Can I Keep My Jersey?

by Paul Shirley

  I’m going to give Keith the go-ahead on not telling me about these if-and-when scenarios. I think my emotional state will improve after such a plan is implemented.

  While I’d rather be in Chicago, it is great to play near my home for a change. I sleep in my own bed most nights and I drive my own car to practice. (And not a 1980 Malibu. See also Yakima, Washington.) More important, I was able to have a real Christmas and didn’t have to worry about traveling on Christmas Day in order to make a long journey back to a place I don’t really like in the first place. Good times. I enjoyed the hell out of it.

  Of course, playing near home does have its disadvantages. Well, one, at least. It is great to be near friends and family. But when people I know attend games, I feel pressure to at least try to play well, for their sake, if not for my own. It was not really a problem at Iowa State (the last place I actually knew enough people to need to deal with making ticket requests), since there were fourteen thousand other souls in the stands to mix up the scenery. Here in Hale Arena in Kansas City, where our attendance jumped to a new high of 892 on a recent winter’s eve, I can pick out faces and watch their reactions. Don’t get me wrong—I love having people about whom I care at my games. It’s just hard to face them after a particularly badly played game. Faced with such a situation, I always want to apologize: “I really didn’t know the other team was going to bring high school players and you were going to have to sit through that” and “Please don’t judge me on that performance. I’m better than that. Really. It’s like a Monet. You have to blur the lines a little to see the beauty.”

  January 8

  Time loses meaning in the Mojave Desert. Especially on a bus. In my world right now, there is only sand, the scrub, and the highway, unchanging for miles and miles. I know all this, and am inspired to write hokey, bad-author-y phrases about it, because I am on a rather lengthy trip from Fresno, California, to Las Vegas. It appears that itmay be a never-ending journey. We are on this bus because of a bit of a scheduling mixup—the type that makes me want to put a gun to someone’s head. My own might suffice. Then again, it could be that no one would care. In fact, the disappearance of the usual barrage of complaints coming from the mid-left section of the bus might be a welcome change for my teammates.

  Originally, the well-thought-out road trip itinerary called for an early-morning Fresno wake-up followed by a direct flight to Vegas before a 7 P.M. game. Sometime in the last few days, the brain trust in Las Vegas decided that a change was necessary and settled instead on a 5 P.M. start time. I’ve gathered that this meant that our direct flight would not get us to the city of neon lights in time, so a new flight—one that would have us connecting through Phoenix—was scheduled. Of course, this new plan would absorb most of the day, so Coach Wedman called a bus company and set up our current arrangement, which required a 5:30 A.M. wake-up and a six-hour trek through the desert, at which point we would “rest” for about the amount of time it takes to build up the appropriate lethargy that would allow us to be completely ill-prepared for another ABA matchup.

  The coaching staff’s excitement about this plan was a bit undue. Our assistant came up to us with a smile on his face last night and said, “Boy, have we got a deal for you guys. Instead of leaving at the godforsaken time of 5 A.M., we’re going to let you have a whole extra hour and leave at 6, since we’re taking the bus.” Easy there, fearless semi-leader—I’m not quite ready to break out the party hats. The twist, one that I should have expected, having participated in my own life for over two and a half decades now, is that Wedman received a call about an hour ago (somewhere near Bakersfield) that the game was being moved back to 7:30 P.M. Which means, of course, that this bus ride, along with the thought behind it, was completely unnecessary.

  Our journey through this hellish terrain comes near the midpoint of what has been a relatively calm West Coast swing. (When I write “West Coast swing,” I can almost make myself believe that I am a part of something well organized. It brings to mind a smoothly run process scheduled by executives in New York. The truth is probably closer to that found in a VFW on bingo night.) Our trip began with two games in Long Beach. We followed those with a forgettable off day in southern California.

  For the start to the day’s entertainment, we were shuttled to a local YMCA for a quick workout. We lifted in a shoddy little weight room and then found our way to the locker room. There were, of course, no towels in the building. (I don’t know why I was surprised.) Which is how I came to find myself drying off with paper towels and one of my T-shirts in a YMCA locker room in Long Beach, contemplating why it is that old men have no shame when it comes to walking around with their genitals hanging out. And also reflecting on the fact that while I did look pretty stupid drying myself with paper towels, at least I wasn’t the fat guy whose belly was hanging over his balls.

  Soon our trip will be over. I will be happier then.

  January 18

  When we finally arrived back in Kansas City after our twelve-day tour of the West, I was completely spent—and in just the right mood to hear, as I walked in the door of my place, “Hey, Paul, the furnace is broken.” I try not to subject myself to situations that involve extreme mental fatigue; I got enough of that in college. I had forgotten what it feels like. It is a good thing my brother/roommate/tenant was around to walk me through the steps of furnace repair (calling the heater people) or I might have bundled up in three sweatsuits and gone to sleep in the cold. I have an engineering degree, yet could barely figure out how to remove the access panel so I could stare blankly at the innards of my heating system—I was that far gone. Fortunately, the nice repairman who came fixed everything without a problem and we were quickly returned to the blissful state of an artificially created interior atmosphere. The experience, though, left me pondering how people are able to balance a job, a spouse, kids, home ownership, car ownership, credit card debt, two mistresses, and a drinking habit. I don’t know if I am cut out for that lifestyle. I’m going to start concentrating on avoiding career-ending injuries so I can continue to put off any flirtation with that whole real-world thing as long as possible.

  Happily, I have a job that allows little time for contemplation of the concept of settling down. It pays well, the travel is comfortable, and the lodging on the road is luxurious. And sometimes hard to come by.

  When we arrived in Las Vegas sometime after our bus ride across the land of Steinbeck, we were informed that the home team had not, in fact, reserved rooms for us at the entirely full Super 8. I said, “Cool, let’s go to the Bellagio.” My advice was not heeded. Because the Consumer Electronics Show was in town, it was difficult to find rooms, so we settled into the lobby for a wait. (Keep in mind that we were coming off a six-hour bus ride from Fresno. No one was in a wait-and-see mood. Also, game time was rapidly approaching—four hours and counting at this point.) Amazingly, after only an hour or so, it was determined that the Super 8 was big enough to hold us after all (I think somebody was paid off), and we settled into our fabulously spacious, pristine, used-by-who-knows-whom-for-who-knows-what rooms for some rest.

  Shockingly, there was some miscommunication between the Las Vegas Rattlers and the van rental company and the team was not able to secure transportation for us, so we rode to the UNLV recreational center in taxis. The Rattlers do not usually play their games in the UNLV student rec center but, because the porn convention in town had outbid the team for the use of their usual facility, we played there that night. (I’m not joking.) The rec center was a fine venue for a professional basketball game: seating for eight hundred, no lockers, no towels. It was also, I think, the fourth place we were told we would play. Which is a good method for hiding the location of a meth lab, but is ineffective if the goal is to attract fans to a basketball game. Actually, we have played in front of fewer, but all the secrecy did make it difficult for me to communicate where we were playing to the people who were trying to come and watch me play. One made it, one did not. We lost to a motley group of pl
ayers masquerading as an organized basketball team. (Not all that surprising, considering our day to that point.) Afterward, we wanted to leave as fast as possible. The one friend who did make it to the game met me afterward, and I introduced him to our coach as we were standing around waiting for word on transportation back to the Super 8. I was amazed at how interested our coach was in hearing about my friend’s acquaintance to me…until he asked him how many people he could fit in his car. Turns out he was just being nice so he could save cab fare.

  The Las Vegas team employs/is financed by one Master P (aka Percy Miller), the ex-rapper-turned-producer who is worth millions. (At least that’s what people say. I’m not sure how rappers like him—those with no discernible talent—become so wealthy.) In the same way that he aspires to be a decent rapper and produce quality music, he aspires to be a basketball player—that is, he isn’t very good at any of the three. He didn’t play in our game in Las Vegas but did make an appearance in a recent game in Kansas City. He is not a truly awful basketball player—it’s not like he is retarded—but he doesn’t really have any business being on the court. Of course, I’m not opposed to him playing; he donates a lot of money to the pockets of his “teammates” and brings in fans, along with providing us, the opposition, the opportunity to play five-on-four whenever he is on the court. I was amazed, in both games, with the lust of the average person for a brush with fame. (He walked in to cheers midway through the second quarter of our game in Nevada and signed hundreds of autographs in Kansas City. Well, dozens, anyway.) I mean, the guy could hardly be considered cool; his fame passed years ago, but that doesn’t stop people from clamoring to be in his presence.

  That we do not have a team trainer becomes especially evident on road trips. The obvious rebuttal to this is “Well, Paul, don’t get hurt,” which is advice that is as good as most I have heard. It does pose problems, though, should a Knights player actually have the gall to sustain an injury. I mentioned at some point that I have been dealing with a bone bruise on my knee this season. It doesn’t bother me much—as long as I take care of it. Treatment usually involves ultrasound before activity and ice after. Simple enough, right? With no trainer, it’s not that easy. For our trip out West, my vaginitis called for me to lug around a secondhand ultrasound machine that the girl who is the training staff for our home games bought from a former employer for $10. Before we left, she taught me how to use the thing. “The intensity read-out is broken, so to get the right level of energy you have to look for the flickering 888 on the LED screen and line up the marker on the dial with the first T in INTENSITY. Treatment time is five minutes. Don’t use too much gel, and if you start to feel something burning, turn it off.”

  It was a reassuring lesson.

  I did a fine job of self-administering ulstrasound on the trip, but I was hampered somewhat by the apparatus’ systematic breakdown. A couple of days into the trip, the intensity light itself burnt out (no 888 to find), but the tip of the ultrasound wand seemed to remain warm, so I continued to self-treat. After a few more days (and a few more jarring impacts with other bags in airplane cargo holds) it was necessary to hold down a button in order for the timer to count down. By the end of the trip, the timer readout was totally shot and the complexity of the machine’s operation was on a level with that of a flashlight: there was on and there was off. I’d say there is a fifty-fifty chance I now have some sort of tumor in my knee.

  After Las Vegas, we traveled to Juarez, Mexico. The team ran out of money, so we were forced to hitchhike there. (Not really, but that would have been an amazing story: Kerouac meets Feinstein. I think I could have pulled off the story and nobody would have been the wiser. Opportunity lost.)

  I approached our trip to the land of sombreros with some trepidation. I had never been to Mexico, but the place does not inspire my mind to visions of cleanliness, safety, or comfort. My intuition was correct on two of the three—strangely, our hotel in Juarez was actually the best on the trip. (Not that the competition was all that stiff.) I was amazed. The room I shared with Derek Grimm (my best friend on the team) did lack hot water, but the surroundings were generally pleasant and the food was decent, so I couldn’t complain too much. (Check that. That should have read: “A normal person couldn’t complain too much.” I could. And did.) The arena was another matter. It was absolutely frigid inside, both baskets were crooked, and the locker room appeared to serve the secondary purpose of being a breeding ground for cockroaches of unusual size. (“La Cucaracha” indeed.)

  We won the first game of a back-to-back in Juarez. It was a foul-fest. My team shot fifty free throws (I shot fourteen myself), which is unheard of in an ABA game; the referees in the league do their best to keep the action going, and free throws would not be considered action.

  We won the second game as well, but it was kept close by some rather subpar officiating. At some point in the fourth quarter of game two, I noticed that one of the referees was repeatedly making peculiar calls. This official had been assigned to several of our previous games, so I had gotten to know him relatively well. I even knew his name. (Darrell. Poor decision by his parents.) I didn’t think he was prone to consistent lapses in judgment, but I was beginning to question my analysis. Near the end of the game, he called two phantom fouls on me; after the second I inquired, in my most polite manner, what the hell game he was watching. He replied, “I know, Paul, I know.” To which I said, “Well, if you know, then make the right call.” Our point guard, Joe Crispin, intercepted me and told me to settle down, saying that he would explain it all after the game.

  Once we were tucked safely away in the filthy locker room, he explained. Darrell the Referee had told Joe early in the game that one of the Mexican team’s officials was continually threatening his life, saying that if Darrell didn’t make most of his calls in favor of Juarez, he was going to kill him. The ref took the man at his word and told Crispin early on that he was scared enough that he was going to screw us on some calls. Joe told Darrell to do what he had to do (and rightly so—it was only a minor-league basketball game), and so Darrell proceeded to work us over for the rest of the game. I was amazed at the story, and more than a little incredulous, but Joe (who is not one to exaggerate) assured me that our friend Darrell had looked truly scared on the court. I thought it over on the way back to the hotel and came to the conclusion that the guy probably had been pretty fright-ened. Intimidation comes fairly easily when one is in a completely foreign place. However, I did think the claims of death threats were a little much. I attributed the story to some overreaction on his part, and possibly a shade of storytelling on Crispin’s part. That is, until Darrell the Referee walked into the hotel restaurant that night. He was visibly shaken and looked completely bedraggled and said the following to those of us sitting there: “Guys, I’m sorry. I cheated you out there tonight. But I was scared. I’m going to try to get out of town tonight because I don’t know what might happen if I stay here.” He then sort of wandered over to the lobby desk in a state of confusion, got his bags, and left. Upon final analysis, I probably would have done the same.

  January 27

  Since the last time we played them, the Long Beach team added one Dennis Rodman to their roster. It all seemed like an ill-fated publicity stunt and I never actually thought he would take the court, so I was surprised to see his name in the box score after a couple of their recent games. Not surprisingly, it was next to a line including “0–0 FG, 14 RB.” I’m not easily starstruck at this point in my basketball career; I’ve played with and against many well-known players. It would be folly to allow their notoriety to affect the way I play. But, I will admit that I was anxious to see Rodman in action.

  Unfortunately, my curiosity would have to wait—he did not play against us. He was at the game, though, conservatively attired in a white T-shirt and jeans, wearing orange shoes, an orange hat, and a matching bandana that precluded me from seeing if his hair was dyed interesting hues. The official word is that he is still injured. The other w
ord, and this is just hearsay, is that he played so badly in his first game back that he was found in tears in the bathroom after the game. Which could be dampening his excitement to get back on the court. The man is forty-three and has had more substances pumped through him than a Willy Wonka factory, so it would be surprising if he were able to fall back into old ways and perform at a high level without at least a few months’ training. At any rate, he looked to be the consummate teammate during our game with Long Beach—he was on the court congratulating his teammates and generally behaving like one of the guys. In fact, he may have blended in too well. After the game, two of my teammates asked me if Rodman had been in attendance. I replied with only a furrowed brow. The man did do a pretty good job of remaining inconspicuous, but he remains Dennis Rodman. It’s kind of interesting that he’s around. I think it’s allowed in the basketball code to take a gander at the opposition’s bench to see if Dennis damned Rodman is sitting there. I nearly blurted out, “You know, there are people in the stands, too, as well as reporters, scouts, and even cheerleaders from time to time. In fact, you may want to look over their way once in a while. You might see something you like.” Instead, I politely explained what had happened. I’m such a nice guy.

  From Long Beach, we meandered back up through the heart of California to Fresno. If it appears that we are always either in Kansas City or out west, then everyone is paying attention, because that is in fact the case. At this point, there are seven semi-viable ABA teams: Tijuana, Juarez, Long Beach, Las Vegas, Fresno, Kansas City, and New Jersey. Since the last of the group is the least organized, we rarely venture east for games with that team and so are often wandering about the West Coast looking for hot basketball action. Also, it should be noted that being the least-organized ABA team, as I called the team from New Jersey, is like being called the sluttiest prostitute in Amsterdam—it’s not exactly an honor.