The Hazards of Good Fortune

by Seth Greenland

  “I’m still trying to make Chevy happen,” Jamal said. “Big ticket stuff takes time.”

  Dag sucked in his cheeks. “You gonna tell me?” In the pause that followed this question, they heard the hum of a television from another room. Dag looked toward the offending sound and yelled, “TURN DOWN THE TV!” before bringing his attention back to the agent.

  “I talked to Church yesterday,” Jamal said.

  As the coach and general manager of the team, Church Scott was the man responsible for not only guiding the players on the court every night but determining which ones were worth what amount of money.

  “What did he say?”

  There began a discordant roar of what sounded uncannily like a pneumatic drill run through an amplifier. Dag looked over at his chef standing at the blender. The chef smiled apologetically. The racket made it too loud to talk. After what seemed an eternity the chef turned the machine off and poured the contents into a pint glass which he handed to Dag who immediately placed it on the counter.

  “Yo, man,” he said to the chef, “Would you mind giving us a little privacy?” The chef nodded and departed.

  “I want you to hear me out before you respond,” Jamal said.

  “What the fuck did he say?”

  “He wants to win a title, Dag.”

  “We all want to win a title.”

  “The man needs flexibility under the salary cap.”

  “I want the max deal allowable under the union agreement, Jamal. Five years, a hundred and twenty-five million.”

  As loud as the kitchen had been, that’s how quiet it was now. The only sound was coming from one of the several large screen televisions in the house which members of Dag’s entourage were still watching. No one had lowered the volume.

  Dag shouted, “I SAID TURN DOWN THE DAMN TV!”

  He stared at the smaller man, waiting. The offending noise abated slightly.

  “Then let me cut to the chase,” Jamal said, delaying the inevitable.

  “Damn, man, spit it out.”

  The agent stroked his smooth chin as if considering the most delicate way to impart his information. He bit his lip, rubbed his nose. These delaying tactics were too much for Dag. “Come on, Jamal!”

  “Ain’t gonna be no max deal,” the agent blurted.

  “Church said that?”

  “Basically.”

  “How much did he offer?”

  “Four years guaranteed, and at your age that’s amazing.”

  “For how much?”

  “Ten million a year,” like it was the greatest news imaginable.

  “He can’t be serious.”

  “You’re coming off a torn ACL; you turn thirty-three this summer—come on, Dag, forty million guaranteed?” The part of his job that entailed begging spoiled athletes to accept a paltry forty million dollars for their services was not something Jamal enjoyed.

  “That’s bullshit.”

  “You’re still a superstar.”

  “Does Gladstone know about this? Did he sign off?”

  “Church is the general manager, man. You know that. He’s got final word.”

  With supreme effort, Dag reined himself in. Pro ball was a business, and he was a businessman. Couldn’t keep popping off if he intended to flourish as an entrepreneur when he retired. Some former players died indigent; others got invited to play golf with the President of the United States because they had parlayed their basketball talents into commercial success and were now tycoons. He knew which one he would be.

  “I had dinner with Gladstone before I signed with the team and the man looked me in the eye and said he wanted me here for life.” The respect in Dag’s voice when he invoked the owner’s name was unmistakable. Dag admired his business acumen and intended to emulate it when he retired, in what he hoped was the distant future. It was inconceivable to him that Jay Gladstone would not do what Dag believed to be the right thing. “For life, Jamal. The man said he wants me here for life!”

  “He probably does,” Jamal agreed. “At four and ten.”

  “Gladstone can’t know what’s up with Church.”

  “I don’t negotiate with Gladstone. I negotiate with Church, and he’s authorized to speak for Gladstone.”

  Dag thought about this. He took a sip of his smoothie.

  “If they ain’t gonna give me a max, I want a trade.”

  Jamal did not immediately respond, but from the look on his face, Dag knew whatever came next would be less than optimal.

  “I made a few calls around the league,” Jamal said. “Everybody got much respect for your game, Dag. Much respect. But ain’t no one signing Dag Maxwell to a max deal.”

  Jamal’s declaration hung in the air. Dag cracked his knuckles. He took another sip of the drink, placed the glass back on the counter.

  “Who put you in that Maybach?”

  “Dag, I appreciate that you let me represent you.”

  “Then talk to Church again.”

  The view through the kitchen window from where Jamal stood was of the meticulously landscaped backyard. The pool was still covered, but in a few weeks the tarpaulin would be rolled back, and sunlight would sparkle off the ultramarine water. Jamal thought about all he had set up on Dag’s behalf, the charitable endeavors like the D’Angelo Maxwell Foundation and the D’Angelo Maxwell Summer Basketball Jam, the business ventures they were involved in—the clothing line (DagWear) and their nascent video game company (DagTronics)—everything big and small he had attended to for his illustrious client, and wondered why, for some people, there could never be enough.

  “It won’t help,” the agent said.

  There was something about the finality with which his representative uttered these words that made Dag hesitate. The player lapsed into a silence that lasted for thirty seconds during which the sound of the TV continued to bleed into the kitchen. Without another word to Jamal, he stomped off in the direction of the noise.

  On the sofa in front of a large screen television, Dag’s younger brother Trey held a bong between his knees. He glanced up as his older sibling appeared.

  “Yo, Dag,” he said, by way of greeting. “Jamal still here?”

  “We’re workin’,” Dag said, extra mustard on the verb.

  Trey was in his late twenties, six foot five and sturdily built, with an elaborate neck tattoo of a cross, a souvenir from his brief embrace of Jesus. When Dag signed as a free agent, he negotiated an invitation for his younger brother, who had played a year of Division I college ball at Tennessee State, to try out for the team. Trey was on the roster through the pre-season but was cut loose before the first game of the regular season. Now he served as his brother’s lieutenant. Anything Dag needed, breakfast cooked, dry cleaning dropped off, gassing up Dag’s custom-built McLaren, Trey handled it promptly unless he was high in which case it took a little longer. Lately, he was stoned every day, and Dag had meant to talk to him about it. Two young black men flanked Trey. Babatunde (formerly Stephen) Worrell, a diminutive bodybuilder in shorts, and a tight T-shirt who rechristened himself after becoming obsessed with the Civil War in high school and determining Stephen was a slave name, and Lourawls Poe, an ex-shot putter from the University of Texas clad in a DagWear hoodie. They were lifelong friends of Dag’s. The coffee table in front of them was strewn with video game cartridges, several empty pizza boxes, and a forest of soda cans. In the middle of the mess lay a copy of The Classic Slave Narratives by Henry Louis Gates, Jr. A male Rhodesian ridgeback snored near a Nerf hoop that had been set up for the visits of Dag’s six-year-old son.

  The crew was watching Hoop Ladies, a reality show about the antics of a group of current and former NBA wives. One of the hoop ladies caught Dag’s attention. This was Brittany Maxwell, his almost ex-spouse (the couple had separated just before the current NBA season began and had filed for divorce i
n January). She was in a clothing store listening to an agitated white woman ranting about a perceived slight from some “bitch” of their acquaintance, presumably another cast member. Brittany was nodding her head and repeating, “Totally, right.” Both women sheathed in outfits that accented butts and breasts. Bling bedecked their fingers and wrists. Dag scowled at the sixty-inch screen, his candy-wrapped ex, the gold-plated post-divorce lifestyle the legal system provided, and thought of the ocean of alimony that was going to be required to keep the whole catastrophe afloat.

  What made it particularly unbearable was that he was still attracted to Brittany, still a little in love. She was fine-looking, smart, and a good mother. Right now, he wished he had not been a serial adulterer, or at least had not been a serial adulterer that got caught. When Brittany discovered the cell phone snapshots of his impressive harem—a seemingly endless display of female pulchritude—and threw him out of their Bel Air home (like many NBA stars, Dag maintained a house in Los Angeles), there was no defense.

  “I told you to turn off the damn TV,” Dag said. “Why are you watching this shit?”

  “It’s hilarious, man,” Lourawls said. “It’s more like a satire of the lifestyle than a reflection of it. But I guess it’s kind of a reflection, too.”

  Unamused, Dag asked, “What’s in that bong?”

  “Some dank,” Lourawls grinned.

  “Brittany’s got it going on,” Babatunde said.

  “Shut the fuck up,” Dag said.

  He grabbed the remote control from the coffee table and changed the channel to a cable news show. A female newscaster of indeterminate ethnicity was reporting about the police shooting that had occurred in White Plains.

  “Ain’t no way that cop does time,” Trey said.

  “The guy was naked,” Lourawls said.

  The annoyance on Dag’s face downshifted to endurance.

  “Police do whatever they want to a black man,” Dag said. The crew stared at their benefactor. “I catch any of y’all watching that show my wife’s on, Ima throw your ass outta the house. Y’all need to get up on the news.”

  To punctuate his point, he flung the remote control against the TV screen. It bounced off and rolled on to the shag rug. This caused the slumbering dog to stir. The animal lifted his massive head. Dag glowered at his crew. Any notion Trey, Babatunde, and Lourawls had that Dag might have discharged his anger by flinging the remote control was now abandoned.

  “When was the last time Biggie got a walk?” Dag asked. “Damn dog can’t walk himself, right, Trey?”

  “Naw, man,” Trey said. “Biggie ain’t learned that trick.” Lourawls stifled a laugh. Dag glared in his direction. Trey turned to Babatunde. “Walk the dog, man.”

  “I walked him last time,” the beleaguered subordinate said. “It’s Lou’s turn.”

  The fiery coals in Dag’s eye sockets scorched Babatunde, whose brawny physique seemed to melt beneath the withering blast. There was a chain of command from Dag to Trey, then south toward the other two, neither of whom had any clout, and Babatunde had violated it.

  “You above walking Biggie?” Dag said to Babatunde. “You too important now? You too essential to the way things run up in here to get your ass off the couch and do your damn job?”

  “Why you so salty?” Babatunde said.

  “What the fuck you just say?” Dag inquired.

  “I ain’t say nothing.”

  “Do your job with some dignity,” Dag said.

  After another pause that was too long for Dag’s liking, Babatunde rose from the couch and skulked out of the room. Before working for Dag, Babatunde had been a personal trainer. Now his only client was Biggie.

  “Where are you going?” Dag demanded.

  “Dog needs his leash,” Babatunde replied. “He’s dangerous.”

  Dignity was vital to Dag. He admired it in others and tried to manifest it himself. An important component of a dignified bearing, in his view, was how you did your job. Whether it was as an NBA star or as someone who walked the dog of an NBA star, you discharged professional tasks in a dignified way. Today’s brief exposure to Hoop Ladies had compounded the irritation he already felt because he believed it was undignified of Brittany, as the soon-to-be-ex-wife of D’Angelo Maxwell, to display herself in such a degrading context. Why did people watch those shows if not to see brassy, uncouth women bite, scratch, and tear each other’s weaves out? Dag might have screamed Bang bang, Motherfucker, inarguably a vulgarity, at top volume whenever he scaled new heights on a basketball court, but that was always in the heat of a game, under the bright lights. Anyway, he was a basketball star and that, as far as he was concerned, made it not only excusable but inspiring. Now Babatunde, who Dag’s business manager was paying god-knows-what to hang around, smoke weed, and read paperbacks about black history, was balking at handling his obligations. It was a challenge, Dag reflected, to maintain his dignity in an environment where the workforce was too high to walk the dog.

  Who had saddled him with these fools, and why was he obligated to look after them? He was tired of loyalty, the unwritten code that someone like him who, by dint of hard work, divinely bestowed talent, and, yes, perhaps a little bit of luck, was somehow responsible for providing in perpetuity for this collection of sybaritic parasites. When it came to someone like his revered mother, he was thrilled to spoil her. She had worked three jobs, kept him off the streets, been his biggest booster, and never asked for anything. If the Baptists anointed saints, Kimberly Maxwell would have been one. She lived to witness her son’s success before diabetes caused her premature death two years ago. But these jokers, and everyone else he ever knew who always seemed to have a hand out when he approached, took mooching to dizzying heights. And Dag was an easy touch. Checks to this group, that organization, piles of money into the riskiest, craziest business ventures of friends and extended family and where had it gotten him? He had earned well over a hundred million dollars in his career and had already burned through a hefty portion of it. He wished he could talk the situation over with one of his guys, bat it around, examine it from various angles, but that was impossible. Jamal was sympathetic, but couldn’t empathize with what Dag was going through as an aging professional athlete. The entire state of affairs infuriated him, and to expend the energy it took to hide how he felt was exhausting.

  Babatunde reappeared with a dog leash in his hand. Dag regarded the man as if he’d like to extract his molars with kitchen tongs.

  “Why you throwin’ shade?” Babatunde asked. “I got it.”

  Dag stalked out of the room.

  In the kitchen, Jamal drank a glass of water. He knew that his conversation with Dag was not over, that he would have to listen to more complaining before he could leave.

  “Can you believe what I gotta put up with?” Dag said as he re-entered the kitchen. He took a deep breath and collected himself. He looked at the prominent tattoo on his right bicep: the 5th. The ink was a reference to Houston’s Fifth Ward, the combat zone of a neighborhood where Dag grew up. Through his talents, he had burst from its rickety streets, but he never pretended he was anything other than a kid from the Fifth. For him, the tattoo was a touchstone, a visit home. He rubbed it with his palm.

  “I’m paying my brother and them guys to watch TV. I bought houses for two of my sisters. I lost track of how many millions I gave Brittany so she can live like a damn queen and raise our kids with all the shit I never had. I pay my bills. I take care of my family. I’m a responsible motherfucker, Jamal.”

  “You’re a good man.”

  “And I’m a good father.”

  “True that.”

  “My father, man, whatever he did, I did the opposite.”

  “Your kids love you.”

  “Responsibility costs.”

  “Indeed, Dag. Indeed. Wise words.”

  “Which is why you gonna get me a max de
al.”

  A strong belief in God allowed Jamal to cope with his greatest challenges, and in Dag’s absence, the agent had prayed that the player would absorb the words of wisdom he had attempted to impart. Jamal groaned.

  “I told you, I can’t snap my fingers and make that happen.”

  Dag turned the dominant force of his personality toward the backyard, where a flock of starlings had alighted on the lawn. The player watched as they hopped along the grass searching for food.

  Jamal knew ornithology was not Dag’s thing, and as the gap in their conversation lengthened he worried what his friend might be thinking. Being yelled at was easier than being ignored. Dag kept staring at the birds. What was Jamal supposed to say? He tried this:

  “I wish I could.”

  Dag bowed his head for a moment. There was no point in yelling at Jamal.

  “Explain to me how we’re supposed to elevate my brand because I don’t see how we do that if I’m not playing on a max deal.”

  “That’s our challenge.”

  “And you’re sure you can’t get that contract?”

  “I tried, man. I told you.”

  “Then you’re fired,” Dag said.

  “I’m fired?” Jamal laughed.

  “Why you laughing? Ain’t nothing funny.”

  Jamal angled his head, tried to plumb Dag’s thinking.

  “For real?”

  “Most definitely.”

  This particular exchange had occurred several times before, ending with Dag giving his agent a fist bump and saying, “I’m just playing.” But if it was a joke, he was taking it further than he had in the past. When Dag broke eye contact and looked away, Jamal realized he meant it.

  “That ain’t right.”

  “You disappointed me.”

  “We boys!”

  Occasionally Dag’s shots misfired, and the team lost, but reality off the court nearly always bent to his expectations. The news Jamal delivered? It did not compute with Dag’s all-conquering outlook. Someone had to pay.