Chapter Twenty-Three

To complete our short home stand, we got pounded by Cleveland, then barely beat New Jersey.

I played a total of thirteen minutes and, still aimlessly wandering around the court, I missed 4 jumpers, made 1 bucket (a fast-break layup), and was routinely chumped on defense.

Although I had mastered all the intricate options of team defense—knowing when to rotate, when to show and recover, when to go over or under screens, when and whom to double-team—I was simply unable to stay with veteran players when forced to guard them one-on-one.

Once again, here’s what Davis said after the Miami game: “They lost because they failed to execute my game plan.”

After the win over the Nets, he said, “We won because we successfully executed my game plan.”

As usual, whenever the lights were on, Davis continued to act like he was totally involved in calling plays and making substitutions. Dancing and prancing on the sidelines, never seated, shouting, clapping his hands, jabbering nonsense in the time-out huddles, and being totally ignored by us. If not for Richardson whispering instructions to Williams and Mosley, our offense and defense would have been totally ad-libbed.

Zack didn’t get off the bench in either of the games, yet the same puzzling scene was repeated afterward, when the trainer would ask him about his left ankle. And, on both occasions, the trainer made sure there was a media presence when he did so.

“I dunno what’s going on,” Zack told me. “I ain’t never had no problems with my ankles. Never even sprained one a them or nothing. I don’t understand.”

Neither did I. Until, that is, after an early practice on the morning after beating the Nets. The itinerary called for us to be bused from the arena to the airport for a flight to Detroit, and Zack had already collected promises from his teammates to let him have their comped tickets when we played the Pistons the next day.

“Man,” he said as we changed into the suits and ties that the league had decreed were the only proper traveling attire. “I got my two brothers, one sister, three cousins, and about fifteen old friends including some’ve my high school teammates, and even two old girlfriends. But, man, I sure do hope I can get into the game.”

“Don’t worry, Z. I’ll call you to sub in for me.”

“I thought only the vets could do that.”

“Well . . .”

But before I could finish my sentence, Davis approached Zack. “I need to talk to you in private,” he said, so I went into the bathroom to make sure my necktie was straight and my fly was zipped.

When I came back a few minutes later, Zack was in tears. Then he explained why.

“He tol’ me he wanted to put me on the disabled list ’coz a my ankle. I said there ain’t nothing wrong with my ankle and there never was. He says that don’t matter none ’coz they need a space on the roster ’coz some guy just got cut from the Spurs and they wanna sign him to play here.”

This was Herman Autrey, a ten-year veteran who played the same small-forward position as Zack, but was cut by the sanctimonious Spurs when his girlfriend said he’d punched her lights out and she pressed charges.

“So I says to him, that that was a lie about my ankle. And he says it’s a executive decision what benefits the team and is I a team player or is I ain’t? If I is, then I have to agree to it. I says I is, but the Bible says that lies are sins, so’s I can’t agree to a lie like that. Then he gets all riled up and starts to yell at me, but in a real quiet voice so’s nobody else can hear. I gotta do this or else, he says.”

“Or else what?”

“Or else he says they’s just gonna cut me and he’s gonna make sure I ain’t never gonna play in the NBA ever again.”

He looked at me, his face now completely awash in tears. “But I can’t do it, E. I can’t lie like that. If it’s between playing in the league or going to hell . . . that ain’t no choice to give to nobody. You know what I’m saying?”

By then, all the other players had boarded the bus and we were alone in the locker room. Until the trainer poked open the door and shouted, “Hersch! You coming or you staying? Let’s go! Now! Coach is already pissed!”

So Zack and I hugged and swore we’d stay in touch.

But we never did. Last I heard, he was playing pro ball in Kuwait.