Can I Keep My Jersey?

by Paul Shirley

  While in Greece, Keith met a woman with whom he had been set up—a Turkish sports broadcaster by the name of Aylin. (Last name of…something with a bunch of t’s, k’s, and c’s with extra appendages.) He a fifty-year-old Jewish agent/attorney from New Jersey, she a forty-year-old Muslim sportscaster from Istanbul—a match made in heaven. With all the similarities, I was amazed they didn’t meet sooner.

  Keith brought Aylin to the United States and married her. As we have all noticed, Armageddon was not brought on by this, the ultimate cultural and theological clash, and both parties seem to be quite happy. After the wedding, the happy couple was forced by the chaos in their respective lives to delay their honeymoon—it was the beginning of basketball season and the groom is, well, a basketball agent. Keith probably thought it was safe to take off for the honeymoon in early November. Most of the players in his stable can keep a job. Their honeymoon is also a chance for Keith to visit some of his players in Europe, while also checking the market for prospective suckers who could be deceived into employing one Paul Shirley. For better or worse, he has not encountered many teams in Europe clamoring to shell out large amounts of cash. That knowledge, coupled with the fact that I was rather close to making an NBA team leads us to think that it may be prudent to stay on this continent for the year.

  I would probably be more apt to return to Europe if not for the swindle to which I was subjected in Greece. As I mentioned, I signed a contract that was to pay me $100,000 for the period beginning November 1 and ending at the close of the season. That salary—as is usually the case with European contracts—net of any taxes. The team agreed to pay income tax in Greece, leaving me responsible for any difference between the American tax rate and the Greek one. I received my first payment in whole and on time. It would prove to be the only such instance, as the team began half payments in December. I complained mildly at first but assumed that my illustrious agent would take care of the situation.

  My team’s non-adherence to my contracted pay schedule was not the only problem. Additionally, the conditions of our gym left something to be desired. At some point, vandals broke out the windows next to the court and the temperature inside equalized with that of the out-of-doors. Winters in Greece are not frigid. Nonetheless, outdoor basketball is not recommended. The open-air arrangement did provide some relief from the massive cloud of smoke that usually hung over the court. It would be my opinion that Greeks dislike two things: lung health and authority. No Smoking signs were displayed prominently at our gym but were universally ignored. Apparently, it was too much to ask for a two-hour hiatus so that the participants in a basketball game might be spared the inhalation of massive amounts of cigarette smoke while playing.

  Their love for Philip Morris aside, the Greek people were great, I liked most of my teammates, and I liked Athens. I justified the lack of remuneration by recalling that I was being allowed the free use of a car and was paying no rent for a very nice apartment. And I was being paid something; after a lifetime of no real income, anything seemed like a fortune.

  I left Greece with $52,000 of the $105,000 owed me. (The extra $5,000 was a contracted bonus for my team’s advancement to the playoffs.) I was told that we would sue the team and that I would receive the money eventually, although it could take several years.

  The lawsuit went to trial that summer. I won. The team appealed—on what grounds, I do not know. I won the appeal. Still, I felt no confidence that I would receive the missing money. In my time in Athens, I learned that the Greeks—at least the ones in charge of my team—are a duplicitous lot. Team officials would lie to me with no hesitation. For example, sometime after the team finally found an apartment for me, a knock at my front door roused me from the pathetic e-mail I was composing to some girl back home. My Greek landlord was in the hall, holding an eviction notice. He told me I had to leave the apartment that weekend because the team hadn’t paid rent in three months. When I informed the team’s manager, he assured me that the man would be paid soon. He wasn’t—making my every trek through the lobby of my building a tenuous one.

  Several teams were in similarly dire financial straits. As I wrote above, Keith had players on some of those other teams. The financially troubled teams petitioned the Greek minister of sport regarding their problems. The Council of Sport, or whatever it is called, decided to help its basketball teams and passed a new policy on player salaries. In the process, the teams were forgiven their respective debts and made to promise not to allow themselves to get into arrears again.

  I will never see the missing $53,000.

  Thus I am somewhat leery of a return to Europe.

  Because Keith and I had decided soon after my departure from the Hawks that it was likely that I would stay in the United States to play this season, I explored the options here to the best of my ability. In our country, someone who does not make the NBA basically has two choices. Neither is especially attractive. There is the CBA (Continental Basketball Association), which has located its franchises in vibrant cities like Gary, Indiana, and Boise, Idaho. The CBA is chock-full of talented players who are missing something that keeps them out of the NBA. Whether what a player is lacking is an opportunity, a jump shot, or the ability to put down a crack pipe is determined by NBA scouts that travel to games.

  The other option is the NBDL (National Basketball Developmental League), the year-old minor league that is the baby of the NBA. The NBDL hopes to develop as a more legitimate minor-league system for the NBA by playing its games in destination cities like Mobile, Alabama, and Fayetteville, North Carolina.

  Keith and I think the CBA is less terrible than the NBDL, and after careful consideration, it seems that I will soon join the Grand Rapids Hoops for the rest of the season. That is, assuming that the team will change its nickname. The Grand Rapids Hoops? Jesus Christ.

  November 22

  Tonight I realized, while crossing a blustery street in frigid South Dakota in search of food, that I may have reached rock bottom in the world of professional basketball. This epiphany presented itself whileI pondered how the person who programmed the electronic marquee for the Sioux Falls Convention Center (it’s on the way to the deli I was visiting) could have come to the conclusion that the British rock band’s name is spelled Def Leappard.

  I am now a member of the Yakima Sun Kings of the CBA. We (I am able to say “we” now that I have been a Sun King for all of three days) are at the beginning of a Dakotas road trip that includes two games in twenty-six hours, with about four hundred miles of highway in between.

  The careful reader would note that I thought I would soon be joining the Grand Rapids franchise of the CBA. That plan fell apart when Keith got a bad feel from the Hoops about how I would be used on the court…and treated off it. So he went to Plan—well, I would think it’s about Plan K, and set me up with coach Bill Bayno and the mighty Sun Kings. (Plan A: making the team with the Hawks. On through Plan J, which was to play basketball anywhere other than Yakima, Washington. I think Plan L might be to take up goat herding.) I acquiesced; I did not have any loyalty to any of the franchises in question and was fairly tired of living in my parents’ basement. I even found a silver lining in the plan. Maurice Carter, one of the players who, like me, had been cut from the Hawks at the end of training camp, played for the team in Yakima. We had become friends, so I knew I would have at least one ally on the team.

  I was supposed to leave on Thursday morning—which I learned on Wednesday afternoon at four-thirty. I was a little apprehensive; the entire scenario sounded relatively miserable.

  After a sleepless night, I was primed and ready for my first CBA experience. I flew to Seattle, where I joined the team, which was traveling home from a game in Illinois. I had learned the night before my departure that my friend Maurice had recently decided to return home because of an injury, thus ripping out any lining, silver or otherwise, from the situation. The team made the three-hour bus ride to Yakima, where I was shown to my quarters. A major kink in the original Gran
d Rapids plan had been that team’s inability to arrange a roommate-less situation for me. The Sun Kings did find a place I could call my own—a hotel room. Actually, I mislead. It’s a motel room, as in the door to my room opens to the world. The entire team is staying at the palatial Cedars Inn and Suites for the balance of the season. I don’t think my room is one of the suites…although it does have a microwave and a refrigerator. Let me reiterate, for emphasis, though—my door opens to the parking lot.

  After taking in my new digs, I was whisked off to the city’s premier eating establishment for a meet–the–Sun Kings engagement. And so I sat in the Burger Ranch in Yakima, Washington, and signed autographs until the hunger of the massive crowd of nine was sated (or maybe it was until my basket of chicken strips came out of the fryer), and wondered if my life could possibly get any better.

  On Friday, game day, we had a midmorning shoot-around to prepare for the night’s contest. I signed a lucrative CBA contract thirty seconds prior to the quasi-practice and my career with the Yakima Sun Kings was under way. (Nine hundred dollars a week, before taxes. Not exactly the NBA.) In my first action, against the Great Lakes Storm (coached by former Iowa State legend Jeff Grayer), I was extremely sluggish and my timing was off, but I managed to score nineteen points in a supporting role. Unfortunately, I was not around for the end of the game. My eyebrow had a rather forceful encounter with the forehead of an opposing player with about six minutes left in the game. I made a bloody mess of the court and then retired to the locker room, where a surprisingly proficient doctor stitched me up. It was a nasty gash; it gaped impressively, but it was directly in my left eyebrow, so the scar shouldn’t hamper the modeling career on which I plan to embark upon the conclusion of my Hall of Fame–caliber basketball career.

  I realize that there are worse things than being paid to play basketball. But three days into this, in a Best Western in Sioux Falls, South Dakota, I am struggling to see the forest for the trees. Or the light at the end of the tunnel. Or whatever euphemism that most eloquently expresses that I am not quite sure why exactly I am doing this to myself. The proverbial NBA dream seems a long way from here.

  December 1

  We recently had a Sunday off. I was looking forward to a pleasant day of contemplating the tensile strength of one of my belts if used as a noose when one of our assistant coaches informed me that he was driving to Seattle to work with a player who might join our team. The workout was to take place at the Sonics practice facility; said coach worked for that team for eighteen years and had access to their courts. He asked if I would go along. Apparently the Sonics brass had expressed some mild interest in my basketball stylings. I was not thrilled to spend an off day driving to and from Seattle, but as I have no real life and kind of want to play in the NBA, I thought I could sacrifice one lazy Sunday afternoon. We set out early in the morning and made the fog-filled journey to Mariner-ville. Upon arrival in the city, we picked up the player who would theoretically join us in Yakima, a Greek player named Giannis Giannoulis, pronounced tar-JEEK casstee-LEE-dis. (Not really. I was just checking to see if anyone was paying attention.) Giannoulis played for Panathinaikos in Athens last year but was suspended from competition for two years by the Greek sport authorities because he tested positive for a controlled substance. He maintains that he was given a cold medication by his team doctor and then took it as directed, resulting in his positive test. I tend to believe him. Most everything even remotely medicinal will taint the blood in some way, in the view of international guidelines. Acetaminophen (Tylenol) is a banned substance in European basketball circles. Seriously.

  Giannoulis went to training camp with the Toronto Raptors this year but was cut before the start of the season. His only remaining option in the world is to play in the CBA. (Basketball option, that is; I suppose nothing is stopping him from becoming a mortician.) Evidently, American leagues do not have to abide by the rules the rest of the world holds dear. Through a friend of a friend, Giannoulis ended up in contact with coach Bill Bayno and took the trip over the ocean hoping to continue his basketball career.

  After we picked up the Greek in Seattle, we drove to the arena where our assistant coach worked us out for an hour…without viewage from any Sonics personnel. Ostensibly, I was there to help test Giannoulis for the benefit of the Sun Kings, but my only real motivation was the hope of some contact with the Sonics higher-ups. I was miffed when our workout ended. But just as we were leaving, the general manager, Rick Sund, appeared. When he was introduced to me and we had dispensed with the usual pleasantries, he said, “You know, Paul, we knew you were coming up here today with Steve [our assistant coach]. Had one more of our guys been hurt, we were going to sign you for a day.” The Sonics were down to eight players, and one of those was questionable for the night’s game. The NBA requires eight players in uniform for any one game. So my fate—at least for one day—was determined by how one millionaire felt about his groin injury. Dammit. After talking to Sund, Giannoulis and I re-fired the inner furnaces and went through a brief secondary workout. (Giannoulis was about to pass out—he “not in so good shape.”) Sund watched, but I didn’t catch him running off to find a pen and a contract, so I returned to Yakima less one day of rest but having gained a little exposure.

  After my brush with the NBA, it was time to think about a more important issue, namely, Thanksgiving. Or, more accurately, the avoidance of suicidal thoughts as I spent Thanksgiving away from home yet again.

  For my money, the only thing more depressing than an Indian reservation casino filled with people who can’t afford to be there is a Thanksgiving dinner held at one. This was Thanksgiving number seven in a row away from my family. Fortunately, I was able to spend a part of the day with a hundred or so of my closest Mexican, Indian, and white-trash friends. I would have considered the food there pretty good…if I were a Sudanese refugee. In fact, it was the worst Thanksgiving dinner I have ever consumed.

  I am faced with the situation yearly, yet I never learn. I see turkey, mashed potatoes, and stuffing on some buffet table and I think of Grandma’s turkey, mashed potatoes, and stuffing. While my mind is envisioning a delectable meal, the cold reality of what is about to be perpetrated upon my stomach is slightly less than that. In this year’s case, I made it about halfway through the turkey loaf, instant mashed potatoes, and cold stuffing before giving up and trying the dessert table. It is hard to screw up pumpkin filling in the process of scooping it from the can to the pie shell.

  December 15

  Of late, my life has been a blur of bad hotels, empty arenas, and long bus rides. I’m not sure who decided that every CBA team should be located in a city near the Arctic Circle. I do know that I’d like to have that person shot. Logistics also seem to be a difficult task for the CBA front office. In my short time with the Sun Kings, I have already played in two back-to-back sets of games—but with a six-hour bus ride in between each. The first, during which we played in Sioux Falls one night and Bismarck the next, seemed somewhat acceptable, since we did play two different teams. However, I can’t justify dual games against the Idaho Stampede—one in Yakima, one in Boise. After the first game, both teams loaded onto buses to drive across eastern Washington and Idaho. We slept through the day and then donned the opposite uniform as the night before—home became road, and vice versa—for a game in their home arena. I can’t exactly imagine Allen Iverson agreeing to such an arrangement.

  Lessons learned in the past week:

  1. Bismarck must be in Saskatchewan. Such is the only explanation for how far it is from Sioux Falls.

  2. Ordering from a Wendy’s drive-through—on foot—on a late December night in South Dakota is a poor plan.

  2b. Fast food should not be a part of anyone’s training diet.

  3. I hate sleeping with another person in my room.

  4. I would like an NBA team to sign me—I am ready and willing. I’ve already had enough of the CBA.

  The bones in my foot did an awkward little dance during
one of the games that made me hate the CBA. I started a game against the Dakota Wizards like a ball of fire, scoring my team’s first four points. After that, I pretty much took the night off. I could tell before the game that I was out of sync, but I couldn’t tell Coach Bayno that I didn’t have my best stuff—I’m not a middle reliever. I muddled my way through the first half and into the third quarter. Then, after a rare steal by me, I took off on the subsequent breakaway, but in a shockingly slow manner. It seemed like I was running in mud. When I got to the other end of the court, I attempted to make a move to the basket. In the process, I somehow managed to come down on the side of my foot. I jogged back down the court before I realized that something was wrong. After a brief discussion on the bench, I retired to the training room, where it was determined that I needed some X-rays, pronto. After the game, I went with much trepidation to the local clinic, where the physician’s assistant who happened to be at the game examined my films. By his reckoning, I had an avulsion in a bone in my left foot. (An avulsion fracture is a condition wherein the ligament pulls a piece of the bone away from the main body of the bone.) To him, though, it looked like an old injury. The acute pain I was feeling was, he was 80 percent sure, an aggravation of the old problem. I was relieved. Kind of. I would have been more relieved if he had been a real doctor. A person doesn’t usually choose to stop short of medical school in order to become a PA. The fear of a certain standardized test often has something to do with his decision.

  Before the X-ray, I had some time on the bench to contemplate my possible fate. At the time, the outlook was pretty grim. The trainer and I were afraid that I had really done something nasty to myself. As I sat there and tried to imagine what I would do for the rest of the year if I had to rehabilitate an injury, I was struck with the realization that, for all my hatred of the CBA, I would be devastated to have my season cut short right now. I would be less disappointed if the team grew tired of me and released me. At least I would have given this my best effort and would be leaving because of something I could control—my own ability to play. A two-month rehab period at this point in the year would do very little to help my basketball career. In fact, it would probably destroy the season for me. I haven’t exactly made enough of a name to withstand such a setback. This really is a fragile existence.