Chapter Twenty-Four

There were several young women (all of them black and all of them gorgeous) waiting for the team to exit the bus and enter the hotel lobby. Some of them obviously had previous connections with certain players and accompanied them to the elevators. The unconnected women flirted and parleyed with the other guys until further pairings were made.

Besides me, Gheorghe Muresan was the only other white man on the squad. He was a seven-three, 240-pound second-year player from Russia who barely spoke English. Except for an occasional exchange of nods we never communicated and never hung out, simply because there was always a crew of his landsmen-and-women waiting for him after every game in every city. No surprise, then, when two men and three women greeted him in the lobby and started hugging, cheek-bussing, and jabbering in Russian.

The two black lovelies who remained unattached both gave me cursory, almost insulting glances before leaving the premises.

During the entire trip I had been upset about how and why Zack had been cut. So distressed that I didn’t want to talk to anybody, much less any of my teammates or the coaching staff. So I ordered a burger, fries, and salad from room service (which cost $65!), watched a couple of forgettable movies, then tried to sleep.

But Zack’s refusal to go along with the lie, even at the expense of his NBA career, kept me wide awake. Was it strength of character? Or just stupidity?

What would I have done?

Bah. Who am I kidding?

As soon as I was told about the situation, I would have started limping.

At this point I was too restless to sleep, read, or watch more TV, so I headed downstairs to the bar. It was past eleven, which was our ostensible curfew—nobody ever made a room check anyway. Perhaps a couple of drinks would blur my buzzing brain.

There was only one person at the bar. Unfortunately, it was Coach Richardson. I made a move to duck away, but he saw me in the large mirror behind the bar.

Oh shit!

He beckoned me with a slight wave of his right hand.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” he said.

There was a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s in front of him, as well as a full glass.

“Um. I couldn’t sleep.”

Then he pointed to the swivel stool next to him.

“Sit,” he ordered.

He totally ignored me for a few long minutes, during which time he drained his glass, refilled it, and signaled to the bartender to bring another glass. Which he likewise filled with the ruby-colored booze.

“Um. I really don’t drink. I—”

“Drink!” he commanded.

Which I managed to do without gagging. Suddenly I felt sleepy and longed to go back to my room.

Another silence while he refilled both glasses.

Then he said, “Hersch. Do you have a girlfriend?”

“No.”

“That’s good, and do you want to know why?”

“Yes. Please.”

He laughed. “You’ll find out for your own self if you’re not careful. That because you’re now rich and famous . . . well, almost famous . . . they’re gonna come at you hard. Borrowing their friend’s best clothes and jewelry, so it looks like they doing real well and got their own money. Then they say they on the Pill, but they surely ain’t. Trying to get pregnant so’s you’ll give them money or, best of all, marry them.”

We kept draining our glasses, and he kept refilling them. I was definitely getting drunk, but he was miles ahead of me.

“Take the case of this one guy. An all-star whose name I won’t mention. He was living with this woman, see? For a whole season. And she kept on nagging him to get married, but he refused. Again and again. And they youster argue a lots. Well, in one of them arguments he gave her a little push. Like this here . . .”

He gently tapped my shoulder with an open palm with as much force as if he were rewarding a toddler for eating all of his vegetables.

“Right? So she sued him for beating on her. For real. Now, get this . . . During the trial he found out that the name she gave to him wasn’t her real name at all. Not at all. Because of that he was able to pay her two thousand dollars to drop everything and keep it quiet.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah. W-o-m-e-n. What the word really means is ‘woe to men.’”

“Um. Are you married, Coach? Or ever been married?”

“Married and divorced, but that’s none of your business.”

“Oh. Sorry. . . . um. I’m real tired now and I think I could finally get to sleep.”

“Yeah. Go on. And, don’t worry none. I won’t tell that asshole that you broke curfew.”

“Thanks, Coach.”

“Yeah. Go ’way. Get.”

This was all too crazy for me to understand.

A player cut because he wouldn’t lie.

A head coach who didn’t know an X from an O, yet whose game-time tap dances convinced too many people that he was doing a terrific job. In other words, Davis was a living, continuing lie that was taken for the truth.

An assistant coach who knew that his boss was an “asshole,” but who could only deal with the lies by being a solo drunk.

Yes, I knew that I had been burned by the recruiting lies of Carlton Lee, yet I was also the beneficiary of the phony transcripts that hid the truth from my father. And, despite my dealing with Colllison, I still tried to convince myself that I remained an innocent at heart—and was sometimes even successful at it. Just looking to play basketball (and be a star!) in a world that was supposed to be all about truth and justice.

Which, so far, was certainly not the case in Oklahoma City. And maybe in the NBA. Or even in the entire world.

Did trying desperately to be a truth teller doom me to failure?

Herman Autrey was already in uniform the next evening when we got to the visiting team’s locker room in The Palace of Auburn Hills. All the veterans greeted him with laughs, hugs, and the intricate slapping of hands. He only acknowledged me and Muresan with vague nods. The coaches were getting dressed in their own space, so Autrey commanded the middle of the room and told us why he was our new teammate.

He was a muscular six foot six, maybe 240 pounds, solid, with a black goatee, clean head, tats of snakes, fires, and swords covering his arms, and mean-looking yellowish eyes.

“We wuz in New York,” he said a loud, gruff voice that we all closely attended to. “And you guys what been around know what that’s like, you feel me? After the game when it’s partying time, right? You keep a couple hundred for yourself, then you give your wallet, your watch, your rings, necklaces, whatever . . . you give them to the trainer or somebody who ain’t going nowhere to hold for you. Right?”

A murmur of agreement came from the veterans.

“So, fuck me, I forgot to do that. You know what I’m saying? . . . So I go to this club with some of the other guys and I hook up with this chick. This beautiful chick with big tits and a nice big booty. Right? So we go up to my hotel room and I fucked her brains out till she’s moaning and groaning. And she knew what she was doing, too. She had one of them snatch pussies, you hear me?”

Yeah. We all heard him.

“So now I’m all fucked out and we go to sleep. At least I go to sleep. For a while anyway. Until I hear something funny. Like some kind of scratching or something. I don’t know. For a minute there I’m thinking I’m back home in the hood and there’s some rats scratching around looking for something to eat on. Or some dude’s broke into the house and’s stealing something. Right? So I open my eyes and, don’t you know it? It’s the bitch, who’s been going through my pants and’s taking shit from my wallet. So I screams at her, and she freaks. I mean she pulls out this little-bitty razor from her purse and starts waving it at me. ‘Don’t you come near me, mothafucka! I’ll carve you like a Holloweeen pumpkin!’”

Laughs all around the room.

“Like I ain’t never had nobody draw a knife on me, right? So I grab a pillow and come after her. Well. Don’t take but a few seconds when the razor’s on the floor and she tries to scratch at me with her long whore’s fingernails. Y’all feel me? So what can I do? One smack in her chops and she goes running out of the room and screaming down the hall. Next comes the cops, but they don’t arrest me or nothing because they already knows this bitch from selling her pussy in some big-time clubs. But the story gets out on the wire and back to the Spurs, right? So they speak to my Jew agent and he speaks to me. . . . And without them fuckas giving me a chance to hear me out, I’m gone. Right? So my agent, he says, ‘Abusing bitches is a hot-button issue these days.’ That’s what he called it . . . ‘a hot-button issue.’ It’s a bullshit issue, is what it is. If I’d a been white, all’s I woulda had to do was say it was a misunderstanding and give out a bullshit apology. And that’s that. Case closed.”

A chorus of righteous agreements.

“But here I am. Still here in nigga heaven and happy to be with y’all. Even though Davis is another bullshit mothafucka. But at least the Rich-man got some control of the—”

Just then the door to the room swung open, admitting Davis and the other coaches.

“Listen up, men,” Davis said. “This game presents a special challenge . . .”

As usual, Williams summoned me to play only the first four minutes of the second quarter and the last four minutes of the third quarter. Not enough time to get loose or into any kind of rhythm. The result was a couple of forced shots that both missed, a fumble-handed turnover, some aimless dive cuts, and getting totally embarrassed on defense.

Having so much money at my disposal was lots of fun, but the thrill of hooping was already going-going-almost-gone. So I really wasn’t very upset when Davis fucked up in the clutch.

Here’s what happened: Detroit had possession, and we were up by 6 points with twenty-two seconds left in the game. While the Pistons had used all of their time-outs, we still had one plus a twenty-second time-out remaining.

Okay. The home team had all of their shooters on the floor, and Chauncey Billups hit a quick 3-pointer. Nineteen seconds left, now up 3, and we had the ball, when Davis called a time-out. Everybody on our bench groaned, and Richardson hung his head.

Davis offered no helpful strategy in the huddle, just reminding us of the score, the time, and to be careful with the ball. However, the stoppage enabled the Pistons to insert their five best defenders into the game. No surprise, then, when Williams was aggressively double-teamed and threw a desperate pass out-of-bounds.
Davis then compounded his previous error by calling his twenty-second TO. More protests from his players, plus Richardson stayed seated and refused to join the huddle.

Of course, Flip Saunders subbed his shooters, Billups tied the game with another trey at the buzzer, and we were swamped in overtime.

We were all so angry in the postgame locker room that Davis made no appearance, reducing us to shouting at the walls.

“Stupid mothafucka!”

“Gave the fucking game away!”

Then Herman Autrey moved to the middle of the room and said this: “We gotta get rid of this mothafucka! And there’s one surefire way to do it! . . . Fuck up games. Lose games on purpose. Go into the tank. I know. I know. That’s bad shit. But anything’s better than playing for that cocksucker. Anyways, lotsa teams tank to get a better draft choice. And Spencer Haywood told me back when he was playing with the Sonics they lost a couple games they shoulda won to get Tom Nissalke fired. And that’s what happened. Y’all feel me? I mean, it’s still early in the season, you know? So after he’s shit-canned . . . and if Coach Rich replaces him? Put a brother in charge? We got plenty time to get everything right.”

The response was a loud chorus of support. Including me.

Meanwhile, here’s what I learned firsthand about the NBA:

On most teams (including the Thunder), after the first five minutes in any given game all efforts to execute coordinated five-man offenses were abandoned. Isolations, outright screen/rolls, desultory weaves that culminated in screen/rolls, and drive-and-dishes became the only elements of the universal game plan. Three-point shots were launched by anybody from anywhere at any time—even when a team was on a 3-on-1 fast break.

Silly, farcical, selfish, mindless basketball, which was, however, easy for even the most casual fan to understand.

As for the refs, since they necessarily had to focus on the negative aspects of the game—fouls, rules violations, and the like—they were unable to appreciate the beauty of the competition. Also, since only one or two refs had ever played the game at a reasonably advanced level, they couldn’t discern the difference between meaningless and meaningful contact.

In any event, it was becoming clear that as my passion increased to find the clean, honest, Trouthe-full game that I ached to play, I would have to get out of OKC ASAP.