Can I Keep My Jersey?

by Paul Shirley

  On the way to my mecca of late-night commerce, the engine began to overheat. The temperature gauge hovered smack in the middle of the red at the far right of the half circle. I became concerned. I envisioned my pride and joy seizing up in the middle of a Phoenix street as I frantically wondered what to do while my engine melted into one giant pool of molten metal. (It was late. My imagination tends to run away from me at night.) I slowed my pace on the way to the gas station and survived the trip without any of my Dali-esque visions coming to fruition. I breathed a sigh of relief and started into my itinerary.

  The first kink arrived when I was informed by Habib the attendant that his gas station did not stock antifreeze. Which made sense. It was silly of me to expect a gas station, of all places, to have antifreeze. While I was pondering my next move, a customer slightly younger than I stepped up to the counter to buy two Red Bulls and a tallboy. As he was finishing his transaction, I asked him if he wanted to make a quick forty bucks. (My mind had scrambled for the right number—Will he go for twenty? Should I say a hundred?) He thought he did, so I told him that I would give him that sum of money if he could track down some antifreeze for me. I jumped in the backseat of his car and he explained the situation to his girlfriend in the front. We drove about four blocks and found a nice, brightly lit Texaco station that looked for all the world like the kind of place that would carry antifreeze. Sure enough, I came out with a gallon of the finest antifreeze money can buy—if money was given only one option. We drove back to the original station, I paid my driver, and he and his girlfriend abandoned me.

  I opened the hood to find a bone-dry radiator. (Warning: I do have a degree in mechanical engineering, but I know very little about cars. My father must be so proud.) I poured almost the entire contents of my jug down the hatch, hoping that the bobber that was supposed to indicate some degree of fullness would soon make an appearance. It did not, but I assumed I had added enough of the liquid and closed the hood. I looked under the car and, finding no greenish puddle that would indicate a leak, started the engine. The temperature needle hovered somewhere between blue and red for a few seconds, and I thought I was saved. But then it raced its way right back to red, this time even causing the red side to blink. Without a cohesive plan, and with all thoughts of a stop at the International House of Pancakes banished from my mind, I made a break for it, hoping I could get back to my apartment. About two blocks from home, the Service Engine Soon light came on and I started seeing a vision of me pushing my pricey imported car through the near-ghetto surrounding my apartment. But I made it home, or nearly. I didn’t think my car would survive the trip to the parking garage, so I left it in front of the apartment complex, thinking it would be an easier logistical arrangement for the tow truck driver in the morning.

  When I woke up, I called the folks at my dealership and, in an unprecedented show of restraint, used not a single curse word while voicing my displeasure at the turn of events. The customer service department took over and, with remarkable efficiency, had a tow truck at my apartment within thirty minutes of my call. In fact, the entire repair process was quite smooth, which made me wonder: do they manage that part of the process so well because of their attention to detail, or is it merely lots and lots of experience with broken-down BMWs?

  After presiding over the loading of my car onto a flatbed tow truck, I hiked to practice. It is a good thing I play for the Suns and not the Timberwolves. (That was a weather joke. I realize that it wasn’t great.)

  The final analysis was that my car’s serpentine belt had shredded, cutting the radiator hose. Apparently, the M3 has a plate underneath the engine that protects it from debris coming up from under the car. This was where all the antifreeze I poured into the radiator ended up.

  Here’s what it all boils down to for me:

  Car

  Days Driven

  Times Towed

  One-year-old BMW M3

  10

  1

  Nine-year-old Chevy Monte Carlo

  1,825 (approx.)

  0

  Hmmm…

  My walk to practice was accompanied by a large bag. I’m sure that those who observed my passage through downtown Phoenix had no second thoughts about a slightly overdressed giant pulling a massive duffel bag behind him. It was an altogether normal sight. That bag contained clothes for a ten-day road trip that started in Memphis.

  Long road trips in the NBA are both great fun and extremely taxing. It becomes completely disorienting to fly from one city to the next immediately following a game. Night becomes day, and day…(Sound of vomit introducing itself to the back of my throat.)

  I’m afraid the Memphis Grizzlies may get kicked out of the NBA. I could be mistaken, but I think they started three white guys—three American white guys at that. I’m pretty sure there is a rule against that. I guess I’ll find out soon, when the league brings back the Cincinnati Royals to fill the void the Grizzlies leave behind.

  As I watched our game against Memphis, I realized that I was observing a good-versus-evil match-up of sorts. I grew up watching the Boston Celtics and Larry Bird. When I could watch an NBA game, I would watch the Celtics. Without knowing why, I loved the way Bird and his teammates played the game. At the time, I only knew that they were fun to watch. Now I understand why I was drawn to them. The Celtics, along with other teams of the era, played basketball the right way. They played with reckless abandon, not caring whether they looked cool doing it. Unfortunately, that style quickly faded.

  My team is something of a test case for a return to the 1980s Celtics and Lakers style of basketball. No one knows if that kind of game can still be played or, more important, succeed. At some point after the Bird-Johnson era, something changed in NBA basketball. Whatever it was alienated most of the people I know. No one in Kansas watches professional basketball. They first grew disillusioned with the me-first, style-before-substance attitude, but that was not really the reason they stopped watching. They stopped watching because the game was no fun. Coaches had tightened their respective grips, and basketball became a slugfest. The emphasis switched to defense as the powers that be realized that any team, no matter how limited in ability, could win if it stopped the other team from scoring. Consequently, players were taught that it was more important to learn how to play defense than to learn how to shoot a basketball. By the late 1990s I, and most everyone I know, could hardly sit through an entire NBA game.

  Which brings us back to our game with Memphis. The Grizzlies are a fine basketball team, to be sure. But they are limited. We are what the game is supposed to look like—players moving, sharing the ball, shooting when they are open, and, most important, playing together. It has taken some time for this brand to reemerge (call it the Nowitzki-Stojakovic effect), but when the game takes this form, it is fun to watch.

  Because I had a three-month break from the Suns, I have a unique perspective from which to analyze. I was very excited about this team after training camp. I was less excited when I was told to clean out my locker, but even after I was kicked to the curb, I was hoping for my former teammates to succeed, because I had enjoyed being a part of such an explosive, high-powered team that seemed to be moderately excited about playing the game together.

  And now, with our record among the league’s best, a return to entertaining basketball seems inevitable. Good triumphed over evil, 97–91.

  After we traveled from Memphis to Atlanta, I met a friend of mine named Tara for dinner the night before our game with the Hawks. When we arrived at our restaurant of choice, we decided that neither of us was particularly hungry, so we ordered some iced tea and an appetizer with intentions of a lazy discussion of nothing in particular. After an hour or so, our waitress noticed that I was wearing an Interpol T-shirt (the band, not the international crime-fighting organization). She remarked, with a point in the direction of my shirt, “Hey, do y’all know that they are playing here in Atlanta tonight?”

  Interpol could be my second-favorite band in the wor
ld, so my interest was piqued.

  In a part of my life I would rather forget, I would most likely have passed on the Interpol concert. I would have overanalyzed the situation and thought, Well, the Hawks are pretty bad, so there’s a good chance you’ll get to play some tomorrow. Is a concert that may keep you out late worth jeopardizing that opportunity? The answer probably would have been no. Fortunately, I dragged that guy behind the garage and beat him to death with a snow shovel. I now take a more Zorba the Greek–like approach and am willing to attend the concerts of my favorite bands.

  I called my brother for logistical help. He confirmed that Interpol was in Atlanta and would be playing at a place called the Tabernacle. The show was, of course, sold out. Unfazed, Tara and I paid our bill, thanked our waitress for the timely information, and hustled back to my hotel. (I had to change my shirt. No need to be that guy.) The show started at 8:00 P.M. It was 7:30 when we left the hotel. We realized that our lack of guaranteed entry did present something of a problem; when we left I put our chances of finding a ticket at 40 percent.

  We were lucky, since the hotel was close to the venue. We were there by 7:45 and were assailed with “You all need tickets?” by 7:48. I hustled over and, given an opening bid of $120 for two, quickly countered with an offer of $100. Face value was $23 each, but the show was sold out, and I was in no mood for haggling with events nearing commencement. The man quickly accepted my offer, mocking me in his mind for being such a sucker, I’m sure. We snatched our tickets and headed for the door.

  Interpol was great. The opener, Blonde Redhead, was only fair. But I am not complaining. As the night wound down, I realized what a great life I lead.

  I have been known to do my fair share of complaining. Sometimes, like when I am stuck in a frozen outpost such as Kazan, Russia, for two months, it is warranted. Most of the time, though, my complaints are about as necessary as mammary glands on male swine, as the expression (sort of) goes. This part of my life is one of those times.

  Now all I have to do is hope the ringing in my ears subsides before someone expects me to catch my balance and make a jump shot tomorrow. But even if that does not happen and I am a complete disaster on the court, it was worth it.

  March 23

  It’s a good thing I have the trainers and other support staff around to keep me sane. I don’t know what it says about me, but I call very few former teammates my good friends. On the other hand, my e-mail address list is riddled with the names of athletic trainers, strength coaches, and managers from my various stops along the way. I’m not sure why; it could be because most basketball players have an inherent inability to laugh at themselves and are most of the time worried more about their appearance than anything else.

  After a game-day shoot-around midway through our long road trip, I found the weight room in our hotel and met Erik Phillips, our strength coach, so that he could make a futile attempt at sculpting my body to Olympian standards. As we walked into the room, Erik pointed out that one Earvin “Magic” Johnson was sharing our space. He was riding a stationary bike, listening to headphones, and watching a television mounted on the wall in front of him. We didn’t really know what to do with this information, so we ignored Magic and lifted weights. Toward the end of the workout, we were joined by assistant trainer Mike Elliott, who was in self-improvement mode as well. Soon after Mike burst onto the scene, we changed the channel of the television nearest us to the same one being viewed by Big Earv. (And I mean big: regarding the progression of HIV, someone must have been misleading us back in high school health class.) He was watching a program that was counting down the NBA’s greatest finishes. Just as we found the new station, the host began recounting Game 4 of the 1987 NBA Finals. While I finished some lat pull-downs, Magic hit the famous running hook that helped win the series for the Lakers. The three of us were struck by the strange situation in which we found ourselves. Mike, fortunately, came up with a suggestion: “Someone should go over there and say, ‘Hey, Magic. Nice shot.’” Because the gauntlet had been thrown down, Erik was almost without recourse. It took him a couple of minutes, but he did it, and it was hilarious, as we expected. These are my kind of people—not afraid to make asses of themselves in the interest of lowbrow comedy. (By the way, after Erik took one for the comedic team, we all walked over and chatted with the former Lakers star. He was gracious, kind, and charming, like everyone says. I did notice that when I introduced myself, he did not tell me his name. I, of course, know his name—the above paragraph would have been difficult to write without that knowledge. I do not know, however, what I am supposed to call him. Magic? Seems a bit odd. Earvin? Seems forced. It will be a dilemma that haunts me. Anyway, we talked for five minutes and then went our separate ways.)

  That night, we beat the Atlanta Hawks and, in so doing, chalked up our fiftieth win. Not bad. I would like to say the mark was set on a game filled with poetic basketball and a high level of play. But if I did, I would be lying, betraying the very little credibility I do have. Writing that the Hawks looked like a very bad basketball team is like writing that living in Beirut would be exciting—true, but not really the whole story. The Hawks were really, really bad. It is almost as if someone picked the players on the floor completely at random. Balls were bounced off teammates’ faces, passes were thrown to no one in particular, and, in general, very little coherent basketball was played. At one point, the Hawks actually entered an air ball as their shot of choice on three straight possessions.

  A couple of things stood out in Philips Arena, not the least of which was the usual raucous crowd in Atlanta. And, by raucous I mean almost nonexistent. I don’t understand how a team in the fifthor sixth or seventh-largest city in the United States (I need a fact checker) can consistently play in front of a nearly empty arena. Jimmy Jackson said it best before the game. “Watch out,” he warned, “there are a bunch of fans dressed up like seats out there tonight.”

  I had several Gun-In-Mouth Moments during our game with the Hawks—most of them caused by bad nicknames. I define Gun-In-Mouth Moments (GIMMs) as points in my life when, if I were carrying a gun at the time, I would have to consider putting it in my mouth and ending it all in order to avoid dealing with the further downward spiral of our culture. The first GIMM arrived with the announcement of the starting lineups. Here’s the deal: when, after sixty games, the team being announced has a winning percentage hovering around the same area as most pitchers’ batting averages, it loses the right to a grand entrance. No more dance team, no more theme song, no more dimming the lights. The players walk onto the court and play the game. That’s it. The Hawks did not agree to my deal. They had an overproduced introduction on the big screen, an actual hawk that flew down from the rafters, and even a catchphrase—something like “The Spirit Lies Within.”

  The Hawks employ two rookies with the first name of Josh. My other GIMMs occurred each time either of those rookies was announced for scoring a basket. Apparently, someone decided that saying “Josh Smith” or “Josh Childress” was not going to be sufficient. So instead, each time Josh Smith scores, the crowd is treated to “J-Smooth for two.” When it is Childress, out comes “J-Chill with the assist.” An analysis of the situation that does not result in an aneurysm for me seems impossible, so I will stop.

  March 25

  We had an off day in Miami, which was good news for my legs. Exhaustion was about to set in, what with all the forty-minute nights I had been putting in. Wait—I somehow got confused and thought I was writing Shawn Marion’s journal entry. Sorry about that. Regardless, I think a day off is always a good idea. If I were a slightly more conscientious basketball player, I would have used the extra time to do some weightlifting or conditioning. Since I am not, I went to the beach with my trainer and support staff friends.

  Steve Nash and Leandro Barbosa joined us by the water after a while. They and the rest of the group spent some time in the ocean (gulf? My geography is not what it once was), while I looked on like the kid who didn’t get picked fo
r the kickball game. I had made a grievous error with my wardrobe choice, donning khaki shorts with no auxiliary option when I left the hotel. Poor planning. I did manage to remember to buy some sunscreen at the hotel. I took care to apply it liberally. I may be, with the exception of Kirk Hinrich, the whitest player in the NBA, and was not keen on ruining the rest of the road trip with a blistering sunburn. (Upon further review, it would appear that my sunscreen application skills have grown rusty. A significant trapezoidal area of my back was angry with me for allowing so many of the Miami sun’s UV rays access to it.) When my compatriots returned from the water, we listened to the most anal lifeguard ever to grace Miami Beach yell at people for having the nerve to play paddle-ball on the beach, decided we had had enough, and retired to the pavement for the rest of the afternoon.