by Paul Shirley
Because the routine we go through prior to a game is relatively dull and repetitive, the opening tip of the Clippers game provided a refreshing change of pace. As I took my seat, I realized that for the next couple of hours I had nothing to do but watch a basketball game. Even though at this point I have seen enough live sports to last a lifetime or two and am rather jaded, I can still appreciate the beauty of the chance to watch an NBA basketball game from the front row.
The game started as NBA games often do—sluggishly. My eyes started to glaze over after about three minutes. I’m concerned about my burgeoning case of ADD. I did well for my first few games with the Suns, with my focus on the events at hand lasting well into the fourth quarter. Now, the concentration ship sails away sometime before the first media time-out, which comes at the first dead ball after the six-minute mark in the first quarter. Before the game had even reached that point, I had begun scanning the crowd, looking for interesting people and/or attractive girls to watch throughout the game.
At the whistle that signaled the first time-out of the game, I hustled out of my chair to meet my team on the court, giving the obligatory high fives and words of encouragement that certainly do not come that easily to me. I am not particularly enthusiastic in general, so cheerleader is not a role that I fit all that well. But I did a good job of providing some enthusiasm, and wandered back to the huddle as the coaches made their way out to their usual meeting point near the free-throw line in front of our bench. We cleared a path for the coaches to get back in front of the starters, who were now perched on the bench, with the rest of us surrounding them in a half circle. Because it was early in the game, and because we had not exactly blown the doors off the Clippers, Coach D’Antoni had plenty to say. As usual, his message was delivered in an impressively calm voice that rarely rises above a conversational tone. The players in the game made a valiant effort to appear as if they cared about what he was saying, some other modifications were made, and the group was sent back into the fray.
While D’Antoni was exhorting my teammates to greater heights of physical performance, I hovered near the back of the huddle, trying halfheartedly to see what was being written on the dry-erase board with basketball court markings. After about twelve seconds of this, I was distracted by the dance team—I think it had something to do with the outfits they were wearing, along with the fact that they are much better-looking than my teammates—and lost all focus on the events of the huddle. It is a good thing I was not sent into the game; I don’t think I would have had much of a chance of being on the same page as everyone else. As my teammates marched back into battle, I hustled back to my end of the bench in order to stake out my seat. The three of us who sit at the end (Bo Outlaw on the end and Jake Voskuhl to his left, with me next) have settled into a routine regarding our seating arrangement. The rest of the group cannot seem to figure out where they fit in and are constantly jostling for position. Thus, I have taken it upon myself to make sure my end-of-the-bench comrades and I have adequate space. Jake and Bo applauded my work. Content, I settled back into my seat, only then realizing that I had not paid the slightest attention to what had gone on in the time-out. I chastised myself for my behavior and I resolved to do better. I would have plenty of chances. In NBA games, mandatory media time-outs seem to come around every nine seconds.
I was proud of my work in the subsequent time-outs. I lost concentration only when something truly entertaining, such as the trampoline dunkers or the Kiss Cam, was on the docket. For time-out entertainment, it is hard to beat the Kiss Cam. Whoever came up with the idea is a crowd-pleasing genius. Kiss Cam came sometime in the second quarter in this game against the Clippers. I watched out of the corner out of my eye while Coach D’Antoni scribbled on the board. He had his head down, so he did not notice until it was too late that all five players sitting in front of him were staring unabashedly at one of the screens in the arena. And who could blame them? The story line is predictable, yet infinitely entertaining. Things got started with some twenty-or thirty-somethings who were obviously married, or at least dating. A hearty but restrained kiss was shared. So far, so good. At some point, the mad genius operating the Kiss Cam switched gears and managed to catch an awkward teenage couple in which the male involved thought he had found an automatic free pass to first base while the girl covered her face and giggled. The encounter ended with a chaste kiss on the cheek. Back to a few average couples, one of which went for the assault kiss, wherein the man leaned over his girlfriend or wife and tried to suck off her entire face. Comedy gold. Pan to the two co-workers who came to the game on company tickets. One was significantly more attractive than the other, and much like the awkward teenage couple, the encounter ended badly. The woman—the better-looking of the two—was especially insecure, and acted mortified. She even went as far as to shake her head as if to say, Seriously, like I would sink that low? which, in my mind, should at the very least be worth a VD rumor around the office. As the Kiss Cam neared the end of its run of glory, the crowd found itself staring at an older couple. Par for the course, the two were completely oblivious to the goings-on. It took a nudge from their neighbors to get them into action. The moment of truth had arrived. The director of the spot had to be shaking with fright; the success of the entire segment depended on the retirees. Occasionally, the old folks glare at the camera and refuse to budge, even with much encouragement from the rest of the crowd. But this couple stared blankly into the camera for a few seconds, then realized what was wanted and made good on a dry kiss born of decades together. The crowd went wild and, as usual, everyone thought that love had a chance.
Which made the rejection all the more awkward when I immediately tried to make out with Bo Outlaw.
Back to the action. We muddled through the second quarter and took a ten-point lead into halftime. I found myself in the middle of the pack as we walked back into the locker room, which meant that I faced a dilemma as hands came out of the stands hoping for a quick five. Do I slap them on the palm and act like it was really my hand they were seeking, or skip them safe in the knowledge that they don’t even know who I am and couldn’t care less if I give them five? As is most often the case, I opted for the former—it is not my job to know the whims of every individual fan. We passed by the guy who guards the locker room door, whose fist was held out yet again. I bumped it, for about the fifth time that evening. I found my way to my chair and waited for some heavy-duty basketball knowledge to be distilled. The coaches met briefly in their office area and then came out to talk about some adjustments. After Coach D’Antoni said a few things, he turned the floor over to the assistants. The first had something new to say, the second had a little less, and the third, looking like the first two had stolen his ideas, resigned himself to silence. We gathered in the middle of the locker room, broke huddle again, and then slowly wandered out to the court, where we repeated a very abbreviated version of the pregame warm-up.
I found my seat again, the game resumed, and I started wondering if I was going to get to play. The Clippers were displaying their ineptitude at every opportunity, and it was obvious that our lead might balloon rapidly. Against good teams, a big margin can mean very little, but against a team like the Clippers, a smallish lead is as insurmountable as a forty-point advantage over a good team.
Before I knew it, the fourth quarter had rolled around, and it looked for all the world like the Clippers were done. Down by fourteen with nine minutes to go, they made a late push, but it was for naught. We made it through the first and second media time-outs of the fourth without any major changes, but as the three-minutes-remaining time-out whistle blew, I knew there was a good chance I would need to get rid of my warm-ups. We were ahead by twenty, and LA was spent. Coach D’Antoni called Bo’s name; I thought I was next. I did not go in, though, and was a little hurt. As I have said many, many times, I truly hate playing in garbage time. However, it never feels good to get passed over. But a few seconds after the action started back up, Coach D’Antoni called
out my name and sent me to the scorer’s table. I got there with two and a half minutes to go but had to sit for a minute and a half of game time before I was able to go in. Even then, I only got to take off my warm-ups because Bo saw me stretched out in front of the table and, wanting to do me a favor, fouled on purpose so that I could enter the game. I went in with fifty-eight seconds left. I touched the ball once, but I was about forty feet from the basket, so I didn’t have a chance to get off the requisite shot. Time expired and I felt for a second like I had contributed—if only because I finished the game with my shoulders bared.
We walked to the locker room, where the general manager was waiting with congratulations for everyone. As usual, it was an awkward moment for me. I followed Shawn Marion in. The GM said, “Way to go, Shawn. Good win out there.” For me it was, “Uh, good win.” Coming up with things to say to the scrubs like me can’t be the easiest task.
Coach D’Antoni was pleased with our win—the forty-second of the year. He was smiling upon his entry to the locker room. He said very little, and we finished the night off with one last, “1, 2, 3…Suns!” I retreated to my locker, took off my uniform, and put on some practice clothes because my night was not quite over. I walked slowly down to the practice court, where my day had started about twelve hours before, and ran a few sprints under the watchful eye of the strength coach. In the unlikely event that three guys go down with injuries at the same time, my body will be ready, even if my mind is not.
March 10
I rail against religion a lot. I am forced to think about it so much because of its undue presence around athletics. I have seen enough basketball players with one tattoo declaring that “Only God Can Judge Me” accompanying another that states that the wearer is “Brooklyn’s Finest” or was “Born a Star” to know that most of these so-called Christians have about as much acquaintance with the teachings of Christ as would a scouting expedition from another galaxy. It is the hypocrisy that bothers me. The religious have done some great things over the years. Without religion, many a native people would have gone wanting for subjugation and oppression. Without religion, hundreds if not thousands of young boys would have been forced to endure a tragic life free from molestation by a trusted priest. Without religion, millions of AIDS viruses would go homeless, left to die on the inside of a third-world condom. Wait a second. I got my good things mixed up with my bad things. What I meant to say was, I can understand the benefits of a religious mind-set. I love a good crusade or jihad that kills innocent byst…Dammit, I give up. Anyway, I’m sure that religion has done some good. I just grow tired of seeing people say one thing when it seems convenient but do another when it isn’t.
Recently, one of my teammates approached me in a conspiratorial way as our morning walk-through was ending. He said:
(Break in the action. I will now present two stories. One is true; the other is more like what I thought life in the NBA would be like.)
Story 1:
“Paul, we’re having a little prayer meeting in S____’s room after walk-through. We’ll meet up there about five minutes after we are done here. It is something we do on the road all the time. About half of the guys come. I don’t know if you are interested, but if you are, it would be great to have you.”
Story 2:
“Paul, we’re going to get together after walk-through and do some blow in S____’s room. I think some strippers are going to stop by and, let me tell you, the crew we found last year here in Seattle was A-OK. They were letting us snort coke off their…well, you know. Anyway, this is something we do on the road all the time; about half the guys come. I don’t know if you are interested, but if you are, we could probably spare a gram or two.”
I’m not sure which of the above options offends me more. I wouldn’t participate in either, but if I put the two at the ends of a spectrum, I do believe my potential acceptance would fall closer to Story 2 than to Story 1. Of course, Story 1 is the true one; it is doubtful that my team would be tied for the best record in the NBA if half its membership were doing cocaine on the road. At least on game days. My response to the prayer circle invitation was a quick lift of the eyebrow and a “Huh, that’s interesting,” which was a far cry from what I wanted to say, which was, You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. You’re going to gather a group of grown men in a hotel room and pray together? Seriously, did no one laugh when you first suggested this?
If I were not such a sissy, I would have gone to the little Bible study session and reported back. But I really didn’t think I would have been able to maintain a straight face.
The same person told me a story today.
“Hey, Paul, I think you’ll appreciate this. It is a genuine miracle.” At the time, I searched my brain for why he thought I would appreciate something involving the suspension of logic, but it became clear shortly. “My brother just finished his master’s degree.” Ah, because I’m the “smart guy,” I’ll appreciate the academic nature of the story. “He wants to teach at the college level, but he has been pretty nervous about whether he would be able to get into a Ph.D. program. He has prayed and prayed about it, and finally decided to apply to Northwestern, which has the best program in the country for what he wants to do, and Cal Berkeley. Now, he doesn’t really know about Berkeley because, you know, there are some weird people out there.” Yeah? You mean free-thinking, overly intelligent people? You’re right, I have heard about them—to be avoided at all costs. “But anyway, he just heard back from Northwestern. Get this, I mean, it is truly a miracle—they’re going to give him a five-year scholarship and pay him $18,000 a year. Isn’t that amazing?”
I said, “Uh, yeah. Pretty cool. Must be a smart guy.” But I am sure the fact that his brother is apparently a highly driven, intelligent human being has nothing to do with the fact that he was the number one selection by his school of choice. No, it was definitely the prayer that did it.
Later in the day, this same guy asked one of the public relations people about some basketballs the team was securing for him. The PR guy told him that they would be in shortly. When the player asked how much he would owe, he was told, “Oh, don’t worry about it, we’ll get it.” Shortly thereafter, the PR guy asked the player, “Hey, I was talking to someone over at St. Mary’s Hospital the other day. He was wondering if you had some time next week to get up to the burn unit over there. It wouldn’t take long—maybe an hour.” The reply was, “Hmmm, I don’t know. I don’t think I can do it. I know we have those two days off, but I have stuff going every day. Sorry.”
The hyperreligious types that seem to crop up more and more, especially in athletics, fall back on their religion only when it is convenient. It is not applicable in all situations. It is only to be used for personal gain and not for the good of others. On the rare occasion when it is used for the good of others, media personnel will be on hand to document it so that personal gain can later be had.
It is important to note that I am not condemning my teammate for refusing to visit the burn center. In fact, as soon as the question was asked, I thought, Yikes, I hope he doesn’t ask me. Disfigured burn victims freak me the hell out. But that is okay, because I am a selfish bastard—and that cuts across all situations. I do not claim to be a benevolent, even-handed creature.
At the end of the day, I suppose I am not railing against religion per se. I am railing against duplicity and dishonesty. It seems to me, though, that religion is a concept behind which many people find plenty of space to hide their true selves. This, in the end, turns people like me away from anything smacking even lightly of religious behavior because we have seen so many times the behavior of the “enlightened” when the doors are closed.
March 16
When I signed with the Suns for the rest of the season, I was faced with two immediate concerns: lodging and transportation. I solved the first after a few minor hiccups but was at a loss regarding the second. I kicked around the idea of buying a car here, but that seemed extravagant, so I tried to talk my brother Matt
into driving my car from Kansas City down to Phoenix, if only for one last hurrah. I thought it would be hilarious to pull my 1996 Monte Carlo into a parking space at the arena next to the BMW 745s and Cadillac Escalades. Alas, he did not want to make the two-day trip, so I fell back to buy mode. After giving it some thought, I decided that I could afford a purchase. I also realized that buying a car would bring me one step closer to the stereotypical athlete triumvirate (house, car, jewelry) that has eluded me for so long, and if that is not motivation enough, I don’t know what is.
After much careful shopping, I bought a BMW M3. (Pause for gagging. I am a cliché.) I decided to pull out all the stops in my transformation into the stereotype. Plus, I thought a German car would hold its value relatively well and would be reliable. Imagine my surprise, then, when it recently began making a very strange noise under the hood. At the time I tried to ignore it, thinking that since I had put only a hundred miles on the car and had purchased it “certified pre-owned,” there was no way something could be going wrong already. (Now that I think about it, their claim wasn’t much. It could be inferred that the only thing the dealership was certifying was that the car had been owned before.) My optimism was, of course, a blatant suspension of logic. My middle name is Murphy, after all. I drove to our game that night, thinking I could get through that trip and the return to the arena for the next day’s practice before dealing with any potential problems—it’s all of a mile from my apartment to the arena. On the way to the game, an oddly shaped light came on in the dash. I didn’t have the owner’s manual with me, so after a rather awkward loss to the Houston Rockets, I drove back to my apartment hoping to learn what was wrong with my new car. (Well, 14,700-miles-past-new car.) When I cracked open the guide, I learned that I was supposed to interpret the lit-up icon to mean that my car’s engine needed coolant. I thought, I grew up on a near-farm in Kansas, of all places. I can solve this problem. I hopped back in my car with the idea of killing two birds with one stone: I would drive to a gas station I knew well to secure some antifreeze, and let the engine cool while I ran across the street to the IHOP for a late supper. (We were leaving the next morning and I didn’t really feel like throwing a meal together.) Then, hunger sated, I would go back to my car and add the necessary fluid to its vital parts and be home in time to pack for our trip.
