Adjacent to us, at table nine was Marwane Wright, his parents, and Coach Lee. Marwane looked at me, then quickly looked away. What was his problem? But Lee gave me a hearty wave and shouted “Good luck” above the din.
Meanwhile, Collison and I had nothing to say to each other.
David Stern, the NBA commissioner, emerged through some curtains at the back of the stage and approached the lectern. He was a dumpy little man who looked like a well-fed, arrogant accountant. “Welcome to the National Basketball Association’s 2007 Free Agent Draft,” he announced.
The fans responded with hysterical cheers.
“Each team has three minutes to make their selection, and since the Philadelphia Seventy-Sixers have the first pick, they are now on the clock.”
Then he vanished through the curtains.
“It’ll be George Simpson from Kentucky,” Collison said. “He’s already signed a contract.”
Barely two minutes later, Stern reemerged to announce that Philadelphia had indeed chosen Simpson.
The fans cheered for no apparent reason.
Simpson hugged the two women and the man at his table. His parents and girlfriend? Some little guy in a gray business suit ran over and presented him with a Sixers cap, then led him through another curtain off stage right to be interviewed by a happy-mouthed ESPN dude.
The interview was shown on the TV screen. “I just want to help the team,” Simpson said. “I mean, that’s it. I just want to help the team.”
“Here’s a question I’ll be asking everybody . . . Who’s your favorite player?”
“Charles Barkley.”
“And how do you think you compare to him?”
“Someday I think I’ll be as good as him. But I just want to help the team . . . the Sixers . . . any way I can.”
And so on.
I was impressed at Collison’s correctly naming each subsequent pick. That’s why I was totally confident that I was LA Clippers bound.
Finally, Stern stepped up to the podium, and Collision said, “Make sure your fly is zipped.”
I pushed my chair away from the table, checked my zipper, and started to rise.
“With the eighth pick in the 2007 Free Agent Draft,” Stern announced, “the Los Angeles Clippers select . . . Marwane Wright from the University of Southern Arizona.”
As I slumped back into my seat, Collison smacked an open hand on the table. “What the fuck! That lying cocksucker!”
I didn’t say anything, but I couldn’t hide my profound disappointment. I’d spent the past few weeks dreaming of beaches, beautiful girls in bikinis . . . Had I been alone somewhere, anywhere, I would have wept.
“Fucking Jenkins,” said Collison. “I should’ve known better than to believe a prick like him. Another NBA GM who can lie with a straight face.” Then he sighed. “I swear I don’t know what happens next.”
Which was that Sacramento picked Stanovic, who could certainly shoot, but couldn’t handle, rebound, block shots, defend, or avoid being bullied. A seven-footer who played like a shooting guard.
“Oh, shit,” Collison said. “Utah’s up next. I hope they don’t pick you because there’s no way to get good endorsements playing for a team in Salt Lake City.”
“In the twelfth pick in the 2007 NBA Free Agent Draft, the Utah Jazz select . . . LeVonn Jackson from the University of Southern Arizona.”
Good for him.
“The Oklahoma City Thunder are on the clock,” Stern announced before ducking back through the curtains.
As LeVonn passed my table, he turned to give me a bro hug.
“Go get ‘em, big guy,” I said.
Back at the table, Collison was scribbling on a small notepad. Then he looked up and said, “The Thunder have the worst administration in the league, and Brook Davis is the worst coach in the league. Plus, Oklahoma City is in the middle of a desert. Phoenix is on deck, and you don’t want to play there either, because the owner is a lunatic. Keep your fingers crossed.”
Stern reemerged, walked up to the podium, and said, “With the thirteenth pick in the 2007 NBA Draft, the Oklahoma City Thunder select . . . Elliot Hersch, also from the University of Southern Arizona.”
“What the fuck!” Collison yelped as we both stood. “At least it’s better than Utah.”
I strode up to the stage and posed with Stern for the photographers. “A Jewish boychick,” he whispered. “Mazel tov.”
Then I was led through the side curtain to be interviewed.
“Okay, Elliot. So who’s your favorite player?”
“Michael Jordan.”
“And how do you think you compare to him?”
“I’m just a pimple on his ass.”
Collison was resigned. “Oh, well. This’ll be your brand, I guess. A young, irreverent, with-it wiseass. If I can’t get at least a two-million-dollar deal from Nike, I’ll eat shit in Macy’s window.”
Chapter Eighteen
Collison readily agreed to what was presented as the compulsory contract for the thirteenth draft choice: two guaranteed years for a total of $2.5 million, with a team option at $1.7 million for a third year. Plus an up-front payment of $100,000.
Moreover, he escaped eating shit in public when he negotiated a $2.1-million sneaker deal with Nike.
I was officially rich!
For the umpteenth time, I tried calling my parents to tell them the news, but my father always answered the phone.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Dad. It’s me. Don’t hang up—”
As he’d done umpteen times before, that’s just what he did.
Maybe once a week, after a run at Kingsborough, I drove out to what used to be my home in Hempstead, hoping that my father would not be there so I could connect with my mother. But his car was always parked in the driveway.
Two weeks after the draft, the Thunder flew me down (first-class again!) to Orlando to sign the contract, and then to play with the team’s entry in the annual summer league.
Both the GM, Jack McCue, and the coach, Brook Davis, were on hand to greet me at the airport. I had spoken to them at the Felt Forum right after my televised interview, where they enthusiastically welcomed me “aboard.” But on the chauffeur-driven limo ride to the hotel, they told me exactly what they wanted to see me do in the five games we’d be playing over the next ten days.
Take good shots. Move the ball. Move my body. Don’t stand around when I’m on the weak side. Play good defense. Hustle. Execute.
“Your coach here is going to be Milt Richardson,” said Davis. “He’s my top assistant, and you should hang on his every word.”
“Besides you,” added McCue, “and Zack Livingston, who’s our pick in the second round, the team includes one NBA veteran, Ray Hightower, who’s hopefully now fully recovered from a bad knee injury he suffered two years ago. Plus a bunch of undrafted players who hope they can show us enough to invite them to training camp.”
“And know this, E,” Davis said as he poked a finger into my shoulder. “This is just a summer league. Yes, a couple of teams have last season’s end-of-the-bench guys, and they’ll probably dominate.”
Poke. Poke.
“Just about everybody will also have their draft picks playing, but by no means will this be anything like the overall speed, quickness, size, strength, and talent that’s played in NBA games.”
“Yes, sir.”
From the start, I never really liked Davis, especially the way he kept poking me, harder each time. I certainly respected everything he said, but I wondered why he never looked at me eye-to-eye. Also, his right leg kept shaking as his heel bounced up and down, like he was either very nervous or wanting to pull the door open and make a quick escape.
Besides, hadn’t Collison said he was the worst coach in the league?
Okay, so what was my game plan?
>
In high school, I thought I was The Shit. The best of the best. I could do whatever I wanted to do, on and off the court. I was only looking forward to playing college ball, and playing in the NBA had been just a furtive fantasy. Like a wonderful dream that flies out of your memory as soon as you wake up.
After all, how many Jewish hoopers from Long Island make it into The League?
Art Heyman? He was a flop.
Larry Brown hadn’t been good enough to play in the NBA, but after starring in the old American Basketball Association, he later became a championship-winning coach for the Detroit Pistons.
And me?
Puleeze!
At best, perhaps I’d turn out to be All-Conference at USA, or an honorable-mention All-American.
The NBA was still a pipe dream.
But when I was thrust into the starting lineup, my attitude and my expectations changed. Hey, since I was kicking ass in competition with the best undergraduate players in the country (if not the world!), and doing this fairly easily, then I’d only have to step up my game another notch to be a bona fide NBAer.
Right?
So while the undrafted guys and the roster-fill who rounded out OKC’s summer league team were trembling with nerves before our first practice session, I was remarkably calm, for several reasons:
I figured the pressure was off, because I was guaranteed at least two years in the league, which gave me time to figure out what I could do, couldn’t possibly do, and learn how to do what I absolutely had to do.
I’d diligently study the pro game with even more zeal than I’d studied the days, ways, and works of Christopher Marlowe.
After all, no matter what the subject, I was always an A and even an A+ student.
As their one and only first-round pick, the Thunder had a huge stake in my development—so I’d also get plenty of minutes to learn on the job.
I was confident without being cocky.
At nineteen, I was still growing in size and strength.
Forget about partying, drugs, and big-league pussy. For now, that is.
As for Orlando . . . it’s really an artificial city that basically exists to include, promote, and profit from Disney World. Even the walls in the hotel lobby were plastered with large posters of the world-famous characters.
Huey, Dewey, and Louie, the three bastard offspring of Donald and Daisy Duck. Gladstone Gander. Uncle Scrooge. Goofy in his blue overalls and flat-top hat. Pluto with his collar around his neck and his slobbering smile.
I wondered how/if the two dogs communicated when they were alone. In Goofy’s “Y-yup” version of English or Pluto’s barkings?
And, of course, Mickey was the star.
There was even a picture of him above the bed in my room.
•••
As my temporary teammates and I dressed before our initial practice, my stall happened to be next to a pair of free-agent hopefuls. One was Ray Hightower, the NBA vet who was attempting a comeback after knee surgery. The other was DeWayne Something.
They introduced themselves by saying their names and offering fists to be bumped.
“Ray.”
“DeWayne.”
“Hi, I’m Elliot . . .”
“Yeah,” said Hightower with a snap in his voice. “I know who you are. The Great White Hope.”
“Well, I just hope I don’t turn out to be the Great White Hopeless.”
My quip was ignored.
“Did you hear about Terry Manning?” DeWayne said, turning to Ray.
“Yeah. He failed his third drug test or something?”
“Yes, he did, and the brother got banished from the league. Three strikes and you’re out.”
“That’s fucked up right there,” said Ray as he strapped a large brace on to his knee. “Meanwhile, them two white boys I told you about? They been on the fucking pipe more often and longer than Terry. And the fucking league knows all about it. But ’cause they’s all-stars, guess what happened.”
“I dunno.”
“They’s spending this summer in rehab all secret like, but the buzz put out on the wire is they’s traveling all over Europe doing clinics.”
“That’s some shit, man.”
“This whole fucking fucked-up league is filled with lying motherfuckers.”
“Word.”
Milt Richardson was an eggplant-black bulldog—short, squat, and powerful, whose flat nose, and protruding forehead and chin made the rest of his face look slightly concave. And during our initial practice session, his bark was ferocious.
“Goddammit, you fucking lazy piece of shit! Get your black ass back on defense!”
“Grab the fucking ball! A blind man could stand there with his hands raised and get more fucking rebounds than you!”
And to me, after I tripped on my own feet while attempting to cut off the drive of an opponent: “How much fucking money did they pay you? Might as well flushed it down the toilet. You couldn’t even guard your own fucking shadow.”
In the two practice sessions we had before our first game, he put in a motion offense—pass and screen away, or make a dive cut, or curl around the pass receiver for a handoff. Also, some screen/roll and weakside screen plays.
Basic stuff.
There was a notable lack of camaraderie on the court, in the locker room, and whenever my temporary teammates passed one another in the hotel lobby or dining room. Except that Zack Livingston, OKC’s second-round pick, sought me out. He was a light-skinned, leansome six-eight small forward with delicate Caucasian features and a wide smile that seemed to split his face into two equal halves.
“It’s exciting, ain’t it?” he said.
“Sure is.”
“I mean, I can’t wait for it all to start for real. You know?”
“Me too.”
“All’s I want to do is help the team however I can. You hear me?”
“Yes. Me too.”
The games themselves were borderline crazy.
All the undrafted guys were hustling to the max, but they were dangerous. Crashing into every opponent at every opportunity. Climbing over backs to try getting rebounds. Setting moving screens with elbows flailing. Committing vicious knock-down fouls and daring the neophyte refs to whistle them for flagrants. Diving and scrambling for loose balls like football players battling to recover fumbles.
So what I did was to deliberately move in wide circles around these desperate dudes. Which severely handicapped my own game.
I mean, I made a high percentage of the open shots I took, made crisp passes, diligently tried to execute the offense even as my teammates only had eyes for the hoop, and played earnest defense, but I refrained from driving to the hoop if a pack of red-eyed free agents was waiting to hammer me to the floor.
Yet as I came to the bench after my initial eight-minute rotation in the first game, Richardson patted my shoulder and said, “I understand. It’s cool.”
Speaking of Richardson, as hopping mad and foul-mouthed as he was during practices, he was calm and soft-spoken during the game.
Which was A-OK by me. That’s because I already knew that games were won or lost during practice sessions, where mistakes were made, lessons learned, and where the real coaching happened.
So I really liked this guy, and I supposed that Richardson was duplicating Coach Davis’s methodology. The head coach, who wasn’t even in the gym.
So we alternated practice days with game days, and I managed to avoid getting maimed while still putting up respectable numbers—16.1 points and 5.8 assists per game, plus shooting 51.1 percent. The only significant trouble I had was defending warp-speed guys, but I got by mainly because they were generally careless with the ball and too eager to force shots.
The extended 3-point shots took some getting used to. Shooting one-on-none in practice
in no way prepared me to bag the treys with a wild-eyed defender looking to obliterate me. However, an eyebrow fake and a pull-and-shoot going right or left gave me all the time and space I needed.
Even so, the extra thirty-six inches at the arc caused me to shoot with more of a snappish release than I was used to.
But, okay, I’d have nine weeks to work on this before training camp began.
All in all, I felt pretty good about my performance in Orlando. And as Richardson drove me to the airport for my flight back to New York, he had only good things to say.
That I had the potential to be a productive starter.
That I had the on-court IQ of a veteran.
That he liked my work ethic.
And that I should be patient and not get discouraged when the season started and the game got quicker, the players were smarter, and my playing time would be carefully doled out.
He did, however, make one suggestion. “When a righty shooter pulls left and shoots, he has to move the ball across his body to load up the shot. That’s what has to be done, you read me? But the problem when you do this is that the ball doesn’t always get into your right hand in the exact same spot. So you always have to make an adjustment to move the ball and your hand into the release point that you need. So that’s what you have to work on before camp, E. Getting the ball to your right hand in the same place every time. A place where you can get into your release ASAP and with no extra movement. You read me?”
“Loud and clear. Thanks for the tip.”
When he dropped me off, we shook hands and he said, “I’m looking forward to working with you.”
“Amen,” I said.
But I sure was happy to get back to New York, and anxious to correct the flaw Richardson had hipped me to.
Chapter Nineteen
So I got to the Kingsborough runs early to work on my pull-up jumpers going left, and I took as many of these as I could once we started playing.
Otherwise, I ran some on the beach, lifted weights, ate and slept well, read a lot, and made fruitless trips to Hempstead. Didn’t he ever leave the house when school was out? And, after consulting with Collison, prepared to get to Oklahoma City two weeks before training camp began.
Trouthe, Lies, and Basketball Page 10
