Can I Keep My Jersey?

by Paul Shirley

  Other than two strong workout days, I have not done much that has been affiliated with the Phoenix Suns. Most of the players—the ones who know they have a long season ahead—took the end of the week and the weekend off. I pieced together some workouts in their off time. Be prepared, and all that.

  Training camp is in Flagstaff, Arizona. I am told that Flagstaff is located at an elevation of 7,000 feet. We played at the University of Colorado in Boulder each of my four years of college. Boulder is located at an elevation of just over 5,200 feet. I thought I was going to die each time we played at Colorado. Seven thousand is greater than 5,200. I hope they have oxygen masks available.

  October 10

  When I get tired, my demeanor changes greatly. It would be difficult to describe me as happy-go-lucky under the best of circumstances, but I like to think I keep myself in a laid-back state of mind whenever possible. Right now, however, a description of my general emotional and mental status would definitely not involve the term laid-back. Exhausted? Yes. Slightly unstable? That too. But laid-back is unquestionably a no. Therefore, I must be tired.

  Early in the week, we left Phoenix for training camp in Flagstaff after an afternoon of meat-market physicals wherein each player was given a checklist that listed nine different medical departments—including dental, orthopedic, and vision—and was told to visit a new room for each and, in the process, complete his sheet of paper. It felt like we had been dumped off a bus at Ft. Sill in 1967. Evidently, the assembly-line approach does not lead to the most in-depth physical examination—the subject of my kidney/spleen injury, easily the most severe career hiccup anyone in the room could possibly have presented, was mentioned exactly once, and that was by the team dentist. He asked, “Oh, are you the guy who had that crazy injury in Chicago? That sounded like quite a deal. Open your mouth and let me have a look at those teeth.” It is reassuring to know that I am in such good hands.

  As I lugged my bags into my hotel room in Flagstaff, one of my teammates walked past my open door while searching for his domicile. When I looked up, I noticed that it was Quentin Richardson, with a girl—his fiancée, as it turned out. Quentin Richardson is engaged to the singer Brandy. This turn of events angered me a bit, mainly be-cause nobody told me that I could have brought the bovine-eyed, mediocre pop singer I am dating to training camp.

  I think it’s clear by now that if I were not an athlete by the nature of my DNA, I would probably despise athletes in general—not because they are necessarily bad people or are particularly unfriendly, but because they are so one-dimensional. That being said, Phoenix has on its roster a couple of guys I can tolerate, and one who I think would be a good friend if I were to, say, actually be on the team more than three weeks. I recently ate two meals in the same day with both the player with friend potential, whom I will call Casey, and one from the former category (those I can, at most, tolerate), Frank. At lunch, after our salad was served, Frank actually said, “Hey, guys, let’s say grace.” (Begin inner monologue.) What the hell? Did that really happen? Will I survive this without laughing? Fortunately, the two of them already had their heads bowed, so neither could see my grimace/smile.

  As I reflected on their lunchtime behavior, I ran some possible scenarios through my mind. For example, what if I said, Hey, guys, my religion requires that I sing the first two minutes of “Woolly Bully” before dining. So could you sit there in silence while I publicly express my beliefs? That wouldn’t be kosher. So neither is asking me to sit there quietly while grace is said. It happened again at dinner, which verified that I had a genuine zealot on my hands. But now on to the real problem. Casey and Frank have played together for two years in Phoenix and, I gather, are good friends. Now, even though I wanted to make some kind of remark about Preacherman to Casey, I had to bottle it because he has known me for approximately six days. His loyalty lies with John the Baptist. But I cannot be expected to maintain radio silence under such circumstances. Eventually I will explode under the pressure of too many unsaid cynical remarks.

  In other unintentional-comedy news, I bore witness to a little locker room skirmish after one of our recent practices. Each of the Northern Arizona University basketball lockers is equipped with an accompanying stool for the sitting pleasure of the user, except for three of the lockers, which had low-slung, soft chairs in front of them. The players who had been given lockers with the more comfortable seating situation—coincidentally, the stars of the team—became very attached to their chairs. When the chair of a player I will call John mysteriously disappeared one day, he found reprisal in stealing the nice chair from one of his fellow luxury-accustomed comrades—let’s call him Andy. This did not sit well with Andy. When he arrived on the scene to discover that his chair was gone, he took exception with John, who he knew had taken this chair. Heated words were exchanged, the gist of which was that the situation was not acceptable, that just because John’s chair had been taken by someone else, it was not okay for John to take Andy’s chair. John laughed off the comments as absurd and told Andy, “If you want your chair back, go find mine.” The rest of us were chuckling; we saw the absurdity of the situation. But we could tell that a Pakistan-versus-India level of confrontation was brewing. Both players knew that the rest of the locker room was watching and so were unlikely to back down. Andy stalked off, saying that it was better for him to leave before he lost his temper. He returned after a brief absence with what I could see from my close proximity was a glint in his eye that implied that the amount of time he had spent elsewhere had not been sufficient to calm him down. He asked John if he was going to return his chair. When John declined to appease him, Andy began to threaten John with bodily harm. This got a rise, literally, out of John, as he stood from his upholstered paradise to protect his pride. Some of the bystanders recognized the potential for disaster and got between the two potential combatants, which seemed only to exacerbate the situation. (I was not a member of the intervention—I was interested to see how far they would push the envelope.) The verbal war continued, and as the volume with which each insult was delivered increased, its coherency, oddly enough, decreased. Then Andy, feeling that his pride was going to be damaged irrevocably if he did not take immediate action, lashed out and threw a punch at John. His blow did not find its intended mark, glancing harmlessly off John’s shoulder. What followed was both predictable and boring. Players rushed to break up the impending fight. Before long, it was merely a funny story at dinner. However, I no longer had any desire for one of the soft chairs and may never again.

  As I mentioned, I am pretty damned tired. We have had five days in a row of two-a-days (there’s something wrong with that). I am spent. I have actually played quite well, especially early on, but my body seems to be at the end of its proverbial rope. I cannot seem to catch my breath, all references to the altitude aside. The time between practices does not seem to be enough for any real recovery. I think it may have something to do with the late jump I had on getting ready for the year; I really had to condense my training into a shorter period than normal, and that may be haunting me now. However, two-a-days are finally over; I hope a return to a less sadistic schedule (and a friendlier altitude) will be kind to my personage. If not, a precipitous decline in my basketball performance could be around the corner.

  October 12

  I count on hotel restaurants to provide me with somewhat bland but generally tolerable nourishment for many of my meals—too many, probably. It has been a source of disappointment to learn that the quality of the food at my current place of “residence” is sub-par, to put it entirely too nicely. (I think the final straw was finding that the sausage on the pizza was cut-up pieces of the morning breakfast buffet’s links.) Because of this shoddy food, I am willing to go far afield, even without transportation, in search of a decent meal. Recently, I set out on what I knew from a previous experience to be a half-mile walk to eat at a restaurant I had earlier found to be to my liking. After enjoying a nice chicken Bolognese at Valenzi’s, I bid adi
eu to my newly acquired friend, the Suns-loving Greek who runs the place, and hurried to a nearby Walgreen’s to pick up some foodstuffs for my hotel room. I was in a rush to get back to my room, so I wasted no time in picking out some Frosted Mini-Wheats, milk, and bottled water (I’m not sure what that weird taste in the hotel’s tap water is, but it’s not something good). I paid for my goods, attempted to dodge the personal space of the antihistamine and Kleenex-toting germ carrier behind me in line, and rushed out the door for the half-mile trek back to the Hilton Suites. As I started my walk, I could tell that my decision to buy both a gallon of milk and a similar quantity of water was going to be hard on the trapezius muscles during the hike home. With this in mind, I was in no mood to respond when hailed by a random stranger behind me on the sidewalk. But he persisted, and because he was wearing slacks and a dress shirt and not sweatpants and a ragged-out Garfield tee, I asked him what he wanted. I’ll let the dialogue take over:

  Stranger: Hey, I’m not a lunatic or anything, I just wanted to ask you a question.

  Me: Yeah, what’s that?

  Stranger: Well, I will avoid the obvious and not ask you if you play basketball because you’re so tall. Do you play professionally or something?

  At this point I could tell that this person was obviously not a man of his word, as he had contradicted himself completely. His nervous manner was starting to concern me. Also, I was becoming more aware of the fact that I was alone on a dark street speaking to a random man in a city about which I knew very little.

  Me: Actually, I do. I play for the Suns right now.

  Stranger: The Phoenix Suns?

  Me: Yep.

  I decided that I was dealing with a well-dressed hustler. I thought he would soon make some sort of outlandish claim—that he was stuck in Phoenix and needed only six additional dollars to get his car fixed so that he could drive back to Tucson. Unfortunately, what followed was nothing so simple.

  Stranger: Okay, well, I have a question for you, but I’m not sure how to ask it. I don’t know you, so I don’t know if you are a religious person…

  Me: I’m not.

  I thought this simple response would be sufficient to prevent the impending Bible talk. Again I was incorrect, not in judging the effectiveness of my preemptive strike but in guessing the next tack of the questioning.

  Stranger: See, I’m only about five-four, and you’re, what…?

  Me: Six-ten.

  Stranger: Right, right. Well, what I want to know is…because you are so tall, does that mean that, you know, proportionally, you also have a really long penis?

  Stop the presses. Reset all clocks. Fade to white.

  I managed to sputter out, “Uh, I don’t think it works like that,” before walking off at an exceedingly brisk clip. I was so completely and utterly taken aback by the hairpin curve our conversation had taken that I was not able to muster anything other than shock. I did not register anger, fear, or outrage. Only confusion and surprise.

  Because I had a long, lonely walk to consider the above encounter, I was able to come to some conclusions about the situation. First, I decided that it is completely ridiculous that at no point in my life was I given the tools needed to deal with such a situation. Well, maybe I was, actually. How appropriate that don’t-talk-to-strangers rule turned out to be. Second—and this is the only possible explanation I can find—I think I was perhaps being hit on by a homosexual. I don’t have a lot of evidence to back up my claim…wait, yes I do—the man asked me about the nature of my genitalia on the street. He also had a wicked lisp, and while I realize that “Paul, just because they talk like they’re gay doesn’t mean they are,” my experience tells me to stick with my instincts. Of course, there are exceptions to every stereotype. If an Indian (dots, not feathers) shows up in electrical engineering class, it is possible that he is a stone-cold moron. However, it is more likely that he is going to blow away the curve. If a person talks like he is gay and asks dudes about their private parts, it is possible that he likes girls. It is not, however, likely.

  October 21

  If I were reading this, I would have a hard time finding much pity for me. But damn, this life in limbo is no fun at all. (Yes, I know. Same song, forty-third verse.) Every time I see a coach or management type headed in my direction, I wonder if that day will be my last with the Phoenix Suns. This level of anxiety goes against everything I have set out to accomplish here, and it is totally counterproductive…but it comes too easily.

  When I set out on this particular venture, I had a great go-to-hell attitude working. I knew that, whatever the outcome of training camp, I would pocket $15,000 and would be exposed to a new set of decision makers—good for background work down the road. Not to mention that I would have a chance to play myself back into shape after a summer that was, for reasons outside my control, less than productive. I think my basketball ability benefited greatly from my approach. I’ve played loosely; the results have been great. I have impressed people to the point that a roster spot with the Suns is very much a possibility. But now that I have made it this far, my mental state has tightened—and it shows on the court. I suppose this would be considered normal. Anytime one gets close to a particular objective, it is only natural to become slightly anxious about the possible result.

  However, in my case, this makes little sense. I have been through this rigamarole before, so what’s the use in panicking? And it remains that the worst-case scenario involves an extra $15K for me. As of now, I am resolving to once again let go a little more. I truly have nothing to lose. As my father always says, in a hundred years no one is going to remember anyway. So tomorrow it’s back to playing with a little more joy and a little less control.

  Okay, enough of all that self-affirmation BS.

  After practice today we had a meeting entitled “The Business of Basketball.” Prior to the gathering, the former sole owner of the Suns, Jerry Colangelo, described the purpose of the meeting as a chance for us players to learn more about the intricacies of the business side of the game of basketball. I was intrigued, as I thought I would be exposed to some of the finer points of salary-cap management or the ins and outs of the collective bargaining agreement between the players and owners. The actual topics disappointed. Our engagement began with a video that laid out, in detail, why it was important for us to each be “nice guys” in the community. It was explained to us why the ten public appearances required yearly of each player by the NBA should be viewed not as obligations but as opportunities: “Your life after basketball is much longer than your life during basketball, so you should always be on the lookout for possible contacts. You never know which of the people you meet out in the world today is going to be on the other side of the door you are knocking on tomorrow.” Jesus F. Christ. If a basketball player has not figured out that he ought to be nice to some people now so that they might help him later, he is not going to be swayed by some badly done video featuring George Gervin. More important, if my name is Alphonso Basketballplayer and I am making $6 million a year for the next four years, I could give a good goddamn about future business contacts. The only business contacts I need are those of a good accountant and a financial planner with an IQ slightly above 105.

  The meeting continued with the new principal owner of the Suns outlining for us his path to wealth. (I have seen a lot of insecurity in my time; his would rank near the top.) He is a banking and real estate investor and his journey to country clubdom began with a modest financial gift he received from his mother at age twenty-two. She gave him $150,000…which would be a decent start. The main topic of his presentation was that he is the smartest man alive because he managed to invest wisely and has accrued some cash based on his wise decisions. He claimed that the money he invested has returned an average of 40 percent annually because of the good management policies of the bank with which he is associated. (It was never really clear in what capacity he exists with said bank.) He next gave a little math lesson, telling us that the average bank makes a 1
5 percent yearly return. If he had gained at that rate for the last twenty years, he noted, he would have accumulated a measly $3 million at this point. He then quizzed several players as to what they thought $150,000 invested at 40 percent for twenty years would now be. The guesses, by some people who obviously missed compounding interest day in middle school math, were the ridiculously low figures of $11 million, $12 million, and $14 million. As I was furiously calculating in my head, in the hopes that I could destroy the punch line of this impressive-to-fifteen-year-olds speech if called upon to do so, he announced that the figure was actually $125 million. When the applause and calls of, “You’re such a badass, Mr. Owner-guy!” died down, he continued…with no conclusion at all except that he is a very rich individual who now owns a large part of the Phoenix Suns. The moral of this story is that an hour of my life was wasted, never to return.

  I suppose I should mention some basketball-related information. We have played four preseason games to this point. I have played exactly zero meaningful minutes, but we are rather good, so garbage time has come frequently. In our first game, I played about nine minutes and managed to squeeze off seven shots, scoring six points. I actually played quite well, and there was much joy in all the land. My next blowout time got a little hairy, as we allowed Seattle back in the game in the last couple of minutes and had to stave off their furious rally. It was fun, though; I actually felt like I was playing in a real basketball game. I did not make an appearance in a game in San Antonio, information that would have been useful the day before when I was trying to decide between a quiet night in my hotel bed and a evening of eight balls and strippers. In our most recent game against Utah—which we won by a cool forty-one points—I again got to play out the last nine minutes of the game. I was not able to shoot the ball with quite as much frequency, but did score four points. (By the way, it is not lost on me how insignificant all of this is—back to my not-going-to-matter-in-a-hundred-years comment. I scored four points in a damned preseason game. Yippee. But at the time, it seems so important.) We have four preseason games to go. By this time next week, I should know my fate with the Suns.