by Paul Shirley
Starter: 2.0x
Bench player who sees significant time: 1.8x
Head coach: 1.7x
Assistant coach: 1.6x
Me: 1.5x
Trainer: 1.3x
Security guy at arena: 1.2x
Steve Nash stalker: 1.1x
Standard fan: 1.0x
Drunken homeless guy outside arena: 0.5x
To explain for those who were not fans of the word problems at the end of the math chapters, it is pretty simple. We shall use Shawn Marion as an example. After our latest win at Memphis, which did close out the series, but was also relatively ugly, the emotional result (x) was, say, a 7. So Shawn felt an emotional impact of around 14 (2.0 © 7). I felt an emotional impact of around 10.5 (1.5 © 7), and the homeless guy sustained one of about 3.5 (0.5 © 7). This is all slightly changeable based on how seriously the particular player took the game and how attractive the girls he gave his tickets to were, but I think it gives a rough guide.
In words, since this isn’t high school algebra class, any feelings I have about a win or loss are going to be slightly dampened compared to Shawn Marion’s. If we win the NBA Finals, it is not going to be because of something I did; to take such credit would be extraordinarily self-serving. I may have had some influence; perhaps a play I made back in training camp or an esteem-boosting poker loss I absorbed on the plane helped in some small way. But let’s be honest—any impact I have is much smaller than the impact Jimmy Jackson or assistant coach Alvin Gentry will have. The potential range of emotions because of a win or loss is bounded, as I showed in the masterpiece that is the above table, and I think that is the way it should be.
May 7
Most of my colleagues are quite tall. I am no exception at six feet ten inches. When in captivity, on the basketball court, I am able to easily forget the fact that my bones are stretched to an extraordinary length because I am surrounded by other members of the freak show. Not so when I am released into the wild. Then I am forced to remember…by stupid people.
After a recent session of the basketball camp that serves as practice while we await an opponent for our next playoff series, I headed to my neighborhood Safeway. I picked up my staples (cereal and yogurt figuring prominently among my selections) and headed out the door. As I was leaving, a man searching for a nearby accountant’s office accosted me when he observed my heightful frame and said, “Hey, man, you should have played basketball. You’re really tall.” What, basketball? You’re kidding. Why didn’t I think of this sooner? It’s a good thing you came along, man.
He continued, “Just how tall are you?” I replied with my correct height, which was quite the Herculean effort, considering the retorts that occurred to me. Returning to his original line of questioning, he asked, “So, did you ever play ball?” He was obviously baiting me into giving something away. The smart move was to keep walking and admit nothing. Instead, I said, “Actually, I play for the Suns.” As soon as it came out of my mouth, I wished I had a DeLorean. Option 1: no conversation with strange middle-aged man. Option 2: lengthy encounter with strange middle-aged man. Option 1 was the logical choice; I must have sucked in too many air-conditioning fumes while inside the grocery store.
My newfound friend immediately interjected that he was a veteran of the Korean War; it was great that he told me, since that was exactly the question I was going to ask. He then proceeded to tell me about his children, which again was fun because I had been wondering. He apologized for not being enough of a Suns fan to know who I was; I assured him that there were only about two hundred people in Phoenix who did, so it was okay. Then he helped load my goods into the trunk of my car despite my protests to the contrary. (Aren’t young people supposed to assist their elders, not the other way around?) Finally, I signed a piece of paper for his wife. (“Harold, what the hell is this? I send you out to deliver some tax papers and you bring me some guy’s autograph.”) The whole encounter got me thinking about the problem that is the height question.
Telling me I am really tall is not a great conversation starter. It’s like walking up to a well-endowed girl in a bar and telling her she has nice breasts—it’s (1) creepy and (2) obvious. She’s heard it before. It is not a new tactic and is not going to lead to a conversation that ends well. The same (sort of) is true for me. The only possible response available to me is, “And you’re really smart.” The encounter basically marks the asker as an idiot and me as an asshole.
Next comes the obligatory “Hey, how tall are you?” I have had some time to consider the question and have decided that it is necessary in only two situations: either the inquisitor is in some way unable to judge my height, because the conversation is taking place via telephone or because of the interrogator’s blindness, or I am seated. It does not make any sense for someone to walk up to me on the street and ask me my height. He can see how tall I am. Feet and inches are merely arbitrary measurements set up by some English king—they are meaningless without some kind of standard. Basically, to judge a person’s height, one of two things is needed, a number value or a visual representation, not both. Unless, of course, there is some sort of underground tall-person collecting going on. Maybe, much like bird-watching, finding someone of every available height is a goal people have.
I really enjoy when people say things like, “Did you know that you are really tall?” Again, asking this question is not a way to convey intelligence. I haven’t pulled them out yet, but someday soon I will respond with questions regarding the physical appearance of my foil, choosing from “Did you know that you are morbidly obese?” and “Has anyone ever told you how unbelievably ugly you are?” It’s going to happen. After all, much like height, they are only observations regarding a person’s appearance.
One by-product of the height conversation is often a comparison to someone the questioner knows and thinks is tall. Invariably, the person to whom I am compared is not really tall at all and the conversation usually ends, unless I am about to be told how big his feet are and how tall the doctors think he will eventually be because, again, I apparently look like I need to know. “Six-ten, huh? Wow. My cousin is six-two and I thought he was tall.”
My all-time favorite encounter is the guessing game. In it, a person approaches and says, unprompted, “I’d say you are about X feet, Y inches.” Even better is the guess without any preceding statement; the guesser starts throwing out heights from a distance, apropos of nothing. The fun aspect of this pastime is that the person is almost never close. “You’re about six-two right?” (I’m serious; it has been said multiple times. I think six-one is the record low.) No. Not even in the ballpark. And let me guess, the neighbor kid is really tall.
These are all more tolerable, though, than the nearly-out-of-earshot comment. Oftentimes when I walk by, I will hear whispers: “Wow, look how tall he is” or “That guy is really tall.” It’s as if, by being tall, I was not blessed with fully functional ears. Were these people not taught how to use their inner monologues? Yes, I am quite tall, but I know that. Any observation to that effect by others should be kept on the inside, unless the participants are willing to bear the consequences. I don’t go around saying everything that is on my mind, but I could. If I did, the airways would be full of “Well, now, that guy is an example of why they made abortion legal” and “Why, exactly, were those two people allowed to procreate?” I think we are all better off with my silence, so no more height questions.
May 16
Tim Floyd, who is one of the people I respect most in all the world, once told me that the reason he likes basketball the most as a spectator sport is because an observer can tell a lot about a person’s character by watching him play. In baseball and football, the fans are too removed from the action, and the players’ faces are physically covered by either a helmet or the brim of a hat. A player, he noted, can hide a lot behind those impedances. In a game of basketball, the player’s emotions are on display for all to see. That’s what made Steve Nash’s effort in Game 4 of our second-r
ound playoff series with Dallas so breathtaking.
I went to the game in something of a malaise. Our games have begun to run together for me because I have not played in so long that I have considered neglecting to wear a uniform beneath my warm-up gear. Consequently, I was not all that excited to watch yet another basketball game, especially after the emotional high that was our Game 3 win in Dallas. I spent the first few minutes of the game putting forth a lackluster effort in my job as associate cheerleader, but my interest picked up as we struggled through the second quarter. The Mavericks’ fans were beginning to get boisterous, which roused me from my stupor enough that I began to take a real interest in the proceedings. Dallas was playing inspired basketball and we…well, inspired would not be the word to describe the way we were playing—I think disinterested does the job nicely. We*5 made it into the locker room down only by sixteen, which seemed much more surmountable than the twenty-one-point deficit we had faced moments earlier.
At the half, Coach D’Antoni did his best to stoke the fires; it seemed to work, as we began the second half with a higher level of focus on the task at hand. (I was trying to put as many clichés in one sentence as I could. How did I do?) Unfortunately, our efforts failed to dent the deficit; in fact, the Mavericks staved off the charge with shots that found their mark from all over the court. It was frustrating to watch.
There comes a point in every semi-blowout basketball game when the team sucking the proverbial rear mammary begins to fold. After Dallas managed to effortlessly keep the lead between twelve and fifteen points for much of the third quarter, my team unconsciously said to itself, Damn. What the hell are we going to do? They just won’t miss. Inner shoulders began to sag, and theoretical faces started to fall.
Then a magical thing happened. Steve Nash absolutely took over the game.
We did not win Game 4 against the Mavericks. In fact, we lost by about ten points. I doubt that many people will remember what happened in the second half of the game. I know, though, that I will never forget it. Steve put on what was unquestionably the single most impressive display of basketball skill that I have ever seen in person. He was absolutely unstoppable. There were times throughout the last fifth of the game that I literally had goose bumps as I stood by the baseline watching him carry the Suns. He made big shot after big shot, at times when a miss would have been absolutely disastrous because Dallas was certainly not acquiescing to Steve’s plan of a stirring comeback and was making nearly everything they threw in the direction of the backboard. I think that is what made the experience so astounding—each shot was under such pressure. It is never easy to find such a rhythm, but it is certainly a simpler task when the chips are falling into place—when the game is flowing and when one’s team is actually making progress. Steve could have hung his head and resigned himself and his team to a losing fate at any time during his zoning-in, but he never did. As I mentioned, though, we never could close the gap. Our fearless point guard kept us within striking distance for almost the entire second half, but his floormates and he could not come up with the defensive stands needed to surmount the Mavericks’ lead.
The greatest part of Steve’s forty-eight-point performance came late in the game. He had not really forced a shot all night and had taken what Dallas had given him throughout the game. (In fact, some will say that this was the Mavericks’ game plan. I doubt, though, that allowing anyone to score forty-eight was mentioned in the pregame briefing.) On two consecutive possessions near the end of the game, he had what looked for an instant like an open shot, only to have the window of opportunity closed by a fast-charging member of the opposition. In both cases, he found an open teammate who scored. Those two passes drove home what Coach Floyd once said, because anyone watching the game could tell exactly what sort of person Steve Nash is. They could tell that after the game he would deflect any talk of his own performance and instead concentrate on the fact that his effort, as Herculean as it was, was not enough to win the game. They could see that he never gave up on his team as he huddled with them after bad breaks. They watched him shrug off, as best he could, some questionable calls by the referees. In all, anyone who watched Game 4 of the Phoenix-Dallas series now knows exactly what kind of person Steve Nash is. And I don’t think that’s a bad thing.
May 26
I overheat easily. I think my core temperature must be slightly higher than that found in most everyone else. It doesn’t take much to push me over the edge to a slight film on the forehead. Considering my present “home” city, this is all great news—I think it was 170 degrees in Phoenix yesterday. Fortunately, my poor cooling system does not manifest itself in some sort of rancid body odor. It does mean that my upper lip and eyebrow regions break into salty droplets with only the slightest provocation. Now, this is not the worst occurrence in the world, except that once my body’s radiator gets out of balance, it is difficult to correct the problem. A poor wardrobe choice can lead to a night of sleeve-wiping and awkward looks from the people with whom I am conversing.
While in San Antonio, with us hoping to climb out of the 0–2 series hole over which the Spurs were standing, shovel at the ready, I spent the evening with a college friend of mine and his wife. Because we were staying near it, we set off down the Riverwalk with the hopes of finding a promising restaurant. Along the way, I noticed that I had made a regrettable decision when I had spurned shorts as the evening’s apparel. Subconsciously, I must have thought that San Antonio would be cool at night. Apparently my thinking was that since Phoenix is the hottest place in the world, everywhere else must be cool enough for long pants. I forgot that the only truly appropriate clothing choice in Phoenix is complete nudity; by comparison, San Antonio is easily shorts-worthy. (On a side note, it is humid in San Antonio, which reminds me of home, where it is disgusting in the summertime. People in Kansas love to speak of the humidity as the cause of their discomfort. However, I take little solace in the dry heat of Arizona. My oven puts out dry heat as well; I’m confident that I would not be comfortable in there, either.)
About the time my revulsion at the BMIs of the Riverwalk passersby had run its course, we found a restaurant that appeared tolerable. I hammered down an overpriced ribeye that was presented covered in barbecue sauce—a concept that offends me greatly as a former caretaker of steaks on the hoof back in Kansas. Our visit was lovely; when we finished, we hiked back to the hotel and said our good-byes. The walk home in the muggy evening air had done little to refrigerate my core; consequently, my brow was still damp and I was anxious to get back to my hotel room so that I could crank the thermostat down to 60 degrees and finally cool the nuclear power plant that seems to run my body. On the way to the elevators, I noticed the entire brains behind the operation that is the Phoenix Suns closing quickly. Included were Mike D’Antoni, Jerry and Bryan Colangelo, and David Griffin (director of player personnel), with wives and families in tow. They’re good people and I get along relatively well with all of them, so I was not displeased to see them. They are, however, my bosses, on various levels, so such of a collection of power—and me—on an elevator provided an awkward situation. Especially for them. They were forced to make conversation with an interloper when they were looking only to get up to their rooms after a long night of planning the future of basketball. They all knew that I wasn’t going to play in the next day’s game, so that discussion was out. Bryan and I had already talked about the bad beat I took in the poker game on the plane. (Joe Johnson caught one of two nines that would help him, and I was sunk.) David Griffin was in said poker game. Coach D’Antoni is funnier than I am, so any remark he would have made would have gone over my head, and Jerry Colangelo has seen about eight thousand basketball players in his day and certainly didn’t need a twelve-second conversation with the likes of me. It was all very Seinfeld-esque. The situation was made worse because my face remained coated with a thin film of San Antonio–induced sweat. Which means that the entire front office now thinks either that I have a very hard time dealing with
social situations or that I have a rampant drug problem. Note to self: further wardrobe consideration the next time I leave the room.
I can joke about an encounter in the elevator with the entire Suns front office because such a comfortable atmosphere surrounds the team. In fact, I’ve never been involved with a more positively charged basketball team. Someone obviously made a conscious decision to take a positive approach with this particular grouping of personalities; I think Coach D’Antoni had a lot to do with that plan. I can’t say that I know D’Antoni well enough to judge his character too deeply, but I can tell, even with my somewhat limited intuition for these things, that there is a fair amount of fire and brimstone lurking just beneath the calm visage he presents most of the time. At times during games, he will turn to the bench after a particularly boneheaded play and make a face that says, I would like that player to no longer receive a paycheck from this organization. In fact, I think it would be best if his right arm were chopped off at the elbow so that he will never again perpetrate such an action on a paying audience. But, in a microsecond, he takes control of his facial muscles and smiles the frustration away, internalizing it so that he can one day pay for some psychiatrist’s Porsche.
I think the positive approach was a good decision on his part. My team plays fast and loose and without regard to mistakes. To allow pessimism into the equation would be to invite second-guessing and hesitation—two actions that do not promote standing in the deep corner and making a three-pointer with a hand in one’s face. Strangely enough, the effervescent aura that surrounds our team has resulted in some success—enough that my teammates truly believe they can win any game in which they play.
