Chapter Twenty-Two

We opened up at home against the Celtics.

Zack’s dressing stall was next to mine and, as we laced up, we shared our anxieties.

“I never been so nervous in all my life,” he said. “Even more nervous than the first time I got laid.”

“Me, too. I just hope I don’t shit in my pants out there.”

As it turned out, both of us had plenty of time to calm down, since we were bench-bound for the entire first quarter. Which gave me plenty of time to observe Davis’s antics.

Unlike his behavior in the preseason games, the guy was in constant motion. Running up and down from one end of the coach’s box to the other. Bouncing around like his ass was on fire. Clapping his hands, shouting out play calls that his players ignored, pointing at who-knows-what, yapping at the refs. All in a madcap frenzy designed to publically (and successfully!) demonstrate what a terrific and involved coach he was.

In the time-out huddles he simply jabbered, drawing meaningless lines on his miniature court board. “You go here,” he said as he scribbled. “And you go here.” Not identifying who each “you” was or when the “you’s” were supposed to follow the route lines, nor to what purpose. And Davis repeated the score and the time remaining several times.

Zack and I plus the other brothers-of-the-bench gathered around Davis, studied what he drew on the board, and nodded in shared bewilderment. Meanwhile, the veterans directed their attention to the nearest seats and nudged one another whenever a beautiful woman was spotted.

At the same time, Richardson kept whispering into Mosley’s ear. During the second time-out, I leaned toward them to hear what Richardson was saying. “Run a one-four iso for yourself and keep on it until they double you. Then go to a pin-down for Rashon.”

Davis’s parting instructions were always, “Let’s go! Let’s go! Let’s go!”

From what I could tell, either Richardson or the players themselves made all of the substitutions. Even so, Davis made sure to intercept the ingoing players on their way to the scorer’s table to pat their backs and give them private instructions.

Then, two minutes into the second quarter, while Paul Pierce was shooting the first of two free throws, Rashon Williams came over to the bench and, without consulting Davis, pointed at me and said, “You’re in for me, rook. Go out there and bust your cherry.”

Then Williams sat down on the far end of the bench, putting six players and three assistant coaches between him and Davis. But as soon as Davis saw me get off the bench, he hustled over to pat my back and say this to me: “Go get ’em! All right?” Thereby forcing me to nod my head in agreement and perpetuating the lie that his instructions were important.

Despite Davis’s repeated reminders in our huddles, as I pointed toward the scorer’s table, I had no idea what the score was.

So there I was. On the court. In a “real” game. Then, suddenly, Pierce made the free throw and Darren Mosley was dribbling up court.

I was in a daze.

I didn’t know what I should do or what I shouldn’t do. So I just ran around in aimless circles, hoping that nobody would pass the ball to me.

The game was much faster than the preseason games. Much, much faster. Multiple decisions had to be made so quickly that they seemed to be simultaneous.

Plus, everybody in the green jerseys seemed bigger, stronger, and more vicious than they had any right to be. Like they were monstrous aliens who were here only because of some space-time warp.

I was so surprised when Mosley passed me the ball that I immediately dribbled it off my foot and out-of-bounds. At the other end of the court, I felt like I weighed 300 pounds.

The postgame stat sheet had me down for six minutes of daylight, 2 turnovers, 3 fouls, and a make on the only shot I took (which happened to be a long 3-ball that I dimly remembered).

Otherwise, my debut was mostly a blank.

Several media peeps clustered around me after I showered and started to dress.

What did I think of my NBA baptism?

“I think that I have a lot to learn,” was the only response I could think of. In the face of more questions, I just shrugged and said, “An awful lot to learn.”

Which certainly was the Trouthe.

Then the media bunch turned their attention to Zack, who, besides the 5 in the minutes-played column, had zeros in every other category. Before he had a chance to answer any of the “How did it feel to play in your first game” questions, the Thunder’s trainer approached Zack. The guy’s name was Joe Mueller, short, muscular, broad-faced, clean-headed, who I’d been warned was a spy for Davis.

“How’s your ankle?” he asked Zack.

“What you mean?” said Zack, totally puzzled.

“Let me see,” said Mueller as he poked and gingerly rotated Zack’s bare left foot. “Hurt any?”

“No.”

“Okay. Just checking.” Then he left.

Meanwhile, the scribes were convinced that, unbeknownst to them, Zack had suffered an injury. After the media squad moved on to huddle in front of Williams’s cubicle and wait for him to come out of the shower, Zack said to me, “Ain’t nothing wrong with my ankle. What he talking about?”

Damned if I knew.

As I left the locker room, I overheard Davis saying this into another proffered microphone: “They lost because they failed to execute my game plan.”