curry. Their team had about six times the talent of ours, but it could not overcome the adversity of the tough practice and the infighting caused by blame being thrown about within the team. We kept beating them. I played quite well, even making a buzzer beater from way out to win one for my team. It was intoxicating. On one hand, I was exhausted and wanted to retire to the showers ASAP. On the other, I never wanted the practice to end. I had almost forgotten the feeling could exist.
It should be remembered that I am talking about feeling invigorated about the basketball I was playing with one of the worst teams in the NBA, in a practice, on an intrasquad team that was something of a false first string, with less than a month left in a disaster of a season. Some would say that it is refreshing that I can still find a basketball high under those circumstances; others would say that I need to find some perspective and then call them when it actually matters. I’m not sure who would be right. But it’s important to remember that I have never really been a part of an NBA team before. I’ve been marginally involved—as little more than practice fodder with possible candidacy for occasional mop-up duty—but never to the point where the coaches on the sidelines said things to me with their eyes actually focused on mine and not on the wall behind me. It’s kind of nice.
April 2
Soon after my feel-good practice in Chicago we played a game in Indianapolis against the Pacers. I was inserted into the game early, but my involvement did little to stop a twenty-point deficit from building throughout the contest. In the second half, Coach Skiles became disenchanted with the effort of his main charges and threw several of us non-starters into the fray with around nine minutes remaining in the third quarter. At that point, we were down by around thirty; our insertion was Skiles’ way of proving a point to his thoroughbreds. I played the next sixteen or so minutes without incident. I didn’t necessarily play well, but I didn’t look completely overwhelmed—which is about two-thirds of the battle, in my mind. I scored a basket or two and got a rebound now and then, but did nothing spectacular, other than guard Ron Artest well a few times. (For some reason, my ability to do so came as a surprise to the coaching staff. Sometimes I wonder if NBA coaches even watch practice.)
With about five minutes remaining in the game and my team on defense, I noticed that the Pacers’ Austin Croshere was going to have an unimpeded path to the basket. He had just set a screen for a guard on his team and was in the midst of rolling, uncovered, toward the lane. I was defending someone on the opposite side of the lane from Croshere and rushed over to attempt to provide assistance through taking a charge, blocking a shot, or some other heroic maneuver. By the time I found my way to his area of the court, he had caught the ball and was well on his way to laying the ball in the basket. Unfortunately, I arrived late on the scene. I managed only to impede Croshere’s path enough to force a terrific collision between his knee and the left side of my torso. I went down in a heap immediately, sprawled in fairly significant pain. My first thought was, Wow, that hurt. But at least I won’t be expected to participate in this bloodbath any longer. This seems like a fairly honorable way out of the extreme fatigue that has been plaguing me for the last five
minutes while I tried to make it look like I cared whether we lost by twenty or forty. Next, I had flashbacks to time spent watching sporting events with my father and remembered how idiotic players seem when they roll around on the ground for minutes at a time, only to realize that they had merely had the wind knocked out of them or had twisted an ankle. So I told myself, Pull it together and let the trainer get you off the floor. Don’t make a big deal out of what is probably just a bruised rib. I allowed the trainers to help me to the locker room, where X-rays were taken of my midsection. Initial indications were that no fracture was evident. Because of this, when people in the locker room asked, I attempted to shrug off any concern for my well-being. I said things like, “I’ll be okay, they think it’s just a bruised rib.” In a fair amount of pain, I showered and then found a spot on a training table where I could lie down until it was time for the team to leave the arena for the bus to the airport. I was moving around without any major discomfort, and all my vital signs were good, so there seemed to be no reason for extreme concern.