by Paul Shirley
We got back on the winning track against the Minnesota Timberwolves. In fact, at one point we were up by forty in Minneapolis. (The Suns truly have to be seen to be believed. Our every game should be on television just to get people excited about the NBA again.) I was the last player off the bench, logging the final three minutes of the game. I did not get a single shot off, which is inexcusable.
As I’ve mentioned before, I might have the best job in the world. So I shouldn’t complain. Ever. But playing so rarely is hard on my psyche.
There certainly is no shame in being the eleventh man on the best or second-best basketball team in the world right now, but I am still struggling a bit to come to grips with the idea. (Eleventh because we have only eleven players. Apparently, the league will soon make the team sign another player.) I really have never been in this situation, at least not for any length of time. Now that I am faced with half a season of it (and beyond), I am disappointed with my reaction. I have always maintained that I would be perfectly happy to cheer on an NBA team from the bench, contributing in practice and in a minimal role on the court. But I am presently in exactly such a role, and I fear that my hold on happiness might be a tenuous one. It isn’t that I think I should have any other role. The Suns don’t need me or anyone else right now. They’re doing just fine. I guess I feel like I need to contribute something more. I have an overwhelming need to prove that the Suns’ trust in signing me for the rest of the year was not misplaced and that I am worthy of the honor, as it were, of being with the Suns and not with the Kansas City Knights. Since I doubt that the situation is going to change, I need to learn how to enjoy my time in some capacity. Otherwise, I’m going to be the uptight guy in a situation where there is no call for such behavior.
I’m not sure most basketball players would have these thoughts. However, it appears that my self-esteem, especially as tied as it is currently to my basketball abilities, needs constant booster shots. It is difficult to get a representative sample of how I am doing on the court in three or five minutes of end-of-the-game blowout time. In fact, in our last game, against Minnesota, I had the ball in my hands in a position where I could do something aggressive toward the basket exactly one time. Because it was an isolated event, I spent the rest of the night replaying that one move time and time again. Should I have shot it first? What happened when the defense collapsed? Was there someone else to whom I could have passed the ball? How close was that rather large man who was impeding my progress, and was there something I could have done that would have allowed me to score? This analysis is of a play that literally took less than a second to unfold. I’m breeding my own case of obsessive-compulsive disorder. It should be noted, too, that I am the only one who gives a damn about this; the coaches are not analyzing my 180 seconds of play while trying to decide whether to play me more. And for once my future with the team (for this year, anyway) is not dependent on management’s opinion of my play.
Logic tells me that my problem will work itself out. I will get a few real practices under my belt and will start to feel like a productive member of the team. (Our practices on the road trip, because they always fell between two game days, consisted of light shooting and some walking around.) I’ll learn to relax at the far end of the bench and will see my limited time on the court as a reward for the hard work I put in with the Suns this fall and not as punishment for some imagined basketball ineptitude. Then maybe that cushion of air will come back.
February 12
While I do love my new job, I cannot submit that the situations in which I find myself have gotten any less maddening.
While waiting after practice for the start of a short road trip to San Francisco, I sat down at one of the computers in the palatial players’ lounge that adjoins our locker room. No one was using the pool table, the DVD player, or any of the multiple video game systems available to us and our stunted maturity levels. One of my teammates was sitting in one of the leather recliners, watching the Discovery Channel and a show about Milton’s Paradise Lost on the huge flat-screen television on the wall, mainly because he thought the program was about religion, not about the author’s take on it. Another teammate was absently talking on his phone while eating something that had come out of the gigantic refrigerator near the couches. When he looked up from his food, he noted the program and said, “Man, I wish I could come up with an idea for an invention. I could make some real money then.”
Of course, the show was not even remotely about inventions, unless we accept that writing a book could be called inventing a book, which is a bit of a stretch. It was on the Discovery Channel, which does spend a goodly amount of time focusing on inventors and their wares, so the mental leap is somewhat understandable. More important, the player to whom I refer uses his Las Vegas–based education to pull down upward of $14 million a year. I doubt many inventors can instruct their accountants to fill in such a number on their 1040.
Such moments remind me that I am in desperate need of a bench-mate. NBA games are long. Really long. There are all kinds of breaks in the action, mainly of the media time-out variety, so there is plenty of standing around. Granted, I should probably be, oh, paying attention to what the coach is drawing up during these time-outs, but they are so long and frequent that even the coaches run out of things to say. It is at these times especially that I need a partner in crime—someone who will see the humor in the fact that the poor girl in the dance contest shown on the scoreboard screen is merely a prop for the obvious eventual winner, the middle-aged fat guy who lifts his shirt over his head to expose the world to his man-pregnancy. I need someone who will not be afraid to rate the members of the dance team in descending order of most realistic breast implants. I need someone who will help me keep track of my NBA All-Ugly Team. Most of the people who play think they actually need to concentrate on the games, so they cannot be bothered with my attempts at self-entertainment. The trainers and other support staff—my usual outlet for such sophomoric comments—are isolated behind the bench, out of range. Which leaves my two fellow non-playing players, each of whom presents problems of his own. First, both are basketball players, so the chances of them having the same sense of humor as me are slim. One of them is married and a religious wing nut, which removes him as a potential recipient of any comments involving the objectification of women, curse words, or anything that degrades another’s self-worth—basically, my entire in-game repertoire. The other candidate is a little better but is generally too scattered to be able to focus on something as intricate as a detailed analysis of the strategy needed to make the choice among a free throw for $777, a three-pointer for $7,777, or a half-court shot for $77,777. By the end of the game, my eyes must be crying out for help, there are so many pent-up snide remarks stored away. Obviously, I need to start playing, even if it is only as a distraction from the rest of the circus around me.
February 24
My line from our most recent game, a home engagement with the Los Angeles Clippers:
Min: 1 FGA: 0 FGM: 0 REB: 0 A: 0 F: 0 TO: 0
Ostensibly, I did very little that day. A recounting of the day’s schedule would lead one to believe otherwise.
Game-day practice, the shoot-around, started at 9:45 A.M. On a normal day, practice begins at 11:00. I have not yet figured out why our shoot-arounds are so much earlier; it seems counterintuitive. One would think a coach would want his team to get more rather than less rest the night before a game. Needless to say, this earlier start time throws off my policy of sleeping until 9:00 whenever possible. It really is a rough life I lead. At some point during the season, the players decided that it was too cold on the main floor of the arena so early in the day, so shoot-arounds were moved to the more temperature-friendly confines of the downstairs practice court, thereby negating what was, I thought, one of the only reasons for a shoot-around—acclimating oneself to the baskets to be played upon that evening. So, after arriving around 9:15, I made my way down to the practice court. We watched film of the Clippers, warmed
up, and then broke into two groups for some light shooting. As is always the case, we inside players reported to one end of the court, with the guards heading to the other. When we are told which direction to head, the coaches say, “Bigs—this end. Wings—down there.” They do not use littles as the opposite of bigs because the guards decided that such a term was too demeaning. When we got to our respective ends, we did drills that resulted in shots specific to our positions. After five minutes, we switched ends of the court, which seems somewhat pointless since, again, we were not in any way getting used to the rims on which we would be playing that night.
When we finished with another five minutes of tremendously useful shooting that was not repetitive in the least, the team got back together and we ran through some of our plays. Next, we moved on to something a little more constructive—the scouting of the opponent, in this case the aforementioned Clippers. The coaches identified some of us as stand-ins for Clippers players and took the team through a walking rendition of some of their plays. I was selected neither as a Sun nor as a Clipper, so I stood on the sideline and tried to keep my mind from wandering, with little success. (It should be noted that if I am having trouble staying focused in such a situation, there is no telling what most of my teammates are processing. I think some of them began planning next year’s Christmas list.) For fifteen minutes or so, the coaches positioned the stand-in Clippers in one spot or another and talked about what our opponent might do in certain situations. In actuality, most of what they said was forgotten before it was even learned—but at least the coaches could say they had done their jobs. We gathered at center court, listened to one final pep talk, put our hands in the center of a team huddle, and broke with a “1, 2, 3…Suns!” for the first of many times that day, and I went off to shoot some free throws. Others followed suit. When 11:00 rolled around, most of the team scattered. Those of us who would not be playing much later in the day stuck around; after my free throws, I worked with one of the coaches for about twenty minutes before calling it a morning. As I passed the training room, I popped open the compartment marked 17 (my number with the Suns) on the old-lady pill reminder contraption and washed down my two daily multivitamins, one of which leaves an earthy aftertaste, the other of which has a 5 percent chance of being some kind of steroid. After drugging up, I found my way to the showers and my daily contemplation of why, by comparison, we white guys are blessed with so little. As usual, I was sent no answer, and so was resigned to finish my shower in ignorance. Afterward, I made my way to the lounge area so that I could be an asshole and not answer the e-mails I had received, before leaving the arena at about noon.
The game was at 7:00, so I reported back to the gym at around 4:45. I was actually not the first one to arrive. Quentin Richardson, who may sleep in the building, was already on the scene. Interestingly, he never really does anything with the extra time he spends there—in fact, he rarely even goes out to the court to shoot prior to the game. I think he just really, really likes being in the locker room. Or maybe he doesn’t have a TV at home and likes to catch his BET at the arena. Most people call Quentin “Q.” As I’ve mentioned before, I feel strange using a person’s nickname if I don’t know him all that well. But “Quentin” seems a little formal. So when I saw Richardson sitting at his locker, my greeting consisted of me stammering my way through “What’s up, Queue…” just as I turned my head, hoping he wouldn’t notice my awkward hello as I walked to my locker.
I donned my uniform, which never fails to produce a small rush of pride, and moseyed into the weight room, where I had promised earlier in the day to meet the strength coach, Erik Phillips. We went through a slightly more organized workout than we had the previous game day. On that occasion, I had jokingly suggested that we make that day’s regimen a cycle through one of everything in the weight room. He waited a beat and said, “Okay.” So we did. Because Erik’s great…and because he’s happy to have someone who occasionally does what he says to do. Because I was the only one in the place, I got to listen to something other than the latest offerings of Trick Daddy, which made my time there significantly more tolerable. After forty minutes in the weight room, I had made so much progress that Erik stopped me with, “That’s it, Paul. You are officially too strong. There is nothing more I can do for you.” (I can dream.) Finished, I took a quick stroll back through the locker room. Most of my teammates were either getting treatment or furiously wasting time—not that I would have been doing anything different if I had been about to play thirty or forty minutes that night. Bored, I meandered out to the court.
An NBA arena has a certain buzz prior to game time. The media people are checking the lights, the trampoline dunkers are discussing their routine, ushers and other various peripherals are wandering around with nothing to do until the fans arrive. It is my favorite part of the evening.
My reverie was interrupted by one of the assistant coaches who—almost more than I—needed something to do. He put me through the beginnings of a workout until he was distracted by one of the starters, who had come out earlier than usual to shoot. I was kicked to the curb and so drafted one of the ball boys to rebound for me until another assistant coach appeared. As is always the case, he had not seen me do anything to that point, so he started me into yet another workout. (In this way, my day can be a bit Office Space–like.) A few more players drifted out of the locker room; we coaxed one of them into playing one-on-one with me until it was time to return to the locker room.
With forty-five minutes left until game time, we bigs met with the assistant coach in charge of us, Marc Iavaroni. Our meetings are quite a sight. Iavaroni usually spends most of his time attempting to keep the attention of his class as he goes through the keys for the night and the tendencies of the players we are likely to guard. It’s like a board meeting, if the members of the board had ninety-second attention spans. Iavaroni is a relatively enlightened fellow and usually fits in a jab or two at those whose minds have wandered, so I am kept entertained. (Again, I feel that this should be everyone’s overriding goal.)
After a brief film session with Iavaroni, we rejoined the group in the main locker room for a pregame briefing. We watched, as a team, some clips of the, uh, Clippers on video, and Coach D’Antoni went through some of the main keys to the game. It turned out that Steve Nash would not be playing; D’Antoni left out the fact that we were 0–3 this year without Steve. (Feel free to change that we to they since I was not yet around for those games—I’m trying to feel more a part of the team by co-opting their success as my own.)
After another, “1, 2, 3…Suns!” we commenced wasting time in the locker room. In my experience, NBA teams do not generally get too excited about warming up and so don’t take the court until about eighteen minutes remain before the game. We are no different. Our reluctance to take the court left an awkward period where we all wandered aimlessly for five minutes. I moved out of the locker room and for the fourth time that night greeted the guy who guards the locker room door. (Each time I am forced to give him a fist bump, I want to say, Stick out your goddamn hand and I’ll slap it. Putting your fist out does not make you any cooler, nor does it make your lazy eye appear any less strange.) With seventeen minutes to go, we followed the flag-carrying male cheerleader types onto the court to the cheers of the five thousand people who actually show up fifteen minutes before the game. We jogged through some layups and then broke up into chaos, which involved some players shooting, some stretching, and some wandering around in between. After a few minutes of this, we gathered back up for some slightly more intense layups. With two minutes to go to game time, we dissolved back into random shooting. Shawn Marion went to the free-throw line and Jake Voskuhl stood just in front of the basket waiting for Shawn to shoot his first free throw, whereupon Jake goal-tended it and both he and Shawn broke into laugher. I cannot even begin to imagine the many levels on which their inside joke must work. Evidently it has staying power; they repeat their routine before every game, and their reactions to it haven�
��t dulled in the slightest.
We then all reported to the free-throw line and stood respectfully as a man named Lou Rawls massacred the national anthem. Apparently, he is a local favorite; the crowd did not seem to share my opinion of his singing abilities. I have heard the name Lou Rawls before, but after the butcher job he did on the anthem, I cannot imagine that it was because of his rampant musical talent. As with every game, after the anthem my teammates and I did our cute little high-five-in-a-row thing that, while a bit seventh-grade-girlish, is kind of cool. As we finished, the Clippers were introduced to a lukewarm reception. They are neither a particularly good team nor a particularly interesting one, so our fans could muster little enthusiasm. Then, like always, the lights went out, and the screens positioned around the top of the stands lit up with the introductory video, which is actually among the best I have seen. Afterward, our starters were introduced. Usually, the list begins with Amare Stoudemire and ends with Steve Nash, which is a good setup for maximum crowd pleasure. Without Steve in the lineup, the anchor spot fell to Joe Johnson, who, while good, does not carry the same cachet as Nash, so the introductions did not have their usual punch. After Johnson was introduced, the capacity crowd was in a mild frenzy, and those of us left out of the starting lineup skipped out to the free-throw area, where we performed our next pregame ritual of forming a circle linking arms over shoulders, bending down, and swaying back and forth around the figure of Bo Outlaw, who bounces back and forth while making guttural grunts with each change in direction of the circle. I am not a huge fan of the tribal dance routine but, as always, did my best to endure it without comment. As our little hullabaloo ended we gathered again, performed yet another “1, 2, 3…Suns!” and wandered back to the bench. Coach D’Antoni pulled the starters together for some last-second words of encouragement, we did one more “1, 2, 3…Suns!” and I found my place three seats from the end of the bench and prepared to be entertained.
