Can I Keep My Jersey?

by Paul Shirley

  My teammates and I resigned ourselves to our fate, shrugged, and found our way to the locker room/family restroom. (At least, my teammates did—I was still harboring doubts as to whether I would be able to muster the chutzpah to actually participate in what looked to be an injury festival waiting to happen.) With about thirty-five minutes remaining before tip-off, we made a halfhearted effort at a warm-up and then walked the eleven paces to the locker room for the pregame talk that was destined to be interrupted by a daughter’s full bladder.

  As the game began, I was concerned. Appalled, really. I wondered, for the nine thousandth time this year, if I could be any further away from my intended career arc. But then I found the rhythm of the game and everything turned out okay. Sure, the only shot clock available was a stopwatch at the scorer’s table and the referees’ best judgment…and there was a game between two teams of twelve-year-olds going on ten feet from ours…and the other team appeared to consist of Zach Marbury (brother of Stephon) and a bunch of guys who looked to be straight out of the state penitentiary, none of whom were on the team three weeks ago when we played. (Because of the jail time.) But it was still basketball. And for all my bluster, I do kind of like the game.

  Plus, since the court was a scale model of a real one, it was impossible to get tired. In fact, it was damn near leisurely. I think we need to request a pint-sized arena in Kansas City.

  February 25

  The age of the cellular phone and the accompanying automatic caller identification removes some of the shock of anyone’s opening salvo on the telephone. For instance, I was playing some poker at my house with some friends on a recent night when my phone rang. I looked down and saw “Scott Wedman” displayed. Thus, I was able to prepare myself for whatever piece of knowledge he would soon be spewing forth. In the olden days, I would have answered the phone blindly, without any forewarning as to the identity of the caller, and would not have been able to prevent an expression of shock at hearing my head coach’s voice at nine o’clock, the night prior to my team’s departure for Tijuana. In our current, advanced state, I had time to say, before actually answering, “Hmmm…I wonder what Coach Wedman wants at nine o’clock, the night prior to our departure for Tijuana.” And since I knew it was Wedman calling, which was strange in the first place, I was prepared for him to say just about anything. Therefore, when he said that our game in Tijuana had been canceled because that team wanted to save money so it could play in the playoffs, I was not surprised. Much. Sure, I found it alarming that a professional basketball league would ever cancel a game to save money, but because I was able to come about the information gradually, thanks to the technology we take for granted every day, the impact was minimized.

  Receiving the above news was something like learning that school would be canceled due to snow, in that it was great. The news cast the poker game in an extremely cheery light—my personal level of responsibility for the next day had dropped significantly. And I didn’t have to go back to Tijuana. Of course, the ABA, and my participation in it, was sullied slightly. But fuck it: no school.

  The news, whether it was good or bad, certainly did not stop the card game. In fact, it allowed us to play longer. But on a forest-for-the-trees level, the development did give me pause. The ABA season is limping to the finish line; we have only two regular-season games remaining before the playoffs, which will be of questionable viability in their own right. No one attached to the Kansas City Knights knows exactly where said playoffs will occur or even the format in which they will be played. It is doubtful that every team in the league will participate—most of the organizations are running their operations on fumes and it is rumored that several of the teams are canceling games with alarming frequency. (There is no real way for anyone to know exactly what is going on; ABA scores are not running underneath the regularly scheduled programming on ESPN.) Even if the season does linger on and concludes at its scheduled date sometime in mid-March, what will I have accomplished? It is not as if the NBA season is never-ending. And since I have not yet been called up, it would stand to reason that my chances drop with each day that brings nearer mid-April and the end of the regular season schedule. Maybe I should have gone to Spain after all; those NBA calls that Coach Wedman made were nice, but I’m not seeing a real effect. I’m still making $700 a week to play in a rodeo arena. And I’m shitty at cards, so life as a professional poker player is out.

  March 11

  I’ve played my last game with the Kansas City Knights. Strangely, I’m not the least bit sad that I’ll never again play in an arena that smells like cow manure. Or have to carry my own ball to practice. Or have to brush my teeth with bottled water because our road game is being played in a third-world country.

  I won’t even miss my own bed. It would stand to reason that while I no longer play for the Knights, I do own a house in Kansas City, and so should sleep there. But I can’t.

  Because I now play for the Chicago Bulls. Of the NBA.

  That’s the Chicago Bulls—the team with the red-and-black uniforms. In the best basketball league in the world. I should explain how this happened.

  I knew before what would be my last ABA game in Kansas City that there was a good chance I would soon travel to Chicago for a workout with the Bulls. We beat the Jersey team that Saturday, but I can’t say my heart was in the game. Keith had told me the day before that the Bulls were fed up with a few of their players and were searching for a dignified way to end the season while sending a message to some of their, er, employees. I found out the day after our game that I would, in fact, leave on Monday for Chicago and a Tuesday morning workout, with a possible ten-day contract as the most favorable outcome of my trip. On the way to the airport, I stopped by a Knights practice to say farewell. While there, I quashed the rumors that something had been guaranteed to me in Chicago. I have experienced enough of these very bizarre scenarios firsthand to understand just how easy it is for the entire process to derail. Ever optimistic that one of their own would finally make it big, my teammates assured me that I would not be back in Kansas City. I did not share their confidence.

  I arrived in Chicago nervous but excited about the opportunity at hand, even though that opportunity would result in a missed trip to fabulous Juarez, Mexico, and the ABA playoffs. When I checked into the Residence Inn the night prior to my workout, I noticed—in addition to my own—a few other names listed under “Chicago Bulls,” so I asked the desk jockey if anyone else was staying at his fine establishment at the behest of the team. When he told me the names of three fellow hopefuls, I came to the conclusion that unless the team was going to run four separate workouts, this would not be the individual workout I had been led to believe would take place. I was correct; three other guys showed up at 7:30 the next morning. (I’m a genius, really.)

  As we warmed up/eyed each other, I noticed something about my competition. They looked much more scared and apprehensive than I felt. My brain told me, “If they look scared, imagine what is going on inside those noggins of theirs.” I note this because my ability to perceive others’ feelings is usually on the level of that of a kitchen table, so I was impressed with my awareness. It was the first time I had ever known, not felt, that I had an edge over my contemporaries.

  The workout went quite well for me, at least by my reckoning. I was under the impression that there would be some post-workout consideration by the Bulls management and staff before any decision was made regarding my future, so it was with much confusion that I listened to a manager-type inquire, immediately after the workout, “Paul, is your flight back to Kansas City this afternoon or tomorrow?” I reeled internally, recovered, and then replied that I didn’t have a flight home. I told the fellow that arrangements were to be made for me when I was finished. I walked to the locker room in confusion. His question made me assume that either the workout had gone badly or something had changed within the team. Either way, I assumed I would return to Kansas City soon.

  Once safely inside the locker room—
in the comfortable surroundings created by the communal nakedness of four complete strangers—my fellow workout partners and I commiserated. I learned that they all had pre-planned flights for later that morning. (Probably an indication that they had never really been in the running for a roster spot as much as for future consideration.) We all parted ways after a nice shower together.

  Still befuddled, I wandered up to the office of Gar Forman, the Bulls’ director of player personnel, for clarification. Forman was an assistant for Tim Floyd at Iowa State and had followed Floyd to Chicago. After his departure, Forman made his way up the baskocorporate ladder and was my tie-in to the Bulls. Coach Forman (now Gar to me, I suppose) told me I had done a great job (but they always do) and asked if I could go back to the hotel to hang out until some decisions were made. He told me that, as of then, the Bulls had no roster spots available; in order to make any moves they would have to waive someone. I had nothing pressing to do in Chicago, so I made my way back to the Residence Inn and waited for news of my fate. In the meantime, I had several phone conversations with Keith. The backstory began to take shape. The Bulls were going to waive a player named Corie Blount and sign someone. That person’s identity would remain a mystery for a while, though. The Bulls were hoping that Lonny Baxter, a player they had traded to Toronto early in the year, would clear the waivers on which the Raptors had put him a day earlier. If that happened, the Bulls would sign him. (When a player is put on waivers, or released, by a team, the other teams in the NBA have forty-eight hours to claim him—with the stipulation that the new team has to pay his salary for the rest of the year. If no team claims the player, he is said to have cleared waivers. If Baxter cleared, the Bulls could sign him to a ten-day contract and would not be forced to pay him for the remainder of the season.) Baxter would theoretically clear waivers at 10 A.M. the next day. If he was available at that point, I would most likely be SOL. (That’s Shit Out of Luck for those not acquainted with semi-lewd abbreviations.) With my anxious head about to explode, I headed to bed, and tried not to dream of myself in a Bulls uniform.

  I awoke the next day to a Chicago Sun-Times sports page splattered with stories containing my name. Because the Bulls had cut Blount and I’d had a workout the day before with Chicago’s only professional basketball team, it had not taken much of a leap of faith to come up with the tag line “Bulls Cut Popular Blount to Make Room for Shirley.” Unfortunately, there is only one modifier in that headline, and it’s not one that makes me look good. If Blount was popular, then I by implication became unpopular, which is fine—I get paid the same either way. However, it wasn’t a great starting place with my future teammates, especially when the headline was not entirely accurate. It should have read, “Bulls Cut Popular Blount to Make Room for Player Jettisoned Earlier This Year; If Deal Falls Through, Team May Be Forced to Sign ABA Player Shirley.” But when it comes to news, brevity sells. In the article, Kirk Hinrich, with whom I had several runins when he played at Kansas and I played at Iowa State, was asked about me. He said, “He killed us. He’s just a scrapper.” This could, of course, be interpreted in two ways: “That Paul Shirley can play the game. He does more with less than anyone I’ve seen. He’s just a scrapper.” Or, “Yeah, he’s nearly worthless, can’t shoot, can’t defend. He’s just a scrapper.” And yes, I think too much.

  After absorbing a slight media hit, I did find out some very good news. The Washington Wizards had claimed Lonny Baxter from waivers, and the Chicago Bulls would sign me to a ten-day contract. Of course, they never mentioned the Baxter thing; they just said it had taken some time to get some roster changes made. (Incidentally, when they signed me they were forced to put a player on the injured list to make room for me on the active roster; Blount had been on that list when he was released. Their choice? My teammate for three years at Iowa State, a former college player of the year, the fourth pick in the 2000 NBA draft, and a genuine nut job—one Marcus Fizer.)

  The Bulls practice north of Chicago in Deerfield, Illinois. My hotel adjoins the practice facility. The Bulls’ arena, on the other hand, is in downtown Chicago. When it came time for me to play in my first home game as a Bull, I needed some transportation. And so it came to pass that I was delivered to my first game in the United Center in a stretch limousine. While I was riding downtown, I had to keep telling myself, “You can do this. Just try to look like you ride in limos to basketball games all the time.” I felt a little pretentious. But who am I to have denied that limo driver his chance to drive me to my first Bulls game?

  My only regret from my first NBA experience—the ten-day contract in Atlanta last year—was that I did not score in a game. It certainly wasn’t for lack of trying; I think I averaged a shot per minute in the whopping five minutes I played while a Hawk. Because of my regret, I was absolutely thrilled when the eighteen-foot jumper I launched mid-way through the second quarter in my Bulls debut against Philadelphia nestled itself into the bottom of the net. Of course, I did not let on that I had just made my first NBA basket. I jogged back on defense as calmly as I could, but the goose bumps were probably visible from the top row. It’s not a huge step, but I can say I was proud of my then career high of two. (I topped that by scoring a whole four points on the subsequent evening.) We all have to start somewhere.

  I may not have made this entirely clear: my first-ever NBA points actually came during meaningful game time. I can’t adequately express how happy I am about that fact. (The reader will have to take me at my word—I don’t do jubilation well.) I have had some very good practices with this team. My work in practice, combined with the fact that the Bulls are truly dreadful and are searching for answers anywhere they can find them, meant that the coaches actually see me as a viable member of their basketball organization. I entered the game against the 76ers midway through the second quarter with my team still very much in the mix of the game. I probably played only a total of ten minutes on the night, but they were meaningful minutes and, as I may have mentioned, that is important to me. Even more telling than my early-ish entry into the game was the fact that Coach Skiles actually drew up what would prove to be the last play of the game for me. I had been on the team for all of four days, yet he had the confidence to, with a straight face, sketch a play that ended with me in the right corner, shooting a three-pointer that, if made, would have drawn us within one with about three seconds remaining. I didn’t make the shot; in fact, the other team saw the whole thing developing about nine years ahead of time, and I was lucky to get the ball over the outstretched hands of what seemed like the entire Philadelphia 76ers basketball team as I fell toward the out-of-bounds line, so I didn’t exactly have a clean look, as they say. But I still appreciated the opportunity—two weeks ago, I was playing basketball in a rodeo arena in Kansas City and was beginning to wonder if my short stint with the Atlanta Hawks had been merely a figment of my imagination. My basketball career was rapidly becoming nearly pathetic. Perhaps I am making too much of this, but there is a significant difference between that state of mind and the one that results after the head coach of the Chicago Bulls drew up a last-second play for me. I’m not yet going to ready myself for a retired jersey, but this is good news.

  March 14

  I realize that I am hardly in a position to complain. Two weeks ago, I was staring down the barrel of a complete disaster of a basketball season. Right now, I am playing in the best basketball league in the world. It would seem that nothing could get me down. I forgot something, though, and this turns out to be kind of important: I hate most professional basketball players.

  I was sent down a path to remembrance by a particular incident on the Bulls’ airplane: Kendall Gill told me to carry his bag. I think his exact words were, “Hey, rook, grab that for me.” When he said it, the probability of me obeying his command stood at about 52 percent—meaning that 48 percent of me was on board for saying, “Go fuck yourself,” and punching him in the jaw. Luckily, the majority continues to rule in my brain, and thus my NBA career rambles slowly
on.

  It is true that I should be able to deal with someone telling me to carry his bag. In fact, it is hardly worth discussing. But the frustration buildup caused by constant proximity to a bunch of…well, people whose company I don’t necessarily enjoy is a subject into which I should delve. And so I will. There is a reason the Bulls have won only about 30 percent of their games this year—this team has the worst chemistry I’ve observed in my rocky basketball career. I understand completely why the team’s management would want to shake things up by bringing in some new blood. (Especially when they had the chance to add someone as jovial as me.) My time with the Bulls hasn’t been the honeymoon most people would probably envision—mainly because my time here has been spent mostly surrounded by people I cannot stand. (There are exceptions, of course. The trainers are good dudes. I suppose that a couple of the players aren’t too bad. And the dance team seems nice.) Again, I understand that I should be thankful for my current status. I am. I could be contemplating a post-ABA trip to Venezuela to pick up some extra cash for the year. Instead, I am playing for the Chicago Bulls. But would it be too much to ask for me to have some colleagues with whom I can have the occasional conversation? A current point of contention with me, the one that led to Gill having the power to tell me to act as his camel, is that I have somehow been classified as a rookie by the powers that be. I’ve had my fill of the rookie treatment. I was a rookie when I went to training camp with the Lakers, so I got to air up balls and unload bags. By league standards, because I did not make the team in LA, I was a rookie when I went to camp with the Hawks the next year and so got to sing the national anthem for the team at team functions and, again, unload bags. I did not like it, but I did it because I understood the tradition, however asinine that tradition is. Plus, in both situations, I was around players I generally respected, and it was the beginning of the season, so there was a certain sense of playful optimism in the air. My rookie status remained the same when I got called up by the Hawks, and so I continued to play porter and schlepped luggage from plane to bus, bus to hotel. But all that changed when I went to New Orleans for camp. Because I had been “in the NBA” during the last year, a magical little number 1 appeared next to my name under “Years of Experience,” exempting me from the demeaning life of a rookie for all eternity. Or so I thought. On my first road trip with the Bulls, a veteran player (read: he’s all of four years my senior) asked me if I was indeed a rookie. He had to ask because few here had any idea who I was before I arrived. I told him proudly that I was not. (See above for justification.) He felt that my story was a bit wishy-washy and appealed to the head coach, Scott Skiles, who in one fell swoop tore down the whole system and relegated me back to rookie status under the grounds that I hadn’t played enough actual games in the NBA. With that, I was sunk and Kendall Gill can rightfully tell me what to do whenever he wants.