by Lance Allred
Part Four
Vagabond
23
“Lance?” the deep voice asked over the phone.
“Yes.”
“John Greig, man.”
“Oh, hi. What’s going on?”
John Greig was Jermain Boyette’s agent, and Boyette was the senior who led Weber to an undefeated year in conference play during my red-shirt year in ’03. Coach Cravens and John Greig had a long-standing relationship and considered each other good friends. Coach had held John off from contacting me about representation when John wanted to do so during my junior year.
When Coach Cravens finally let John in on the race for me, he was well behind, as I was already picking out my selection of suitors. Seeing that he came in so late, and not knowing the full story about how Coach Cravens had respectfully asked him to hold off, I never gave John ample time to recruit me, believing that Dave had been the first to want to work with me.
At Portsmouth, John had introduced himself to me and my dad. And at the Vegas summer camp, while I was with the Clippers, John came up to me toward the end and once again just checked on me and congratulated me. And now, two weeks later, here I was on the phone with him.
“Just calling to check on you. Coach Cravens asked me to look in on your situation and see how things were going. What’s the word? What are you hearing?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Nothing at all.”
“You haven’t had any offers yet overseas?”
“No.”
“You’re kidding!”
“No.”
“Wow.”
“I know. I’m close to firing Dave. We don’t communicate well. But I’m afraid of a lawsuit.”
“What are you talking about?” John asked, befuddled.
“I don’t want to go through a lawsuit if I fire Dave.”
“What?! It doesn’t work like that. All you do is mail him a ten-day termination notice, and after that it’s done with. People fire agents all the time.”
“Oh. OK.”
John told me what I needed to do, but he also took the reigns that day and began making phone calls to Italy, where he himself had played and where he had a good rapport.
I called Dave and fired him, at which point he confessed, without much remorse, “Well, I have to admit, this is a weight off of my shoulders.” It was best for both of us.
John Greig called me the next day with options.
When you call John Greig and get his voice mail, you’re greeted with a low, deep voice saying, “Hello and thank you for calling Sports Talent.” An image of a disc jockey for a soft-jazz radio station, solitarily sitting in a dark, smoky room, as a half-burned cigarette smolders in an ashtray, comes to mind. On his résumé John Greig notes that he has worked in the record industry, producing Kenny G. How cool is that?* He sounds mean and black. In fact, many people mistake his race. John was hired to play for a club in France, and when he arrived and they saw that he was white, they sent him home. John Greig has lost many potential clients because they thought he was black, me being one of them. I didn’t give him a chance at first because I thought he was black and was afraid I might not have enough things in common with a black agent. I didn’t know if he would be relatable. Conversely, because of this prejudicial folly he has won some clients who otherwise might never have considered him in the first place. When John finally showed up to meet Jermaine Boyette in Gary, Indiana, Jermaine’s father asked where John Greig was and why he had sent his assistant.
When you finally meet John, the voice does not match the man, as you see a gangly six-foot-nine white guy who wears Jordans with his cargo shorts and polo shirt, with some midcalf socks to seal the deal. Sometimes he will be wearing denim shorts instead of khaki. He drives a Ford F-250 as he listens to country music while driving his black clients around.
Currently based out of Seattle, John Greig grew up in Oregon and played at the U of O before joining the Seattle Supersonics in the early eighties and then finishing his career overseas, playing in Switzerland, France, and Italy. Being well traveled gives him a foot up on so many other agents, as he knows the tricks of the trade on both sides of the pond. He knows the markets of all the countries, and the budgets of the clubs within those countries. He knows his stuff.
John Greig is as smooth a talker as they come; he could sell ice to an Eskimo. But what he has that most agents don’t is brutal honesty. When he told me, when I was narrowing down my list of agents, that I had very little chance of being drafted, I checked him off as someone who had little faith in me. He really was just being honest. John hated it when, in his days as a player, his agents would get his hopes up on jobs or salaries that were mere speculation—which, of course, led only to disappointment. He hated it so much that he swore he would never do it to any of his players. He tells them the cold, hard truth, letting them deal with the hurt up front rather than down the road. “Hope for the best, plan for the worst” is his motto.
“What is the plan?” he asks whenever I’m sifting through options. He won’t take the first job available for his client, nor will he take the highest-paying job if it isn’t the best situation for his client in the long run. He will give you a preference or his advice, but he will do his best to line up as many options as he can and then let you make the final call. He may disagree with it and will let you know if he does, but in the end he will let you choose your own fate. And if your decision, which he advised against, turns into a disaster, he will be there to help you out of it.
John Greig has never made me sign a contract with him. We work together in trust, our word and oath as strong as our bond. In this arbitrary, unforgiving world of basketball, John Greig has become my second father, and I’m a son that he never had.
John does not have many clients in the NBA, because he does not go after just anyone. He prefers working with players who attended all four years of college and graduated with a degree. He won’t go after the prima donnas, because he has no desire to babysit egos, because he does not need the money. In this business loaded with wealth, egos, and politics, John comes as close to being altruistic as anyone possibly can.
He has stuck with me through thick and thin. Through depression, anger, and injury. He has encouraged me when I have needed it, as well as disciplining and reprimanding me when the moment has called for it. Like so many others before him, John Greig gave me his guiding hand, without which I wouldn’t be where I am today.
Shortly after I hired John, Dave called to inform me that a team in Turkey that he had been working with was offering me a contract.
The original contract was for $80,000. While I was excited to actually have an offer on the table, word carried far and wide that Turkey was an unstable market. There was money to be made in Turkey, but it came with a risk. There was no player’s union in Turkey, and thus no job security for the player if a team decided to cut him, regardless of contract.
I talked to John about my concerns. He didn’t recommend I accept the offer. Though it was near the end of August, he told me to remain calm, as the season wouldn’t officially begin until October. The months of August and September are for conditioning and training, or so it is claimed. But John informed me that what goes on during those two months is really just a glorified tryout. The team in Turkey wanted me to go out there as soon as possible so they could evaluate me. If they didn’t want me, they’d have time to send me back—in spite of a signed contract—and look for another player.
A contract in America means a bound agreement. I’d learn that in Turkey it’s simply a batch of papers with some abstract numbers that leave cause for interpretation. I’d learn that when a team signs you for a contract, the number you see on your contract means only that that’s the most you’ll make.
After listening to John’s concerns, Galatasaray, the Turkish sports organization that was interested in me, raised the offer to $90,000 tax free, with $20,000 of it due to me upon arrival and my passing o
f a physical. The offer caused us to reevaluate the situation. If they invested twenty thousand in me up front, they’d be slow to cut their losses if they had an inkling to waive me. I told myself that the deal was a solid option, but I could never bring myself to feel good about it. My gut told me it was all wrong, that it was a farce.
John was very hesitant about the job. “I won’t lie,” he said. “For a rookie, this is a very nice contract in a very nice league, with a lot of money to be made in the future if you do well. But that’s best-case scenario. It’s a high-risk situation.”
Things were tight financially for my parents. Along with all the traveling they did during my senior year to support me, they were also helping with Court’s bills and trying to find the funds for Tara’s wedding in September.
That summer when I came home from camp with the Clippers, I had no money to stay anywhere other than on Mom and Dad’s couch. All of my immediate possessions were in that living room. I was crowding Mom and Dad’s space, but not nearly so much as the elephant named disappointment that sat in the middle of it all. I could feel the tension between me and Dad every day. He loved me, but he was also very frustrated—not with me specifically, but with life.
One day in August, while I was sitting in the kitchen stewing over the offer from Galatasaray, Dad finally blew up and began to rant at me about how I was lazy, didn’t clean up after myself, was in his space, and didn’t do anything to help around the house. Most of these accusations were true. I was busy trying to stay out of the house, shooting hoops or running or staying at Josh’s, because I couldn’t bear the tension that lingered at Mom and Dad’s. It was a no-win situation either way: if I stayed at home and cleaned up around the house, I was still in Dad’s way and would be a constant, visible reminder of failed expectations. If I left the house and tried to stay out of Dad’s way, I wouldn’t be around to help.
I began to hide away, doing my best to avoid people and their questioning: So where are you going? Have you heard anything? What about the Jazz? Do you really think you could handle overseas?
With each fielded question came another painful reminder that I had failed. I wasn’t a collegiate big shot anymore. I had no team, no place to call my own. In my mind, I could deduce that I was no better than the old hacks who play at the community center trying to recapture their glory days. I became agoraphobic. I didn’t want people to look at me, let alone talk to me. I didn’t want their eyes, filled with either pity or spiteful amusement, boring into me. I wanted to be forgotten.
Dad’s tirade ended with how boneheaded I was being, not able to see how fortunate I was to have a $90,000 tax-free contract waiting for me. With all the financial struggle he was going through and the sacrifices he had made to help me get this far, he couldn’t understand why I was so hesitant to take the money.
I went into the living room, packed up what little things I had, and left to stay in Vanessa’s apartment with her and her husband, Nathan.
I then called John and, against his warning, told him I wanted to take the Galatasaray job.
“OK. Again, just look at the positive angle. This is a really nice contract for a rookie. Let’s go from there.” John did his best to assuage my fears.
The next day I signed the contract and faxed it to John.
I was going to Istanbul, the old capital of the Eastern Roman Empire, where the Hagia Sofia and the Blue Mosque resided.
John called my dad to give him the full details of the job and the risks involved with taking it. Dad drove over to see me and pleaded with me to not take the job just because of the money. He said that he had been wrong and that he wanted me to go where I felt it would be best for me.
But he had been right to confront me. I was useless that summer. I had no worth. I wanted to leave. I wanted to be out of that house, out from under the eye of the family as well as my community, which had invested so much in me, to no avail.
When Mom came home from Montana, where she had been for a week, she quickly came up to me and, with tears in her eyes, asked, “Are you sure you want to do this? Don’t make this choice if it does not feel right. Don’t make it just for the money. Are you sure?”
“Yes,” I said, knowing I was making a mistake. It took great effort to ignore my gut instinct, which told me this was all wrong. For as logical and rational as I claim to be, I had a hard time rationalizing this decision, even to myself. It was a decision made on pure emotion. I wanted to disappear.
She strained to say, “I need to know…that you’re OK.”
I did my best to reassure my mother with a smile. “I’m fine,” I lied.
And she knew I was lying.
Upon the completion of the contract from all ends, I took out a $10,000 loan against it. I gave it all to my parents—not as a loan, but as a gift—so that they could help contribute to Tara’s wedding. I was grateful for what they had done for me. I wanted to give them more, so much more. But I couldn’t say it in words because I was so ashamed. I could only give them a check. I know my parents didn’t invest in me expecting a financial return. They invested in me because they loved me and wanted me to succeed and be happy. But even though I knew this, when I saw my parents struggling financially, mostly to provide for their children—me especially—I couldn’t help but feel remorse. But I had never asked them to come follow me on the road. They chose to. It was where they found their joy.
I wanted to buy my parents land in Driggs, Idaho, where they could build a home, one last time. I wanted to give my mother so many things that she deserved, that this world has not given her. All I could do was give them a check, with a sad smile on my face, as I got on the plane and left my family behind to travel to the other side of the world.
24
Before I landed in Istanbul, I had never seen a three-lane highway accommodate six lanes of cars. Common logic says that if you simply let the cars go every other one and merge into the lanes politely, traffic will go as fast as it can. Whereas in Istanbul, common sense is nowhere to be found. Cars will hug the guardrails, even scrape them—paint jobs be damned—en route to wherever they feel it’s so important to go. Bumpers will tap and side-view mirrors will collide and drivers will look straight ahead pretending that nothing happened.
I was taken to a tiny hotel, with tiny rooms and tiny beds, in the middle of the mass urbanization that was the crossroads of the world. The next day I was escorted on foot to the practice facility, which was only a few minutes away. Erbil, the team manager, came knocking on my door and said in his broken English, “Lance,…I take you to practice now. Understand?”
My first morning at the gym, I met Coach Oner. He was an older man and had said this would be his last year coaching. He was very welcoming. He was also totally Mafia. He had six separate businesses that he ran on the side and would often show up for practice an hour late, have us do a few drills, and then go back up to his office, where he conducted his other enterprises. He had a chauffeur escort him around town in his Jaguar and had the same setup for his son, who was on the junior team.
Later that day while riding in a taxi, I just stared out the window in awe at the endless ocean of concrete with beautiful towering mosques rising up over the hills. I had never seen anything like it.
The following Monday, I passed the physical exam, and I was paid a week later upon final certification from the doctors. I received my $20,000 advance up front—in cash. That’s when I knew something was wrong. They gave me some big spiel about how it was wise to always take your money in cash, to make sure that it was all there, and how there were often typos and failed payments with wire transactions. A receipt for a wire transaction was just as good as cash—I knew that much. They were just paying me under the table to avoid taxes.
For two weeks I lingered in the tiny hotel in the sweltering humid heat. I listened to books on tape to pass the time while I wasn’t at practice. I had not yet received the car that I was due, nor had I been moved into an apartment. They were stalling, and I already knew,
within that first week, that I was in for a ride.
The training coach walked us through a warm-up drill every day and then ushered us into the weight room before practice. We did the same lifts every day. If you had any questions about what lifts you should be doing, you were to just recall from memory what you had done the day before and you were golden. We did bench presses, squats, biceps curls, dead lifts, and hang cleans every day. Every day. I’m no certified trainer, but even I could tell you, from trial and error, that if you don’t give your muscles a day to recover, they will never get stronger. For the first two weeks I was there, we did the same lifts at the same weight every day. No one went up in strength. No one. It was stupid. And if you tried to venture off and do your own lift, even after you completed the regimen, the strength coach would give you a no-no look and tell you to stick with his routine. What could I say? It was their house, their rules, and their stupidity.
After weights we had practice with Coach Oner’s two assistants, who smoked as they coached us, awkwardly, through drills. When they picked up a ball, you could tell it didn’t feel natural in their hands. They were probably old soccer coaches whose time had come, who had no other livelihood, and so took up a job coaching basketball, even though they had no clue what they were doing. When they shot the ball, they proved your assumptions correct.
In our first preseason game I had twenty-five points and fourteen rebounds, surprising everyone. Coach Oner came up to me, gave me a kiss on the cheek, and said, “You’re a steal!” implying that I was well worth the $90,000 they had bid for me. They even called John Greig several times just to reiterate how pleased they were. “You don’t play like a rookie,” Oner said to me while offering me a ride in his car.
“Probably because I’m much older than your normal rookie,” I said, referring to the six years I spent in college basketball.
This conversation could’ve been a great one had the circumstances been less awkward. I was riding in Coach Oner’s car with the $20,000 they had paid me in cash. For a week I had been walking around Istanbul with all of this money in my pocket, trying to figure out how to get it into my bank account back home in Salt Lake. Because of the heightened security measures around the world after 9/11, I couldn’t open a bank account in Turkey without a Turkish social security number. And they wouldn’t blindly transfer it in faith, either. The only way I could get it out of Istanbul was to carry it out. I didn’t want to be hiding this money in my hotel room any longer, so I asked Coach Oner to stash it away for me in his bank account. I trusted him, and he liked me, and he was honest with me, always.
