Chapter Sixteen

Imoved into a small residential hotel on Twenty-Third Street near Park Avenue, paying $2,000 in advance for two months. Long enough for the NBA draft to be concluded and the big bucks to start arriving after I signed a contract with whichever team picked me.

Collison signed off on this, and even sent me the $2k to cover the rent. Adding that this amount would be deducted above and beyond his fifteen percent cut. Which was fine with me.

He also hipped me to the best runs in the city.

At St. John’s in Queens where onetime Redmen who were current and recent NBAers scrimmaged on Monday and Wednesday evenings. Chris Mullin, Billy Paultz, Mark Jackson, Walter Berry, George Johnson, Felipe Lopez, Kevin Williams, and Ron Artest. It surely was a highly competitive run, but the problem was that, because I hadn’t played for St. John’s, I was seldom given a chance to participate.

When I was finally allowed to play, Mullin and Williams ate my lunch. That’s why I only went there once.

I also played at a night center in a slum section of the Bronx that was run by Floyd Layne, a great player at CCNY who, along with several teammates, had been in league with gamblers to shave points in the late 1940s and early 1950s.

Here the players were ex-college stars, a few Globetrotters, and some Rucker League standouts. Most of them had nicknames so I never knew their specific backgrounds. Junior, Durango, Coast-to-Coast, Helicopter, All-World, The Surgeon, the Duke of Dunks, the Jet, the Candy Man . . .

They all could hoop to the max, but there were problems here too.

The runs didn’t begin until midnight on Mondays through Thursdays, and because I was warned not to park my car in the streets, I had to take two subways and a bus to get there—which often took as much as ninety minutes each way. Indeed, the streets were littered with wheelless cars, and cars with broken windows.

I should add that the cars driven by the other players could be safely double-parked, ignored by any cruising cops and local thieves.

Despite playing so late on school nights, the bleachers were filled with shouting, yelping kids—all of them black. In fact, I was the only white person in the gym. So every time I missed a shot or was abused on defense, the jury jeered with delight.

I went there twice before I found another one of Collison’s suggestions that was much more satisfactory.

This run took place inside a huge, inflated canvas-and-rubber bubble on the campus of Kingsborough Community College near Coney Island in Brooklyn. That’s where several guys who played in the minor-league Continental Basketball Association looked to stay in shape until another fly-by-night league commenced. This was the United States Basketball League, which played during the summer and paid about the same as the slightly more reputable CBA—from $350 to $500 per week.

Although nobody was really interested in playing defense, the rubber court was easy on my legs, the talent level was high, and since only about fifteen guys showed up for the daily ten a.m. runs, I could get a healthy workout.

While waiting for next after losing a close game, I sat on the sideline and chatted with Willy Jones, a skinny, six-one shooting guard from Michigan State. He was a veteran of both the CBA and the USBL, and had also played in a few dozen NBA games with Miami.

“Shit,” he said. “Even though I killed everybody in training camp, Pat Riley said I was too small to play shooting guard, and I didn’t have a good enough handle to play the point. That’s some bullshit right there.”

A dark-skinned brother, Willy had a lean, narrow face, squinty black eyes, a can-opener nose, and thin-line red-blue lips. All told, he had a vicious, angry look like the world had fucked him and he couldn’t wait to get even. A relentless ferocity, which was evident in his game.

“And, man, I was really killing in the CBA. The Crazy Basketball Association. I mean, I played there for four seasons and I got me thirty points a game. My fucking do-nothing agent says I’m also too small to play in any of the big-money leagues over the waters. Spain. Italy. France. He says he can get me maybe thirty thou to play in maybe Iceland or Ireland. Shit. Fuck that, man. I’m gonna bust ass in the USBL and hope I get invited to play for some NBA team’s summer league. If that don’t pan out, I’ll just go back to the CBA and hope that some guys that play my position up in the league fuck up their legs or get arrested or whatever.”

“So what’s it like playing in the CBA?”

“Really good comp, especially the guards. Lots of early morning flights so’s the teams can save money. Lots of pussy. Lots of really good coaches.”

“Like who?”

“Like Phil Jackson in Albany. Flip Saunders in La Crosse. Bill Musselman in Tampa. Gerald Oliver in Maine. Charley Ross in Rockford. I mean, it’s kind of cool, you know what I’m saying? You get to spend a lot of time with them. Eating on the road. On the long bus and van rides. But it sure ain’t the NBA.”

Before I could ask him about Charley Ross, it was our turn to play again.

I drove out to Kingsborough at least three mornings every week. It surely was a strange place, a beachfront location with several “temporary buildings” that looked like long, plastic-sided shacks and housed the classrooms. Everything sitting atop a sandy beach.

In fact, we had to sweep the court free of sand before we could play.

But I played well, and appreciated the chance to go against professional hoopers.

I called my mother several times when I expected that my father was out, and twice I came and picked her up and took her out to lunch. But she cried so much that it was difficult to hold any kind of meaningful conversation.

Otherwise, I read George Garrett’s Elizabethan trilogy—Death of the Fox was incredible! The Succession was very good, but I was disappointed with Entered the Sun, which was only peripherally about Christopher Marlowe.

I ate most of my meals in a diner, an Italian joint, or a Chinese place just a few blocks away. Or else I did call-in takeout.

Except for some walking around the neighborhood, occasionally going out to a movie, and working out three times a week in the weight room of a nearby YMCA, I minded my own beeswax. No bars. No beer. No girls. No late nights.

Just getting ready for The League.

I was also in constant touch with Collison. The NBA’s annual Pre-Draft Combine would convene in Chicago in early June, and we discussed the advisability of my accepting an invitation from Marty Blake, who was in charge of the league’s scouting department, and attend the three-day program.

“They’ll weigh you, measure your height and wingspan,” Collison said. “Then they’ll put you through all kinds of drills, and you’ll scrimmage twice a day for about twenty minutes each time. I don’t think it’s worth it for you.”

“Why not?”

“Really, the combine is mostly for guys who are projected to be low firsts or mid-to-high seconds, who are looking to boost their positioning. I’ve talked with some scouts and they all agree that you’ll be picked anywhere from Ten to Thirteen. So the main thing is this . . . the top seven picks are just about locked in. Guys like Malone from Kentucky, Smith from Texas, and on down. So there’s not much higher that you can go, but if for some reason your game is off, you could easily drop a few notches.”

“Whatever you say.”

“As we get closer to draft day, I’ll find out exactly which teams are zeroing in on you. That’s when we can decide what teams we’ll visit for close-up workouts. They can measure you and interview you then. . . . Anyway . . . who do you think will win the championship?”

“The Spurs. I love the way they play and I’d love to play for them. No way that’s going to happen, though, right?”

“Right. Unless they trade up. . . . I assume you’re happy with that run in Brooklyn?”

“For sure.”

“And you’re working hard in the weight room? And eating right, and getting enough sleep, and all that stuff?”

“Absolutely.”

“Okay, then. Keep it up and keep the faith. How are you fixed for money?”

“I’m fine.”

“Good. I’ll check in again when I have some news.”

About a week later, Commissioner David Stern picked a Ping-Pong ball out of a large ball-scrambling machine, and it was discovered that Memphis would have the seventh pick in the upcoming draft, the LA Clippers the eighth pick, Sacramento the ninth, Utah the tenth, and Oklahoma City the eleventh.

This qualified as news, so Collison called to say the results were “fantastic.”

He had discovered that Memphis was targeting Jason Pratt from Duke, and Utah was hot for Phil Marcum from Kentucky. “The good news, Elliot, is that the LA Clippers are really interested in you. In fact, Carl Jenkins, the GM, guaranteed that they’d pick you if you were still on the board. Guaranteed! That’s because Gary Jeffries is an unrestricted free agent, and Jenkins is absolutely positive he’s going to sign with the Lakers. So that leaves them really short at shooting guard. I mean, Royce Lampley is a career backup and there’s no way he can step up and be a starter. Jenkins went so far as to say you’d be the favorite to take Jeffries’s place. That means lots of plays run for you, lots of shots and points, and later on lots more money when you’ll be due for your next contract.”

“Holy shit!”

“You said it. . . . But they want you to come in for a workout and an interview. Maybe sometime next week? That’ll give you a few extra days to get ready.”

“I’m already ready.”

The Clippers booked me a roundtrip to LA in first class. Comfy seat. Free champagne. Good eats. Big time, here I am!

Everybody I saw in LAX looked like a movie star. Even the redcaps. What did they do with all the ugly people?

Anyway, I was greeted by a limo driver and taken to a luxurious hotel, arriving just in time to have dinner with Jenkins and Frank Hart, the coach. They both wore glimmering black sweat suits with the Clippers logo stitched in red, white, and blue. With his graying crew cut, steely blue eyes, jutting chin, and pole-up-his-ass posture, the GM looked like a recently retired Marine. Hart, meanwhile, was hipper than thou and certainly hipper than me with his ear-length carefully coiffed hair, suntan, and mirrored sunglasses, which he wore on his head like a tiara.

They encouraged me to order a local specialty, chicken-fried steak. A thin piece of meat, thickly breaded, fried in too much grease, and covered with a milky white sauce.

“Umm, delicious,” I lied. Strictly a no-harm social lie. Right?

I nodded in polite agreement when they extolled my virtues—some of which I didn’t know I possessed. My “leadership”? My interest in the “community”? My “coachability”? My “spiritual values”?

What the fuck were they talking about?

Anyway, Hart would personally pick me up at “nine sharp” tomorrow morning and drive me to some gym where I’d be put through some drills and then questioned.

Up in my room, I ate three candy bars from the “U-Buy” cabinet and watched a familiar old movie on TV—Seven Brides for Seven Brothers!

After a restless night, I had a light breakfast of cornflakes and soggy, defrosted blueberries.

On the drive to the arena—in his brand-new chauffeur-driven Cadillac Escalade—Coach Hart pointed out the joys of living in LA. The beach. Girls in bikinis. The beach. Girls in bikinis. . . .

We zoomed along heading eastward on a ten-lane speedway, bumper-to-bumper at seventy miles per hour. The traffic was moving just as swiftly in the opposite direction until, just before the Pico Street exit, one of the westbound lanes was backed up behind a rusty gray VW van. Two young Chicano men were standing outside the van, stripped to their waists, their backs, chests, and arms displaying numerous tattoos of unfamiliar geometric shapes and symbols. Laughing all the while, both of them were blatantly peeing in the middle of the freeway as several of their friends cheered them on from inside the van.

With their penises dangling in the breeze and the sunshine glittering on the gushing streams of their urine, the young men’s faces glowed with power. Here! Look at us! We’re strong enough to piss where you live, and you can’t do shit! And the motorists stacked up behind them were indeed intimidated. Instead of leaning on their horns or shouting curses, they quietly tried to change lanes.

The rage of the young men was frightening. At the same time, there was something gutsy about what they were doing. What would happen if a cop showed up? Who cares? Fuck them too!” Their freedom was on the line, yet the act of inviting danger—bring it on—was a source of pride.

And I couldn’t help but admire their spirited reaction to the racism and economic oppression that blighted their lives.

•••

At the gym they gave me set of Clippers practice gear, and with Jenkins and some other guys in business suits watching, Hart ran me through some standard drills. One-footed changes of direction. Defensive stance-and-slides. Catch-and-shoot midrange and 3-point jumpers around the world from sideline to sideline. Pull-up jumpers right and left. Picking the ball off the floor, going straight up and dunking—I did fifteen of these, which Hart said was about average for someone my size.

Which, according to their measurement, was six feet four and a half inches in sneakers. I also weighed 216, had a wingspan of six feet seven inches and a vertical jump of thirty-five inches.

After a quick shower, I was fed some kind of thick, goopy shake that was said to be high in protein, carbs, and vitamins—and tasted like vanilla-flavored liquid chalk.

“Ummm. Delicious.”

Then, in a small bare-walled office, and in the presence of Hart, Jenkins, and Karl Munson (who was introduced as the director of player development), I was barraged with questions.

Who were my sports idols when I was young?

“Mickey Mantle and John Havlicek.”

What’s my favorite book?

“Death of the Fox.”

“Huh?”

“A novel about Sir Walter Raleigh by George Garrett.”

“Huh?”

“Never mind.”

What’s my favorite movie?

“Woodstock.”

Do I smoke marijuana or do any other drugs?

“I smoked pot for about a month just before preseason practice at USA. But that was it.”

What’s my favorite NBA team?

“Besides the Clippers? The Lakers, because I love the movement and the unselfishness of the triangle offense.”

What’s my biggest weakness?

“Defending real-quick guards.”

Blah, blah, and blah.

But their last question was bizarre.

“How do you hope to die?”

Hmmm. In my sleep, so I don’t suffer, is what first came to mind. Instead I said this: “A sudden heart attack just as my three-point shot is scored at the final buzzer to win the seventh game of the championship series here in LA.”

They all laughed, then Hart said, “Great job, E. We’re really looking forward to seeing you in a Clippers uniform.”

“Yes,” said Jenkins. “I can personally guarantee that you’ll be our first-round pick. No question about it. That’s a one-hundred-percent guarantee. Believe me.”

Okay. Great. Terrific.

But . . .

Hart didn’t accompany me when I was chauffeured back to the airport, where I delayed getting to the departure gate to make a pit stop and then gobble a hamburger and fries. Then I saw a familiar figure among a crowd of recent arrivals.

Marwane Wright, looking trim and barely limping.

I ducked behind a pillar and started to follow him. And guess who was there to greet him with a big smile and a hearty handshake?

Frank Hart.