Can I Keep My Jersey?

by Paul Shirley

  Wednesday dawned, and Keith told me over the phone that the Rockets had realized that the conditions surrounding my first workout—that my legs had not been fully functional, for example—had been less than ideal. Poor conditions notwithstanding, the team was pleased with the way I had played. Negativity, out; optimism, in.

  Over breakfast, I read in the day’s paper that the Rockets had signed a player named Scott Padgett the day before. Apparently, Van Gundy hadn’t been lying. Pessimism snuck back in. Along with confusion regarding the point of all that exertion. That afternoon, I played well in our second scheduled workout. The NBA Hall of Famer gave me trouble again, but I did everything the coaches asked, and acquitted myself nicely. Afterward, Van Gundy retired to his chambers. Hart and I showered and then, unceremoniously, Van Gundy came into the locker room…and thanked us both for coming to Houston. He is supposedly a “straight shooter”—he does not “beat around the bush”—but the words coming out of his mouth sounded a lot like the ones coming out of everyone else’s: “…surprised you’re not in the NBA…would be comfortable with you on my team,” et cetera, et cetera. He was carrying neither a contract nor a bag of cash, so I stopped listening around basketball cliché number four.

  I still don’t understand the point of my little two-day trip to Houston. I learned that I had never actually been in line for a spot on the roster; Scott Padgett is a player similar to me, and the team would never have signed him one day and me the next. He had become available the day I had been told to find a way to Houston, but at the time the Rockets did not know if they would be able to sign him. I think I was a contingency plan. When they signed Padgett, I became unnecessary. I wonder if the workouts mattered at all. Or were they just part of an audition for a role somewhere down the line? More important, were the coat and tie too much? I may never know.

  I did find out how I had caught the eye of the Rockets, via a post-workout conversation with Van Gundy and one of his assistant coaches. During one of my few preseason appearances with the Hornets—a game in Houston against the Spaceships two weeks prior—I had made a late appearance and had scored two straight baskets. At the time, Van Gundy turned to an assistant and said, “Paul Shirley? Who the fuck is Paul Shirley?” When I was cut by the Hornets, he called his friend and my two-time former coach, Tim Floyd, to find out if I was worth a damn. Coach Floyd told him of my vast basketball prowess, and so I spent two days in Houston, participating in another hopes-dashing experience, thus hastening my descent toward an emotional breakdown. Fantastic.

  November 9

  My current residence is the Super 8 Motel in Hampton, Virginia. With the exception of the Thrifty Inn, a fine establishment in St. Louis my mother once naively booked for the Shirley family for a 1989 long weekend in the Gateway City, this could be the worst hotel in which I have ever had the pleasure of staying. This afternoon, when I arrived “home” from my day’s work, an EA Sports exhibition game with Old Dominion University, I noticed two youths running into the motel. One was apparently in charge of lookout; the other was carrying a television. Both constantly cast furtive glances behind them as the cord trailed limply across the parking lot. I may be a bit of a country bumpkin, but even I know that when purchased, TVs usually come in boxes and are usually taken to homes for viewing, not to hotels for selling.

  There are Non-Smoking Room signs on most of the doors in this place. They should be amended to say Non-Cigarette-Smoking Room because there is a pervasive herbal smell coming from about half of them. This is good news for the teammate I just saw in the hallway. He related that he had called one of the rooms already, looking to make a purchase. Good times on the EA Sports All-Stars Exhibition Tour.

  Why, oh why, would I subject myself to this misery (other than the fact that it makes for interesting stories)? Because, (1) I’m a sucker, and can’t say no, (2) I’m a money-grubbing greedy bastard, and (3) It actually sounded like fun at the time. Silly me. (Actually, it’s really not that bad. I’m just not good at writing from a positive-person viewpoint. Must work on that.)

  The first game of my exhibition career took place about three hours after I got off a plane from Kansas City—the window of time in which, as I have noted before, we athletes are known for our best work. After I found my luggage, my escorts rushed me to the Holiday Inn in Roanoke, Virginia, introduced me to my roommate, Matt Houser, who, thankfully, is a hell of a guy, took me to a nearby Subway for some pregame nourishment, and then shuffled me off to the game at Virginia Tech.

  When I left Kansas City after my return from thirty-six ill-fated hours of Rocketball, I was under the impression that my exhibition team wasn’t going to take these games against college teams all that seriously. I thought it was a way to stay in shape, make a little money, and have some fun. My coach seems to think otherwise, which has been a source of constant amusement. Maz Trakh (yes, that is spelled correctly—his parents were Jordanian) was the assistant coach of my CBA team in Yakima last year and is the man who talked me into this gig. Unfortunately, Maz has decided that the EA Sports Exhibition Tour is a way for him to bolster his coaching resume. I gather that he thinks if he pulls off a big upset win at Kentucky, someone will notice and give him the reins to some glorious team somewhere. Meanwhile, I keep hoping we can institute a game plan in which we resolve to shoot nothing but three-pointers. There might be a conflict in philosophies here.

  After a big victory in Blacksburg against Virginia Tech, the traveling road show set off for the city of Cincinnati and the Xavier whatever-the-hells. I can’t remember the mascot because of the haze caused by lack of sleep. We arrived back at the hotel in Roanoke after the game with Virginia Tech at about eleven, got to sleep at midnight or so, and had a wake-up call at 4:15 A.M. We boarded a plane in Roanoke at 6 A.M. with the idea that we would get to the hotel in Cincinnati by midmorning, leaving us with a few hours of sleep before we engaged in a 2 P.M. tip-off. Obstacle number one in our path was presented by the smoke that began spewing from the vents on our thirty-passenger puddle jumper while we sat on the runway awaiting takeoff from Roanoke. At first, the stewardess calmly suggested we vacate our seats; she quickly changed her message to “Everyone leave everything and get off the plane! Now!” We took note of her tone and, even at the ass-crack of dawn, were inspired to get the hell off the plane. We soon learned that the air conditioner had malfunctioned (but isn’t that what they always say?), so they shuffled most of us back onto the vessel. I say most of us because two of my teammates were spooked by the malfunction and opted not to rejoin us on that particular death trap and took a later flight. We arrived in Cincinnati battered and cramped only to find that the airline had managed to leave behind half the team’s bags, which knowledge took only an hour and a half to ascertain. The remaining thirty minutes of rest time was insufficient—Xavier obliterated us.

  Even though we’re no juggernaut, I feel some pity for the teams we play. I vividly remember playing exhibition games as a collegian. I was usually totally exhausted from two weeks of hellish practices and hoped only that whatever washed-up pro I was guarding did not feel like playing too hard, because I was certainly not going to be able to muster much energy to stop him. In fact, I’m pretty sure I resolved then that if the roles were ever reversed, I would have mercy on my college brethren and take it easy on them. Unfortunately, I am not the humanitarian I once aspired to be. Back then, I thought that if I were on the other side, playing for a team that was loosely organized by some shoe company (or video game company), I would relax and kick it down into neutral once in a while. Apparently, that is impossible. Once the lights go on and the fans start screaming, we basketball players undergo a Pavlovian transformation and begin to play hard in spite of ourselves. In some cases on this tour, I have actually cared more than I have about some of the professional games in which I have played over the last few years. My emotional investment stems from our underdog nature as an exhibition team. Everyone—referees, the opposing team, their fans—is wholly disdainful of a bunch of
guys who are apparently not good enough to play in the NBA but who cannot let go of that dream.

  It should be noted that the makeup of the average exhibition team has evolved over the years. Instead of a washed-up World B. Free and a forty-five-year-old Paul Mokeski (players I saw on exhibition teams we played in college), the teams are filled with young players who are between an NBA training camp and a trip to the minor leagues, or who are waiting on a basketball job in Europe. Someone noticed that college coaches were none too interested in obliterating a bunch of local God-squadders and would rather have their teams actually tested by their opponents. (That’s a dig on Athletes in Action, an exhibition team that reportedly passes out copies of the Good Book at games and leads halftime Bible question-and-answer sessions.) Sports-related companies seized on the idea as a way to make a dollar and began outfitting teams in their gear, figuring the five thousand students in college arenas across the country were a ripe marketing demographic. And so I find myself wearing a T-shirt bearing the EA Sports video gaming logo, playing in basketball games on college campuses once again.

  What will be the last half of the Goat Show, as we have come to call it for no particular reason except that it sounds kind of funny, has been marred by a near-catastrophic blow to my face. As I lay on the court at Freedom Hall in Louisville, I analyzed the situation. There was a lot of blood on the floor immediately in front of my eyes, the world was spinning, and my head hurt a lot. I used my full mental capacity to trace it all back to the arms I had seen flying toward me a few seconds earlier. My deduction was correct: I had taken a pretty good shot to the melon. I was escorted back to the training room for some facial embroidery, and I am confident the trainers took fine care of me and did their best to repair my face. Random players on opposing exhibition teams get nothing but the best care. Fortunately, I was never going to be a model anyway, so one scar above my upper lip and another on my cheekbone probably will not cost me any future royalties. But shaving will be tricky for a while. Upon further review, it turns out that when the player I was guarding turned to face the basket, he caught me with both elbows—one for each wound. This means two things. First, I obviously need to work on my reaction time. Second, next time I see that guy, I am definitely going to de-accept his apology. Two elbows to the face seems a bit much.

  My head felt a little fuzzy after the blow to the noggin, and as I am totally into being able to speak in complete sentences when I am sixty—and because I am a sissy—I took the next night (versus the University of Tennessee) off. I don’t think the guy who’s in charge of this traveling circus appreciated that too much (again with the over-seriousness—come on, they’re exhibition games), but it was not his brain in the balance. (I totally overdramatize these events.)

  November 17

  Seventeen thousand turned out in Rupp Arena for our long-awaited matchup with Kentucky. (Long awaited by our coach, who still thought he was going to be recognized as exhibition coach of the year if he kept it respectable against the Wildcats. No, I don’t know why.) In my time at Iowa State, we rarely filled the bottom section of Hilton Coliseum for an exhibition game. Perhaps Kentuckians are as diehard about their basketball as they claim to be. We stayed with the Wildcats for the first half and were down only one at the break. When the dust settled in the locker room at halftime, the team’s manager, an executive at Adidas (one of the sponsors of the team), made his way into the locker room and offered us each a $100 bonus if we somehow pulled out a victory over Kentucky. It was quite a contrast. Had I, by some strange turn of events, made the New Orleans Hornets, I would have been paid a little over $3,000 that day. Instead, a $100 incentive to win a basketball game legitimately piqued my interest. Not that it mattered: we lost. By a lot. Kentucky’s full-court press wore us down and we turned the ball over to them more times than I can remember. The bad news: we lost to Kentucky. The good news: $100 is not enough to convince me to lead my exhibition team to victory. Yet.

  The better news: I had my own room for the night. We have roommates in most cities. But because we have an odd number of players on the team, we each rotate through sleeping alone. (We do get two beds when we have roommates. Perhaps I should have made that more clear.) I scheduled my turn specifically for our night in Lexington.

  I don’t write much about my love life, in part because it is not all that exciting, but in part because it is not really relevant. It is impossible to develop anything approaching a normal relationship while living my current lifestyle. End of story. This time I am going to make an exception, because I feel like it.

  When we played Western Kentucky early on in the Goat Show, I looked pretty rough. I had just had my face beaten up in Louisville and hadn’t shaved in a week. Despite my ragged appearance, I played well in our loss to the Hilltoppers and, afterward, was feeling good about life. (Note alarming trend toward apathy regarding the actual result of our exhibition games.) When we emerged from the locker room after showering, I saw a young woman I had noticed during the game. She was easily the best-looking girl in the gym and had been sitting court-side, so it was no surprise that she had caught my eye. She stood with another girl near the door in the lobby of the arena; they looked to be contemplating plans for the evening. I realized that I would never again be in Bowling Green, Kentucky, so I marched up and asked the two girls if anything exciting was happening in their city that night. I felt like I did a fine job of involving both girls in the conversation while making it clear that I was interested in the more attractive of the pair—always a tough task. By the midpoint of our brief conversation, my usual exhibition tour roommate, Matt Houser, had made his way over. The four of us put the finishing touches on a relatively benign conversation, and Matt and I promised to meet the two girls at a bar later.

  We talked our coach out of one of the team’s rental minivans and toured the streets of Bowling Green until we found the right place. When we arrived, I confirmed that I hadn’t been hallucinating—the girl in whom I was interested was the best-looking female in the bar as well. We all sat around a table and discussed the game, life in Kentucky, and the other semi-intimate details that people relate when learning about each other over malted adult beverages. It was pleasant—a welcome break from the madness of an exhibition tour. Matt did a fine job of wing-manning, keeping the conversation going when it lagged and isolating the friend when I needed his help. When the bar closed, we continued the night at someone’s apartment. The four of us sat around and watched TV as if we were thirteen. I don’t really remember what was on. I do remember that I was quite taken with the girl from the game. (Her name is not important. Well, it is—I’m just not going to divulge it.) She was smart, funny, well read, well spoken, and beautiful. I couldn’t find much wrong with her. She was even tall. I could tell that we would get along famously if given the opportunity. I just couldn’t figure out when that opportunity might arise—I was leaving in the morning.

  At the end of the night, my new friend and I exchanged a chaste kiss and said our good-byes. We were scheduled to return to Kentucky later in the week to play the University of, so I asked her to come to Lexington to see the game. We exchanged numbers and she said she would make an effort, but I have endured enough disappointment in my life to know how unlikely her trip was. (Goddamn pessimism. Seriously. I need to work on this.)

  She surprised me, though, and made the journey. I arranged things with the coach of our team and, as I mentioned, secured lone-wolf status for the night. She came straight to the game from her job in Bowling Green. Afterward, we retired to my palatial room at the Ramada and had a fine post-game evening. We spoke of nothing of consequence and lay around watching bad television. She spent the night. I was happy to have her there. When she left at five-thirty in the morning in order to drive back in time for work, I was actually sad. (Rare for me.) I could tell that in a different life, she would have be-come my girlfriend very soon. As it was, that could never be. She has a fine job in the Western Kentucky athletic department and I have a sometime
s-tolerable job wandering the world in search of people willing to pay me to play a game.

  It is possible that I read more into the situation than was justified. It could be that I liked the girl for what she represented (i.e., everything I haven’t had with regard to women, relationships, and even the vaguest sense of stability). My gut feeling tells me otherwise, but unfortunately, I won’t ever know. I do know that if I were John Fogerty, I would have written a song about her by now.

  November 30

  I had forgotten what a great holiday Thanksgiving is. I was seventeen the last time I was with my family for Thanksgiving dinner. Since then, I have had turkey in interesting places such as Hawaii, where the main course wasn’t turkey at all and was roasted all day in an underground pit, and not-so-interesting places such as an Indian casino in Yakima, where the turkey was harvested from a can. These stops along the way have had one overriding effect—they made me anticipate a return to my grandmother’s Thanksgiving table in Wichita, Kansas, with what is probably an unhealthy level of expectation. My grandmother is an excellent cook. (As is her daughter, my mother.) Thanksgiving dinner at Grandma’s house is no mere meal; it is an event, replete with candles, china, and crystal. And place cards. Which is really strange considering that there are rarely more than a dozen people at the table. Perhaps there is more to the family dynamic than I understand. Or maybe my grandmother just wants to keep me on the opposite side of the table from her.

  With the EA Sports Wandering Minstrel Tour finally finished, I was determined to put off whatever next destination to which my basketball life/roller coaster was taking me until after this most gorgeful of holidays. It took some work, but I was able to hold out; I think even the most coldhearted of the interested coaches took note when I said that it had been nearly a decade since I was last at home for Thanks-giving. With a little time cleared, I anxiously anticipated a few days of coddling under the culinary care of my grandmother.