Chapter Eleven

Classes had yet to resume when we all got back to the campus on Tuesday, so Coach Woody ran us through two practice sessions on Wednesday. One at ten a.m., which lasted for two and a half hours, then another two hours beginning at four p.m. This schedule was repeated on Thursday. On Friday we had an early practice followed by a strenuous stint in the weight room. On Saturday we just did weights.

Through it all, I was weak, weary, out of shape, and my smooth, soft jump shots had devolved into rim bangers.

From Sunday to Thursday, we reverted to our normal schedule: midafternoon practice followed by more work in the weight room.

Friday we flew to Los Angeles for a two-day tournament. I was simply atrocious, shooting a combined 10-of-31 and scoring a total of 29 points as we lost to UCLA to open the tournament, then to USC in the consolation game.

Even LeVonn stunk up the court. “Too much nonstop partying with my homies,” he told me.

CW went simply berserk during both halftime intermissions, both postgame meetings, and before the consolation game. He even went so far as to call us “motherfuckers,” something he had never done before.

As a result of our weekend debacle in LA, our ranking fell from number 2 to number 18.

However, something extraordinary happened to me during that time.

I was so distressed by my performance against UCLA that, the next morning, I breakfasted by myself. Still disgruntled, I was also alone in the elevator that would take me to my private room on the fifteenth floor. But just before the doors closed, somebody squeezed into the car.

He looked like a surfer dude with a deep tan, a flowery shirt sufficiently opened to reveal a hairy chest and a huge golden medallion of some sort around his neck. What else grabbed my immediate attention? Neat blue jeans, bare feet in flashy black loafers, thinning blond hair, shades, teeth so white they looked like they could glow in the dark, and a drooping Fu Manchu mustache.

One of the Beach Boys?

A ghost from Hippie Land?

“Hi, Elliot,” he said, offering five gold-ringed fingers for a hearty shake. “I’m Gordon Collison, perhaps you’ve heard of me?”

“No, I haven’t.”

I’m still always suspicious of anybody who wears sunglasses indoors. However, one detail softened my immediate disdain. I expected his fingernails to be expertly manicured, but instead they were bitten to the quick. So, underneath all the glitz was a nervous, insecure human being.

“No matter. I’m a certified agent and I have over two dozen clients who are currently playing in the NBA. Stephon Marbury. Tom Chambers. Dikembe Mutombo. Dennis Johnson. Need I say more?”

“Okay. I get it.”

“So here’s the thing. . . . I’ve talked to my sources around the NBA and the prediction is that you’ll either be drafted late in the first round or early in the second round. That is, if you eventually decide to declare eligibility for the draft.”

“Really?”

“Really. And here’s what that will mean. A low first-rounder can expect anywhere from a total of two and a half to three million for two guaranteed seasons. High second-rounders can get maybe slightly less than two million for a two-year guarantee. The money paid to first-rounders is regulated according to when they are picked. But there’s a lot more room to negotiate with second-rounders.”

“Interesting, but—”

“There’s no ‘but’ about it. You’re high on the charts of all the teams I spoke to. No question at all that you’ll be drafted.”

“Wow. But I had such a shitty game against UCLA last night.”

“Doesn’t matter. Being off your game is natural after such a long break. The scouts have seen you live several times, and also watched lots of game tapes. So they know what you can do. Besides, it won’t take you very long to get back into the groove again.”

We had to pause our conversation when an old man entered the car at the fifth floor and rode up to the eighth.

“Okay. It all sounds terrific. But why are you—?”

“No ‘buts,’ remember? So here’s what I’m offering. . . . I’d like to represent you when you are drafted. My fee is fifteen percent of everything. Contract. Sneaker deal, which I will arrange. Plus, I’ll do your taxes and suggest and arrange any investments that might be beneficial. Other agents will be coming to you before the draft, but because I believe in your talents, your work ethic, and your character, I wanted to approach you before the other guys jump on the bandwagon.”

“So—?”

“Ha! I also appreciate your intelligence. So here’s the deal I’m offering. I’ll give you fifteen thousand in cash as soon as you sign a contract that’s postdated to when you declare your draft eligibility right after your season ends. Hopefully with an NCAA championship, which would certainly jack up your standing. Also, the fifteen thousand is a bonus, and will not count against my percentage of your NBA contract.”

“Sounds good. But what’s the downside for me?”

“There is none, as long as our agreement is kept secret until you declare. Also, you have to be very careful about how you spend the bonus money so you don’t call attention to yourself. I mean, here’s my card. Take however long you need to think about it. As long as you don’t tell anybody.”

“Okay. Sounds doable. Give me a couple of days.”

“Call me any time any day. I don’t sleep much.”

“Fifteen. . . . Here’s my floor.”

“Good. I’m in one of the penthouse suites. Looking forward to working with you through what I know will be your long and successful NBA career.”

We shook hands and I just about danced to my room!

Still, I needed some advice. But from whom?