I had three days to prepare my defense.
Jason had also received the same summons. “No fucking problem, man. I already got enough bread to last me for a few years. But lots of potheads around here are gonna be pissed. And how. Good luck, man. And adios, amigo.”
I never saw him again.
But I did make a beeline to Coach Lee’s office to show him the message.
“That sucks, Elliot,” he said. “You should have known better. What can I say? There’s nothing I can do about this. Just hope that the committee lets you slide. But we’ve still got two games and a few practices until the meeting, so I’ll expect you to show up and be ready to play.”
Yeah. Yeah.
Nothing he could do for a fourth-string guard.
So I went to the practices and played hard in the minimal time I was allowed on the court. And the next game was against Arizona State, our first conference game and a potent team.
“Our biggest game of the year,” CW said in the pregame locker room. “Absolutely a must-win.”
But then, not five minutes into the action, Marwane Wright rose for a monster dunk in a crowd and landed on an opponent’s foot. Just watching his ankle splay out into a right angle from his leg gave me a shiver of sympathetic pain from the many sprained ankles I’d ever suffered.
Wright was still screaming as they lifted him onto a gurney and wheeled him off the court.
LaGerald Monroe replaced him, and simply stunk up the court. His primary (and only) asset was his bull’s-eye shooting, but Monroe was so tight that he shot three bricks and an air ball. Rodney Lopez was even worse, turning his head on defense, fumbling a rebound, and missing a point-blank layup.
We trailed by 13 at the half, and CW was spitting mad as he loudly cursed us during the intermission. “You’re a bunch of choke bastards! A bunch of fucking pussies! I don’t even want to be in the same room with you losers!”
And he simply stormed out.
Coach Lee then started to spout some bullshit about never giving up.” The game’s not over until . . .”
When?
The final buzzer? The fat lady sings?
But before he could choose the appropriate cliché, the trainer came up to him and whispered something in Lee’s ear. Loudly enough, though, for us to hear the word “fracture.”
“Fuck,” said Lee. Then he silently stalked around the room, stopped for a moment to stare at Monroe, then at Lopez, shook his head both times, and came over to me.
“You’re starting the second half, Elliot. Don’t fuck up.”
And I certainly didn’t.
In fact, I shot 6-of-8, including 2 treys, netted all of my 5 free throws, had 2 steals, recorded 3 assists, nary a turnover, and totaled 19 points in leading “us” to a furious comeback that culminated in a 71–66 win.
The next day I received another message from the dean of students, notifying me that my appearance before the Ethics Committee was canceled and that, although a warning was put on my record, I was still “a student in good standing.”
***
It’s me. . . . Fine. Yeah. Everything’s really good. . . . I know. I’m sorry but there was such a—”
Chapter Nine
Yes, Marwane Wright’s ankle was broken and he was out for the duration. And suddenly everything changed. Plays were now run for me—all the down-screens, cross-screens, and angle-double-screens in our box set. After I scored 29 and then 31 points in leading us to road wins against Utah and Utah State, I returned to the campus to learn that all my stuff had been moved into Wright’s room.
No more Brainiac and no more roommates. I even had a single room on all of our subsequent road trips.
Highlights of some of my powerhouse dunks and off-balance 3-balls were shown on ESPN’s highlight shows. Stephen A. Smith said that I was “a freshman sensation who appears to be NBA ready.”
Going against Top-Ten Division I competition, I was playing even better than I had in high school.
Why so?
Let me count the ways.
According to Brownley’s charts, my work thus far in the weight room had added precisely five pounds and three ounces of muscle. As a result, my hops were higher and quicker off the floorboards. Also, my quick-twitch push-off with my back leg made my first step hoopward longer and stronger. Plus, I could be much more physical at both ends of the court.
Yet my postpot jumpers were still soft and smooth.
But there was another significant reason why I became a superstar: My anger and frustration at being so blatantly lied to by Lee, plus my awareness that CW was a fraud, plus the whole fucked-up basketball program put more fire in my game.
So I dove headlong into the stands to rescue loose balls. I banged the bigs as hard as they banged me. I targeted the bigs’ knees when I set screens on them. And I simply hustled nonstop.
When I was regularly interviewed by a host of media Muppets, I made sure to be more humble than thou. “I’m grateful for Coach Woody’s constant support and faith in me. I also owe a lot to Coach Lee, who personally worked with me one-on-one after practice to accelerate my improvement.”
Hey, I could shovel the shit with the best of them. But reciting the appropriate clichés to the media didn’t count as lying. Right?
And that’s not all.
My earnings for my nonexistent job were doubled to $200.
Moreover, LeVonn insisted that I eat with “the big boys.” I agreed only because I had already decided not to eat with the civilians in order to avoid contact with all the dopers I had previously hung with.
But the “big boys” had small minds. Except for Monroe and Lopez, they were all friendly, yet all they talked about was chicks, cars, bling, and how much money they’d make in the NBA. I mostly nodded and chuckled when appropriate, but otherwise kept my yap shut.
Paul Granderson was our senior point guard, a white dude with black curly hair, shockingly blue eyes, and movie-star good looks. Although he lacked warp speed, he could knock down open shots, play in-your-face defense, and make terrific decisions with the ball. Paul was also the only player on the team who was married.
After dinner one evening, he said he wanted to talk to me about something important. So we found a private corner in the student lounge, and here’s what he said:
“Be careful of the ladies, E. They know you’re headed for the big-time money so they’ll do all kinds of crazy shit to get you hooked. Like swear that they’re on the pill but they’re not. Hoping, planning to get pregnant so you’ll marry them. That’s what happened to me.”
The big-time money? The NBA? Me?
All I could say was “Really?”
“If I’m lyin’, I’m dyin’.”
“No shit?”
“Yeah. Anyways, after we won the NCAA two years ago, there was this big party at Marty’s house . . .”
“Who’s he?”
Paul laughed. “Marty Taylor. Don’t you worry. He’ll make sure you meet him soon. . . . Anyways, me and Karen both got real drunk, you know? So we ducked into one of the bedrooms. There must’ve been eight or nine of them. We’ve been together for maybe six months by then, and fucking like rabbits. But then, out of nowhere, she starts playing hard to get. Eventually we got down to it and she sure was hot to trot. I mean, but while she was rockin’ and rollin’, she was saying, ‘No. No. Stop it, Paulie.’ Six weeks later, she says she’s pregnant and that I fucking raped her. For real! Then her parents got into the act, saying that if I don’t marry her, she’d go to the law and charge me with rape!”
“Un-fucking-believable!”
“Word, man.”
“So how are you guys now?”
“Well, she’s got the baby to keep her busy, so we just kind of live together in a kind of shaky peace. And, dig this . . . there’s no chance I get drafted, but I’ve been speaking wi
th this agent who says he can get me a good gig in Belgium that’ll pay maybe fifty grand. Right? But Karen, she says she don’t want to go to no Belgium. So, fuck her. I’m gonna go anyways. So the lesson I’m giving you, E, is don’t get too involved with the chicks.”
“I hear you.”
That’s why I mostly kept my dick in my pants and occasionally indulged only in recreational fuckings.
But that’s not all.
After one home win against New Mexico, a middle-aged man wearing a perfectly fitted, flashy white silk suit approached my locker after I had emerged from the shower. With his slicked-back black hair, his trim black mustache, and his quick brown eyes, he resembled a leading man from a 1940s noir film.
I shook his extended his right hand, then he said this: “Hello, Elliot. I sure do admire the way you’re playing. My name is Marty Taylor. I’m sure you’ve heard of me. I just stopped by to introduce myself, and to let you know that if you need anything . . . ANYTHING . . . just call on me. Here’s my card.”
MARTY TAYLOR, PRESIDENT OF USA’S BOOSTER CLUB
“Okay. Thanks.”
Then he switched something from his left hand to his right hand, and when we shook hands again, he palmed me a $100 bill.
“Speak to you soon, Elliot.”
Our first loss came at Southern Nevada, where the hometown refs simply jobbed us. They shot 34 free throws to our 11, LeVonn fouled out midway through the second half, and although my elbow was nudged every time I shot a jumper, the three blind mice sucked on their whistles.
CW was outraged and was on the refs all game long.
“I know you, Ralph! You’ve always been a fucking homer!”
“You cocksucker! You’re stealing the fucking game!”
“Motherfucker! If I had a fucking gun, I’d shoot you!”
But since CW was an icon, the refs never T’d him.
Unfortunately, late in the game, when we still had a theoretical chance of winning, I threw my hand at my opponent’s jump shot. And even though I was at least a foot short of making any kind of contact, I got tooted for a hack-in-the-act. Yet when I peacefully turned to the offending ref and said, “Really?” I was hit with a tech.
Although I scored 28 points, we lost 87–75, and after the game, CW berated me for showing a lack of respect for the refs.
Other than that, we kept winning game after game, including a three-day tournament in Denver over the Thanksgiving weekend, in which I averaged 31 points and was named MVP.
Prior to practice one afternoon, I was sitting next to Paul Granderson on our bench while our teammates were on the court taking jumpers. I’d been awake for most of the night before, studying for what my Health & Rec teacher called “a prefinal exam,” and I was exhausted.
Paul matched me yawn for yawn.
“You’ve been studying too, eh?” I said.
But he laughed. “Me studying? You must be joking, E. I was partying all night and I’m just trying to wake up.”
“You mean you cut all your classes?”
“Classes? I don’t go to classes. Why, do you?”
“Of course.”
“For shit’s sake, E,” he said as he stood up. “You need to speak to Marty.”
Which I did.
“You only need to go to the classes you want to go to,” Marty told me when I phoned him. “Don’t worry. You’ll get straight A’s. I promise. . . . No, no. I can get a copy of your schedule on my own. . . . Anything else?”
So I stayed with Dr. Selma’s English Lit class. Not only did I read what was on her syllabus but all of Shakespeare, Ben Jonson, and Christopher Marlowe; right up to Swift, Samuel Johnson, et al. Perhaps once every two weeks I did some all-night partying with Paul, but I mostly stayed up late reading in my room. Especially since I could now sleep late on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.
“It’s me. . . . Fine. Yeah. Everything’s really good. . . . I know. I’m sorry, but we were in a tournament. . . . Yeah. . . . We’re in another one in Dallas during Christmas. . . . Yes. Absolutely. During the semester break. . . .”
Chapter Ten
Opponents began keying on me, doubling me when I dribbled off a high screen and also in iso situations. On my own recognizance I countered by backing toward the time line, thereby drawing the second defender out there along with me. This maneuver forced the defense to play three-on-four, and with my teammates in a 2-2 spread formation, it was easy for me to find the open man and get the ball to him.
Also, there were times when I could simply split the double-team or else turn the corner.
Lee also put in some sets where I could curl or fan off a weakside screen. The guy setting this pick was Pete Cantine, a six-five small forward built like the proverbial brick shit house, who was also a dead-eye shooter with 3-point range. The other starter was Monte Burns, a six-nine powerless forward who could run, jump, and drain treys.
Both CW and Lee were madly in love with shooters.
So I was now scoring 23 points and 7.8 assists per game. By the semester break (December 28) our record was 14–1, and we were the second-ranked team (behind Kentucky) in the country.
However, the biggest factor in our success thus far was LeVonn, whose work in the weight room was also paying off. He was wiping the defensive glass squeaky clean while also pulling down six or seven offensive rebounds every game. With his long arms, quick ups, and impeccable timing, he was also a menacing shot blocker. If he was a poor passer and was only capable of bouncing the ball twice before either shooting or getting ripped, he was still a monster in the middle.
However, I was surprised that the coaching staff never did anything to improve LeVonn’s game. No jump-shooting or ball-handling drills, no attention paid to his lack of any go-to moves in the low post.
In fact, it seemed that USA recruited topflight athletes with outstanding talent and then didn’t bother to develop their players. Indeed, nobody on the coaching staff ever pointed out any of my own shortcomings—a tendency to force my dribble into crowds, an indecision in playing screen-roll defense, an inconsistent release when pulling and shooting going left—and certainly made no effort to correct them.
If I’d learned to survive all the lies and bullshit, there was a big problem with my grade transcript.
As advertised, I had A’s in all my classes; however, the transcript listed Health & Rec and Phys Ed. When my father saw this, he’d go bonkers!
Yet all it took to solve this dilemma was another call to Marty Taylor. Four days later (which was two days before I flew back to New York) I received a new transcript substituting Sociology and Western Civilization.
Once again somebody else did the lying. Even so, I began to entertain thoughts that I was now bullshitting myself. That I was a burgeoning hypocrite.
Before I left to spend the winter recess back home, I counted my money—which I kept, yes, under my mattress. Subtracting what I’d spent on my extracurricular reading and my plane tickets, it amounted to a little less than $2,000.
My hope was to save enough money to buy a used car I could tool around in during the summer. Nevertheless, I spent a bundle buying post-Christmas presents for my parents.
The supersize Norton Facsimile of the 1623 First Folio of Shakespeare’s canon cost $91.49. For my mom, $146 for a 6.5–7.0 mm, 18-inch, AA+, black freshwater pearl necklace.
And I was almost looking forward to spending seven days back home.
They met me at the airport, where Mom smothered me with kisses and hugs, while my father offered a strong handshake.
“I’ve enjoyed watching you play whenever the games are on TV,” she said. “You really make the ball go through the basket.”
Father harrumphed, and said, “Games.”
I guessed Mom watched the games by herself.
Back home, he didn’t show much more enthusiasm for the volume I
gave him.
“Shakespeare, eh? With his schoolboy ‘to live or to die’ recitals. Oh, how short are our lives. His slavish devotion to the Chain of Being. A sloppy playwright, who lacked the structure of Jonson’s work, as well as Jonson’s erudition. In fact, Jonson repeatedly denigrated Shakespeare for his, and I quote, ‘Small Latine, less Greeke.’ Jonson also called Shakespeare, and I quote again, ‘Poor Poet-Ape.’”
“I know. I know. . . . Also, when some contemporary said that Shakespeare was such a great writer that he never blotted out a line, Jonson said, ‘Would he have blotted a thousand.’ But wasn’t Jonson simply jealous of Shakespeare’s popularity?”
He harrumphed again, saying, “So, Elliot, have you indeed become a Shakespearean?”
“Not at all. If anything, I’ve become a Marlovian.”
“Ah. The spy, the atheist. Whom even Shakespeare admired for his ‘lofty verse.’ If you have apparently shunned the glories of medieval literature, Marlowe is an acceptable alternative.”
He then broke into what could only be described as a phony shit-eating grin. “Be that as it may. Shakespeare did write some lovely verse. And I do appreciate the thought behind your present. It’s a beautiful book.”
His present to me was a leather-bound copy of the classic The Works of Geoffrey Chaucer as edited by F. N. Robinson.
Great. Wonderful. Thanks ever so much.
Mom loved her pearls, and her gift to me was a hand-knitted sweater that, because of my new muscles, was tight around the chest. She was dismayed.
“Don’t worry, Mom. I’ll wear it so much that it’ll stretch and be perfect in no time.”
So what did I do during my stay back there?
I ran around the track and shot at least a hundred shots every day in the local YMCA. But I pointedly refused to participate in the sloppy and marginally dangerous lunch-time runs. Which led the participants to unanimously voice their displeasure.
Trouthe, Lies, and Basketball Page 6
