Collison also advised me to rent rather than buy a place to live in OKC. “Because the city is in the middle of Tornado Alley, there are always lots of repairs to be made. I’ve spoken to McCue and he’ll hook you up with somebody who’ll show you around. Plus, he’ll get you booked into the Radisson until you find a place. Just call the office and tell them when you’ll arrive. Anyway, they’re a high-class operation and they’ll take good care of you. All you have to do is to play ball. If you have a problem, don’t hesitate to call any time, any day. By the way, here’s the name of the bank down there where your checks will be deposited every two weeks. All you have to do is go there, show your drivers’ license, and sign some forms. Your first check will be there on October first, the day training camp starts.”
Okay, besides packing, there were two things I had to do before I left. Make one more attempt to hopefully see my mother, and then sell my car.
When I drove up to the house, I was surprised to see dozens of cars parked along both sides of the street—some even double-parked. Then I saw a man in a dark brown suit and a woman in a navy blue dress get out of a car and, with the man carrying a large platter that was covered with aluminum foil, start walking toward the house.
Oh, shit!
Somebody must have died. I hoped it was him.
But, no.
When I hustled to catch up with the couple, the man (whom I didn’t know) turned to me with an agonized expression.
“It’s Elliot, isn’t it?”
Yes, I was it.
“I’m so sorry, Elliot. She was such a wonderful person.”
FUUUCK!!!
I ran ahead, pushed open the front door, and stood there, still dressed in my post-run sweats, while a crowd of people stared at me. Many of them stopped nibbling the finger foods they held on paper plates. Some of them paused with their drinks half-lifted to their mouths. A few of them gasped.
Then father burst through the crowd and started screaming as soon as he saw me.
“You no-good son of a bitch! How dare you come here? You, who sneaked away from here like a thief in the night! You, who deserted your loving parents for your own selfish reasons! And broke your mother’s heart! You! Ungrateful bastard! Yes, you! You killed her! Abandoned her! Abandoned me! Go away! Get out! You murderer! You—!”
So I ran out, jumped into my car, and with the wheels screeching, raced away. But I was so stunned, so furious at my father’s distortions of the truth that I couldn’t cry until I was safely back in my hotel room.
I seriously, very seriously, planned to buy a gun, go back out there, and shoot him dead. A delicious plan, whose details, along with my weeping, kept me up all night long.
My poor mama!
I should have rescued her! Yes! Told her I’d take her with me to Oklahoma City! Saved her from him. Saved me from my guilt.
And I actually screamed out, “Gevalt!”
And I resolved to leave ASAP.
So I booked a flight to OKC that left the next evening, left a message for Collison telling him of my new plans, paid my bills, then sold the car back to a local Jolly Cholly huckster dealer for the $5,000 that was his first and only offer. Half of what I paid just six weeks ago. But I was in no mood to argue.
Nine hours later, I arrived at my new home. My new life.
Chapter Twenty
The Wiley Post Airport in Oklahoma City is named after a pilot who died in a plane crash.
Hmmm.
There were crowds of travelers bustling around the airport. Rosy-cheeked young lovelies, gray-haired men and women, as well as numerous pint-sized guys wearing ten-gallon hats.
I was met by a small, muscular fiftyish man with a round, friendly face, thick black hair, fathomless black eyes, large gray teeth that looked like small tombstones, and who was dressed in a satiny blue-and-gold-trimmed Thunder sweatsuit.
“Tommy Terwilliger, that’s me,” he said as I ducked beside him into the brand-new white Jeep Cherokee he led me to. “I’m proud to be a Okie, but I ain’t from Muskogee. Oklahoma City, the Jewel in the Red Dirt Desert, this is where I was born, raised, live, and hope to die.”
He said that he was the Thunder’s “unofficial get-it-done man” and had been working for the team ever since it moved there from Seattle. “I know everybody who’s anybody in this town. And they all know me. So’s that’s why I’m gonna pick you up tomorrer morning at nine right on the dot so’s I can take you to your new house and show you your new car. Everything’s already all set. It’ll be a big surprise. Botha them.”
I was already so surprised that I couldn’t think of anything to say.
“Call me Twig,” he said. Then he bragged about the advantages of living in what he called “Oak City.” The loyal, passionate fans. Warm winters. The Cowboy Hall of Fame. Good country-western music. “You’ve heard of the Red Dirt Rangers, right?”
Wrong, but I said right.
Fifty-yard-line tickets to the University of Oklahoma’s football games. Beautiful women. Great food of all kinds—Mexican, barbecue, “even Chinese which is what you guys from New York really like, right?”
Right, you putz.
He steered the car up a circular drive and braked to a sudden halt in front of the main entrance to the Oklahoma City Radisson. “And if anybody around here even looks at you with cross-eyes, you just tell ’em Twig got your back.”
A black teenager in a red-and-gold military-looking uniform hustled over to grab my suitcase and suit bag as soon as Twig pushed a button that popped open the back hatch.
“Good morning, Mister Twig,” he said, “and welcome to Oklahoma City, Mister Hersch. Just follow me, sir. You’re all checked in.”
Twig waved the bellhop over and handed him a $20 bill, saying, “Make sure Mister Hersch here gets the best treatment, Henry.”
“Yes, sir, Mister Twig. I sure will.”
“Tomorrer at nine on the dot,” he said to me before driving off.
I didn’t even have to sign my name or approach the front desk, because Henry led me to the elevator, then up to and into my room. A large penthouse suite on the top floor.
When I dug a $10 bill out of my wallet, Henry backed away.
“No, no, sir. Mister Twig already taken care of that. Anything you need, sir? You just call the front desk and aks for me. Henry.”
I hadn’t dozed on the plane and I was suddenly too weary to think. So I quickly undressed, plopped down on the huge bed, and fell asleep in an instant.
The house that Twig drove me to the next morning was in a neat, well-groomed residential neighborhood, and was situated well off the street on a surprisingly private one-acre lot. The interior was air-conditioned, included two spacious bedrooms, was filled with tasteful modern furniture, and featured a gigantic TV screen in the living room.
“Lookit,” he said as we walked through every room, “you push this button and the lawn gets automatically sprinkled. Lotsa closets. A big bed. All good stuff, right? It’s got a corrugated metal roof. And see out there? That little carport? It’s also got the same kinda roof. That’s important around here a’cause sometimes the hail comes down big and heavy like golf balls. Did you notice how many cars on the road have big dents on toppa them? That’s from the hailstones. And a house is better than a apartment a’cause of the privacy. You don’t need to have everybody knowing your private business. Right? And here you’re only about fifteen minutes from where you guys practice and twenty-two minutes on the dot from the arena.”
“Great. Wonderful. I really like this. I don’t know how to thank you.”
“You don’t have to thank me for nothing. Just doing my job.”
“So what’s this going to cost me?”
“That’s another surprise. See? The owner bought this for his son when the kid got married, but then them two got divorced after a couple a months when she came hom
e early from the beauty parlor and caught him fucking—pardon my French—her best friend. Anyhoo, the owner guy lives in Tulsa, but he’s a big Thunder fan what has season tickets. He wanted three grand a month, but I jewed him down to fifteen hundred what includes utilities.”
“Unh. Great. You jewed him down?”
“Sure did. You know how it is.”
“I do.”
Back in the car, Twig drove into the downtown section before pulling into a General Motors dealership. As he turned off the ignition, he asked, “How do you like this car?”
“It’s nice.”
“Sure is. Jeep’s the best kinda cars around here. What with the roads flooding and sometimes the sand blowing around and piling up on the roads too. Ya see? The Jeep’s got so high of a clearance that those things ain’t no problem. Oh, and it’s for you to use. ”
“Wow.”
“Best of it yet is you don’t have to pay nothing for this car a’cause they get to advertise it bein’ the Thunders’ official vehicle.”
“Damn! I feel like I must’ve died and gone to heaven.”
“It’s sure as shit that Oak City is a little bit of heaven, but don’t get too used to alla this.”
“What do you mean? I’ve got two years guaranteed.”
“That don’t mean squat. If you don’t get the job done, they could send you down to their D-League team in Stillwater. That means long bus rides, staying in cheap motels, no car for you to use, playing in fronta nobody. . . .You’d still get the money what’s coming to you, but it sure ain’t big-league livin’. A’course they could also buy you out for peanuts on the dollar.”
“Damn!”
“So you can’t be operatin’ on cruise control, buddy. You gotta bust your ass and produce or you’re outta here.”
That’s why, after asking him for directions and still making several wrong turns, I drove over to the practice facility, a large red-brick-and-glass building that used to be some kind of warehouse. I checked out the spacious, carpeted locker room (which already had my name above one of the stalls and contained three boxes of Nike sneakers!), the weight room, the administrative offices, and the court. I was wandering around the place until I was recognized by a young kid wearing a red Thunder Ban-Lon shirt, who directed me to the equipment room in the basement.
Down there, a middle-aged black guy named Jameer gave me three practice uniforms and asked me what uniform number I wanted. Back in high school (Number 39) and college (Number 21) I’d been given whatever numbered jersey was available in my size, but now given a choice, I asked for Number 18.
That’s because the Hebrew letters that spell chai, which means “living,” add up to 18. So 18 is interpreted as meaning “life.”
Once a Jew, always a Jew.
I raced back to the locker room, suited up, found a loaded ball rack on the court, and started shooting. Pulling left. Getting comfortable shooting treys around the horn. Even running a few wind sprints.
After about thirty minutes, Zack Livingston showed up. As we took turns rebounding each other’s shots and returning the ball to the shooter, he was still bubbling with excitement.
“This dude name Twiggy picked me up at the airport and hooked me up to the max. I got a super-good two-bedroom apartment, all furnished first-class, and I only got to pay five hundred a month! And listen to this! I also got me a free car! A brand-new Ford Focus! Ain’t that the shit! He hook you up too?”
“Yeah, he did.”
Meanwhile, I inspected Zack’s jumpers. He had a chicken wing that put a sideways rotation on the ball, plus his release had a slight clutch that flattened his shot.
After another few minutes, he tossed the ball to me where I was standing straightaway and at the cusp of the bonus arc. “Make it, take it,” he said.
The resulting swish gave me the initial possession as we began a series of one-on-one games.
If he couldn’t shoot himself in the foot, Zack had a variety of spins and changes of direction moves that resulted in his hitting several long-armed jump hooks and floaters. Shots that he probably wouldn’t be able to get against opponents bigger than me.
But it was his defense that impressed me. Quick hands, terrific lateral movement, and an admirable belligerence. He was on me like stink on shit. I soon discovered that I couldn’t beat him on drives, but after he blocked a short pull-up jumper (going left!), I found the key to beating him.
Indeed, he became so intent on smacking every shot I looked to take that I could get him off balance and on his toes with head fakes, ball fakes, even eyebrow fakes.
That’s why I beat him in all three games—15–13, 15–12, and 17–15.
Through it all, Zack never lost his good cheer. Complimenting me when I made an especially convincing fake, or when I nailed an off-balance jumper.
What a nice guy he was!
Turned out that Zack was raised by his grandparents in one of the worst neighborhoods in Detroit after his father was killed in a botched drug deal and his mother, who witnessed the killing, simply vanished. His grandfather was a preacher, who raised him to value righteousness, humility, and to take the words and example of Jesus to heart. As I got to know him better, it was clear that his grandparents had done a wonderful job. I mean, the guy was shy, humble, honest, without guile, and spent all of our traveling time studying his Bible.
Although, I must say, he did have a weakness for the ladies.
“I don’t suppose, E, you know a lot of friends in Detroit?”
“None at all.”
“Good, ‘cause I’m gonna need alla your tickets.”
“No problem.”
“Thanks, bro.”
And we embraced in a hands-to-hearts hug.
No surprise that Zack, my fellow rookie, would be my only trustworthy friend and confidant on the team. That is, as long as he was around.
Just as we finished our last game, we were joined by Rashon Williams and Darren Mosley, the Thunder’s high-scoring backcourt duo.
Williams was about my height but much more buffed. He had a large tattoo of a cross on his right shoulder and a tat of a radiant Jesus on his left shoulder. An easy smile split his clean-shaven face, and his long dreadlocks were braided into a ponytail. There were several reasons why Williams was smiling. Last season he had been the league’s leading scorer, averaging 30.6 points per game. Plus, he’d just signed a five-year extension that was said to be worth over $100 million.
Mosley was dark-skinned, clean-headed, and sported a drooping Fu Manchu mustache that, along with his narrow, squinting eyes, gave him a menacing look. He had averaged 20.2 points during the Thunder’s miserable 36–46 season.
In fact, the only other player on the team who’d averaged double digits was their seven-foot center, Rodney Carlson, who scored 12.3 points to go with his 10.8 rebounds per game.
Williams and Mosley both approached Zack and exchanged bro hugs—right hands clasped and arms embracing so that their intermingled hands also touched each other heart-to-heart.
“The Z-Man,” said Williams.
“Yeah,” said Mosley. “Mister Z.”
They then greeted me with the shake-thumb-lock-and-finger-grip ritual, but saw no need to introduce themselves.
“Yo, rook,” said Williams.
“Yeah,” said Mosley. “You betta be as good as you supposed to be.”
After taking a few shots they challenged us to play them two-on-two—whereupon they soundly kicked our collective black and white asses.
Williams was simply too strong, too quick, too clever, and much too skilled for me to offer more than token defense. He shot over me, dunked over me, and even faked me off my feet.
On the other hand, he wasn’t much interested in playing defense, so I could routinely get off good shots—and make most of them. Likewise, Mosley had an easy time scoring against Zac
k, who had a tough time making his own shots—even getting two jump hooks swatted.
After they trounced us twice—15–5 and 15–8—they bump-fisted Zack and me and walked off the court.
“Man,” said Zack. “Those niggas can ball! You watch them on the TV is one thing. But to be live and in-person and get your ass kicked . . . that’s something else. But you played good, E.”
“When I had the ball, maybe, but not when he had it. It was like I was invisible when he wanted to score.”
“Oh, man. I’m just hoping, praying, I can hang with them.”
“You’ll learn, Z. We both will. . . . Anyway, you ready to hit the weight room?”
“Nah, man. I got a lady waiting for me back in my crib.”
“Jeez. You move real fast.”
“Got to. Moving too slow don’t get you nowheres. . . . Later.”
Over the next several days, more of the Thunder veterans showed up for informal runs, and casually introduced themselves. All of them were marginally friendly, except for the two guys whose daylight would likely be shaded by me and Zack. And just as it had been when I first started at USA, I wasn’t allowed to play until the holdovers were finished. So I only got to play with Zack, the still-limping Hightower, a few of last year’s brothers of the bench, and several other roster hopefuls.
If Zack and I were still bubbling with excitement, the others played with a palpable anger that was dangerous. Especially to those scrubs who played the same positions as us.
Once again, I was forced to play passively and avoid unnecessary contact.
Then, with the start of training camp only three days away, both Zack and I decided to forgo these scrimmages. Instead, we made plans to do some running and lifting, but Zack never showed up.
Chapter Twenty-One
At the time, there were several things about Brook Davis that amazed me. How/why he became an NBA coach. And how/why, after four losing seasons in Oklahoma City, he hadn’t been fired yet.
But after a while, I discovered all of the relevant facts.
Trouthe, Lies, and Basketball Page 11
