Billy Campbell was behind on Billions. As associate general manager, his free time was limited during the season. Tonight, though, he would catch up on one of his favorite TV shows. The team was at the Guest House at Graceland hotel in Memphis. Earlier that evening, it had won its fifth straight game—a 129–116 rout of the Memphis Hustle. Seven players scored in double figures, led by Harper’s 23. Young pitched in 4 steals, Ra’Shad James buried 4 three-pointers, and recent addition Darius Adams contributed 21 points off the bench.
At the moment, all was well. Moods were lifted. Smiles were plentiful. Following their win over Agua Caliente a week prior, Birmingham had toppled Santa Cruz 122–110 on Classic Hip-Hop Night at Legacy Arena. Pannone coached part of the game in one of the free Squadron bucket hats distributed to fans. Cheatham, who posted 18 points and 10 rebounds, swaggered to the locker room afterward, screaming, “I love winning! Another one!” He blasted “Dreams and Nightmares” by Meek Mill while receiving postgame treatment, rapping along with Ra’Shad James and Zach Hankins.
So all was definitely well. Cheatham would even receive a ten-day contract from the Pelicans just before the Squadron went on the road. It was more of a nice gesture than anything else, as he would be staying with Birmingham (“on assignment”) for the full ten days, but his pockets were suddenly much heavier. On the team’s next flight to Memphis, he was sitting in first class.
Another decisive victory—this one against the Hustle—left Campbell overjoyed as he got back to Graceland. The team would travel to Sioux Falls via Dallas in the morning, leaving for the airport at 9:00 a.m. Campbell watched an episode of Billions and was about to go to sleep when his phone buzzed. It was a notification from American Airlines: the Squadron’s flight from Memphis to Dallas had been canceled. Campbell looked at the clock: 12:44 a.m.
Ugh.
This needed to be handled. Right away. And it wasn’t going to be an easy fix; icy conditions had been impacting travel in the area for a few days, so options were limited. Campbell called Chasanoff—asleep; he called Pannone—asleep as well. He texted the team chat and emailed the league office, just so everyone was aware of the situation, but Campbell was on his own.
Birmingham had one off day to reach Sioux Falls before a 3:00 p.m. game against the Skyforce the following afternoon. Campbell got on the phone with the travel agency’s help desk. Making new arrangements would have been stressful enough if he was traveling alone—this was torture. Campbell had to figure out how to get twenty people to Sioux Falls as soon as possible. After roughly three hours of deliberation, he came to a less-than-ideal solution: divide the team into groups for several different itineraries.
Of course, those itineraries were not equal in convenience. Since arrival times to Sioux Falls varied, Campbell had to determine who should be on each flight. The starters should get there first, he reasoned, along with Pannone and Schmidt. Campbell plotted it all out in a spreadsheet, dropped the plan in the team chat, and finally climbed into bed at 3:30 a.m., setting an alarm for four hours later.
He awoke to more bad news: there were apparently fewer seats available than expected on the flights that Campbell had “booked.” The painstaking process began again. A team meeting was called for 10:30 a.m. in the Blues Room at the Graceland. Everyone crammed in with their suitcases. Campbell wrote the options—now four of them, none of them particularly appealing—on a giant whiteboard. The room spiraled into chaos, with players voicing their preferences, Campbell fielding more phone calls, and changes being made in real time.
One way or another, everyone got to Sioux Falls. A few players flew from Memphis to Atlanta, from Atlanta to Minneapolis, and from Minneapolis to Sioux Falls. Pannone also drove a group from Minneapolis, pulling up to the hotel after 2:00 a.m. Saint and Huang did not arrive until closer to 11:00 a.m, right before the team gathered for a walk-through in the John Q. Hammons Room at the Sheraton (the same Sheraton where, almost fifteen years earlier, Renaldo Major had learned that he was going to the NBA). Coaches clutched extra-large coffees. Piled onto a luggage cart were bananas, protein bars, and waters. Now that everyone was here, it didn’t matter how strenuous the journey. Two of the organization’s standards—established during training camp—still applied:
Birmingham (7-5) was expected to beat Sioux Falls (3-9). But while the Squadron experienced the travel day from hell, Skyforce players were at home, as comfortable as people can be in dreary 20-degree weather (according to locals, this was “T-shirt and shorts” weather for early February). The game would be a test of Birmingham’s resiliency. Pannone would only play the guys willing to go “super fucking hard,” even if that meant shifting his rotation. He did what he could to raise the team’s energy, dancing into the locker room before his pregame speech.
Energy turned out not to be an issue, but when Harper tweaked his hip in the second quarter, it was hard to imagine that the demanding schedule and onerous travel experience had nothing to do with it. Up 62–51 at the break, Pannone received word from Schmidt that Harper would not be able to return, though the injury was thankfully not too severe.
“Who do you want to start for the second half?” Saint asked.
Pannone thought for a while, rubbing his chin. Harper, a player he once referred to as his “security blanket,” was irreplaceable.
“Jared?” Pannone finally replied, smiling.
Petty, the rookie guard from Alabama, eventually got the nod. Squadron coaches were pleased with his development so far this season, and there was still so much more to unlock. The organization was hopeful that Petty—a six-foot-five sharpshooter—would become a significant contributor in the NBA one day. His growth was a credit to the staff and to veteran teammates like Young, whom Petty called his “big brother.” Young offered him countless basketball tips—moves to try, workouts to do, pregame routines to follow—and shared details about his own past mistakes. He wanted to prepare Petty for everything a future in the NBA might present.
“He just told me about the league and how it is once you get there, once you start getting money and just how people treat you after that,” Petty explained. “Like, everybody wants their handout. And he told me how people were always asking him for this, asking him for that. He said it got to a point where he was helping everybody so much, he forgot about himself. That’s one thing he told me—make sure you take care of yourself.”
Petty was glad to have Young around but, frankly, shocked that he still was. How had his “big brother” not been called up? He repeatedly told Young, “They can’t keep overlooking what you’re doing. They just can’t.” But, in all honesty, Petty didn’t know if that was true. His understanding of the business side of basketball was still limited. What he did understand full well was that Young seemed to possess more talent than most of their peers—talent that Petty marveled at in every game.
Against the Skyforce, Young went for 28 points on 11 of 15 shooting. On one play, he picked up his man—the familiar Mario Chalmers, who was back in the G League after ten days with the Miami Heat—ninety-four feet from the basket, stole the ball, and lobbed it up to Cheatham for a slam.
Despite Young’s performance, Birmingham saw its lead gradually diminish in the second half, eventually falling 111–104. With a normal day of travel and Harper in the mix—or even just one of those things—it might have been a different story. But a loss was a loss, and there were no excuses in a league full of them.
Hill didn’t have to worry about last-minute cancellations anymore. He wasn’t squeezing into middle seats on Southwest flights, either. Life was comfortable in the NBA. More than comfortable—it was lavish. He was flying private, staying in upscale hotels, getting generous per diems. Now that he was signed through the rest of the season, he had a nice apartment in downtown Chicago, close to the team’s practice facility.
By mid-February, Hill was decidedly out of the Bulls’ rotation. The worst of Omicron had passed, and previously injured players had returned to the lineup. Hill’s situation made it easy to grow complacent. “You can just be like, ‘F it. I’m in the league, this is good enough for me. Let me enjoy this,’” Hill said. “You just gotta keep going, man—every day, day by day.”
Hill’s grind was different now but just as demanding. His focus had shifted from “make it to the NBA” to “stick in the NBA.” Accomplishing the former far from guaranteed the latter. Players in Hill’s position often landed right back in the minors, enjoying merely a cup of tea in the NBA. Hill was signed through the rest of the season, but beyond that, it all hung in the balance.
G League call-ups couldn’t afford to just fit in. NBA coaches did not assess Malcolm Hills like they assessed others on the roster. Hill needed to put in more work, to have no slip-ups. “You walk in there one day half-stepping, they got you,” said Langston Galloway, a former D-Leaguer who turned a ten-day contract into seven seasons in the NBA. “They’re going to be like, ‘Look, we appreciate all you’ve done.’ And you’re out the door, just like that.”
The definition of half-stepping is different for a fringe player. Half-stepping for Galloway and Hill might be full-stepping for a first-round draft pick. When Galloway was called up to the New York Knicks in 2015, he had this ominous sense that someone was always watching him. If he made a mistake, someone would catch it. If he slacked off, someone would notice it. In Galloway’s mind, the solution was simple—well, not simple, but straightforward: strive for perfection.
That was Hill’s mission now: be as close to perfect as humanly possible. He came in early to work out and stayed late to get up shots. He ate right and took care of his body. He studied scouting reports and analyzed film. He did whatever Coach Donovan requested of him.
These were things that Troy Daniels, a one-time D-Leaguer who played seven seasons in the NBA, called the “givens.” Miami Heat guard Gabe Vincent, who appeared in 55 games in the G from 2018 to 2020, referred to them as “the baseline.” Don’t do those things, both Daniels and Vincent stressed, and you have no chance of sticking.
Fringe players have to be the teacher’s pets, always willing to go the extra mile, catering to the team’s every need. Want me to change positions? Done. Guard that superstar? I’m on it. Run sprints? No problem. Carry these bags? Easy. Sing a song? Let me just warm up my vocal cords.
“You can call it however you want to call it,” said Daniels. “People might laugh at you or whatever, but you know, my career lasted a lot longer than those people that were laughing.”
For Hill, the million-dollar question—literally, a question worth millions of dollars—was, how do I impact winning? Or, to be more specific, how do I impact winning when I’m not even playing?
Vincent explained, “I think that’s something that people also struggle with in our position. Every night it’s going to be something different. Your impact might look different, might be greater, might be smaller, it might be you clapping, it might be you keeping the star’s head level or just being the ear for him to bitch to before he goes back out there and plays. It’s just constantly evolving.”
At the absolute least, Hill had to be a good teammate. A phenomenal teammate. That meant cheering like a Little League parent from the sideline and bringing nothing but positive energy to the locker room. Perhaps no one in the NBA performed this role better than Mavericks guard and former G Leaguer Theo Pinson.
Pinson, who mostly warmed the bench, was known as the NBA’s premier hype man. Mavericks head coach Jason Kidd labeled him the MVP of the team. Every night, Pinson made the sideline his personal playground. He celebrated three-pointers like college acceptance letters and dunks like winning lottery tickets. He trash-talked opponents relentlessly. He barked out coverages and schemes.
“I think everybody looks at me like, ‘Theo’s just out there screaming and talking junk, blah, blah, blah,’” Pinson said. “I’m like, yeah, I talk a little junk, but most of it is helping my teammates and remembering the coverages. I say this all the time: it’s easy when you’re tired and you’re getting a little fatigued to forget what the coverage is—you’re just out there playing basketball. And if you got somebody helping you on the back end, talking, it helps out the whole team. It’s something that I found value in and the team found value in, and I continue to do it.”
Even the embellished celebrations—the synchronized dances and oh-my-God-what-the-hell-just-happened facial expressions—are valued by coaches. That stuff matters, so much so that during film sessions in Birmingham, Pannone would sometimes sprinkle in clips of the Squadron’s best bench reactions. Not to get a laugh—he would encourage his players to do more. He once referred to guard Justin Wright-Foreman, who was acquired by Birmingham in February, as the team’s “TikTok All-Star.”
Not every call-up had to be like Theo Pinson; there wasn’t enough coffee in the world for that. “I think it can look like a lot of different things,” said Vincent. “I might not be as theatrical as Theo, but there is a way that I can impact my teammates and uplift them and move the needle even when I’m not in the game.”
Hill recognized the importance of doing so. “You have to,” he said. “That’s the least I have to offer since I’m not playing. Being on a roster, it’s more than just what you can do on the basketball court. What other things do you have to offer a team? Which I think allows guys to stick around—being vocal, encouraging, positive, good locker-room dude.”
When opportunities to play did come, Hill needed to seize every one of them. It didn’t matter how small or seemingly insignificant; every sliver counted.
“I think the biggest thing in my career was taking advantage of every opportunity,” Daniels emphasized. The six-foot-four guard was called up to the Houston Rockets from the Rio Grande Valley Vipers in March 2014. For the next month, he barely saw the floor—a couple of garbage minutes here, a couple more there. But Daniels did not take a single second lightly.
On the final day of the regular season, the Rockets rested several of their key players, having secured the number four seed in the Western Conference. Daniels moved into the starting lineup and erupted for 22 points, shooting an efficient 6 of 11 from behind the arc. Houston lost the game, and maybe ten people in the world cared. Daniels was obviously one of them. Another was Rockets head coach Kevin McHale, whose trust in Daniels was mounting, despite the rookie logging just seventy-five total minutes throughout the season. They were seventy-five good minutes, McHale thought—good enough to give the D-Leaguer a chance in Houston’s first-round playoff series against the Portland Trail Blazers.
During a thrilling Game Three, Daniels buried the biggest shot of the night. Tied at 116–116 with less than fifteen seconds remaining, he nailed a three-pointer to put Houston on top. Portland failed to answer, and the Rockets secured the 121–116 victory. Daniels was the hero. “Just a couple weeks ago, he was in the D-League,” superstar James Harden said in his postgame press conference. “Now he saved our season.”
Daniels would never return to the minors after that, appearing in seven straight NBA seasons and earning more than $14 million in contracts. “I’m pretty sure I was not going to play in the playoffs,” he later reflected. “But when it came down to it, [McHale] looked down the bench and called my name, just because in those last eight games in the regular season, I took advantage of those opportunities. People probably had turned their TVs off at that time.”
So every opportunity was crucial, even the ones that felt meaningless. Hill was mindful of that. On February 7, he checked into a game against the Phoenix Suns with 1:41 left on the clock and the Bulls trailing 127–112. As fans headed for the exits, Hill scored a quick 8 points, going 3 for 3 from the field. The performance garnered some attention on social media, since it turned a bunch of winning gamblers (who bet Phoenix on the spread) into shell-shocked losers.
Throughout February Hill’s role fluctuated, then diminished, then disappeared. He grew discouraged at times, sharing those emotions with his father, Malcolm Sr.
“Don’t be disappointed,” he told Malcolm. “You’re in the NBA! Look how hard it was and how long it took you to get there, and you did it. When you look back on this year, you’re going to think, Wow!”
Dad was right. Hill would look back on this season one day with wonder. But right now, he was too caught up in the grind. He was fully committed to taking all the necessary steps to carve out a role. To stick.
Yes, that process was arduous. When Atlanta Hawks center Clint Capela, who played thirty-eight games with the Vipers in 2014–15, described it, he had to pause for several breaths: “Also show that you can defend, also show that you have energy, also show that you’re a good teammate, also show that you can be on time, also show that you can cheer on the bench. There’s other stuff too. It’s a grind, man. It’s hard.”
At this point, nothing would deter Hill from that grind—not the private planes, not the upscale hotels, not the per diems. As he often said, “I do this for the love and not the benefit.”
After a short break in mid-February for All-Star Weekend, the Squadron headed west. The team would play two games against the Santa Cruz Warriors, then fly to Ontario, California, for a back-to-back against the Agua Caliente Clippers. Both Harper and Cheatham would not make the trip.
Harper had been selected to join the USA World Cup Qualifying Team for two games in Washington DC. It was a nice addition to his résumé and gave him the chance to impress a new group of NBA-connected folks. The team was coached by Jim Boylen, the former head coach of the Chicago Bulls and a friend of Pannone’s, and consisted of longtime NBA players such as Langston Galloway and Joe Johnson.
Harper shot poorly during the event, missing all seven of his attempts from behind the arc, yet his offensive skill set and athleticism still stuck out to teammates. Galloway was particularly awed by Harper’s leaping ability. At five feet ten, the diminutive point guard could dunk the ball with ease. Harper’s vertical jump was actually the fifth-highest recorded at the 2019 NBA Draft Combine and ranked first when Kincaide tested players on the Squadron. Galloway saw Harper as an “NBA talent”; he just needed the right opportunity.
“It’s going to come,” Galloway said. “He just has to continue chipping away and keep working, and I think it’s going to open up, because he works hard, he wants to get better. And that’s all you can ask for.”
Cheatham was absent from the Squadron for a different reason: his mom’s health was rapidly deteriorating. He had been quiet about her cancer battle throughout the season, always wearing a smile. Privately, though, he was hurting. Even amid her fight, Carolyn remained his biggest fan, messaging him after games to praise his performances.
Following an early-season loss to Texas, Cheatham was extremely hard on himself. He had been dominated inside by the seven-foot-two Moses Brown, one of the few times he looked completely overmatched. By the time he got on the bus, Cheatham had already received a text from his mom, saying that he played great. It made him chuckle. No matter what, she always said that he played great.
During the most important year of his professional career, Cheatham was carrying the heaviest weight imaginable. It grew heavier as the months passed. His season was becoming more hectic; her cancer was becoming more aggressive. Cheatham couldn’t let it affect his game. He had to cope with the situation and still perform on the court.
“When you put on the jersey and you step on the court, unfortunately not everyone has all the context of everything,” Squadron general manager Marc Chasanoff said. “You don’t know who’s watching you that game. Whether you play phenomenal or you play like shit, it could sway a decision one way or the other. You just don’t know. Zylan’s mentality, his perseverance—he wants it so bad.”
Cheatham went back to South Phoenix for the All-Star break. He knew his mom was in bad shape, but it was heartbreaking to see her up close. She couldn’t walk or talk; didn’t have any energy. Cheatham vowed not to leave her side, not while she was suffering like this. He would put his career on hold, even if that meant sacrificing another shot at the NBA. He called Chasanoff and Pannone and told them that he needed to stay in Phoenix. They expressed their utmost support.
“As much as my career is important to me, my mom is the most important thing, so I felt like it was just a time where she really needed me,” Cheatham said. “It was hard to not show up there for my guys, but I feel like anybody who has a mother would understand.”
Cheatham developed a home routine—he would wake up early, eat a quick breakfast, work out, and then go to the hospital where his mom had been admitted. He would sit next to her for the rest of the day. Visiting hours went until 8:00 p.m., but Cheatham always begged the nurses to let him stay later. He could usually buy an extra thirty minutes, sometimes an hour. “I would just stay by her side until they kicked me out,” he said.
“He loves that woman dearly,” Darvis Fletcher, Cheatham’s best friend, said. Fletcher was in Phoenix with Cheatham at that time. “He’ll go above and beyond for her—anything necessary. He would go work out and go right back to where mom was at and sit with her all day. And he would repeat that literally every day. It was definitely a tough time. With Z, he won’t really show you all the time, but I know because I’ve been around. He definitely wasn’t himself. He was down.”
Being home was always a reminder of how far Cheatham had come—of who he was playing for. He carried the city with him wherever he went. The Arizona Diamondbacks A logo is tattooed across his burly right bicep. Just below it is a rendering of the antennas that sit atop South Mountain, which overlooks downtown Phoenix. Part of Cheatham’s motivation to reach the NBA was a desire to serve his community. When he signed a three-year NBA contract in 2020, he began exploring ways to give back, including through the establishment of a new foundation that would support the children of incarcerated parents. Only one year of his contract would be paid out, however, after Cheatham was waived by the Thunder. He could still help South Phoenix, and still did, but not to the extent he desired—not the way he felt the city deserved.
“I have mixed emotions about it because to a certain extent, I want to show them that before you get there, you can still show love and do shit for the hood, which I’ve done,” he explained. “But at the same time, I want to get all the way there before I really come back and do it the right way, because I don’t want to just do it one time. I want to be able to do it for a period of time and get some shit really started.”
With Cheatham at home, his mom’s condition gradually improved. Her energy increased. Her spirits rose. She was doing far better than when he first arrived. Cheatham reported back to Birmingham at the beginning of March. The team had just returned from its long West Coast trip, having lost three of four games without Cheatham and Harper.
Cheatham was excited to rejoin the group. The way that they embraced him as a leader, as a friend, meant a lot to him—more than they probably knew. And, of course, the court was his “happy place,” his escape from reality. When he was playing, nothing else consumed him. He looked free, joyful, unburdened, like all that weight he was carrying was momentarily lifted. “That’s why this team is just so important to me,” he said, speaking after his first game back, a 123–109 victory over the Texas Legends.
“It’s just great to be back, man,” he added, grinning wide. “That’s all I can say.”