Chapter Twenty-Seven

OK. Now what?

For starters, I reviewed my finances. I was getting about $34,000 every two weeks. Add another $2K per check once the second year of my guarantee was operative in July. Plus I had upward of $350,000 in an Oak City bank.

So what did I want to do during the three months before I would be commanded to play again in the summer league?

Get high. Get laid. And read.

Also do some light running and light lifting and hope that my enthusiasm for the game would be sufficiently restored so I could kick ass down in Orlando.

The problem was to figure out where to live until then.

Definitely not in Oklahoma City. In fact, I packed my stuff as soon as I got back to my house from the exit meeting.

LA? Nah, too busy, too crazy.

Miami? Too hot and humid, too much flash, and too many elderly Jews.

Portland? I liked it there, but how could I score drugs in an NBA city that was populated by so many well-informed hoop-o-philes?

San Francisco? Maybe.

Phoenix? UGH!

I went through all of the cities I’d ever visited, but New York was the only sensible location.

I could stay at some anonymous motel, say, in Queens. I could depend on some of my old high school teammates to hook me up with willing women and potent pot. I could do my running on the outdoor track at Reagan H.S., lift at a nearby YMCA, and if my chops came back from the dead, join the ongoing runs at Kingsborough—or even at St. John’s.

So I loaded the Jeep, bought several dozen CDs—the Dead, Neil Young, Jimi, the New Riders, Derek and the Dominoes, Van the Man. Tunes I could bop and/or sing along with on my long drive.

About halfway along the 1,500-mile trip, I stayed the night at a cheapo motel right off the highway on the outskirts of Cincinnati. Just as I nodded off, my cell phone buzzed with a call from Collison.

“I heard about your meeting,” he said. “That wasn’t very smart what you did. No need to antagonize your bosses, no matter what your job is.”

“Those guys are so full of shit. They said—”

“I know what they said. I spoke to McCue last night.”

“But I was right—”

“Doesn’t matter, Elliot. Right is whatever they say it is.”

“Fuck them and everybody who looks like them. I’m guaranteed for another season, so what can they do to me?”

“We’ll see. . . . Where are you? Still in Oklahoma?”

“No, I’m on the road. Heading back to New York.”

“Good. Good. You need some downtime to get your head straight. Here’s something I strongly suggest that you do. . . . Do you know who John Lucas is?”

“Yeah. He runs the NBA’s official rehab program down in Houston. What does that have to do with me? ”

“His off-season program begins in about ten days, and there are lots of guys who’re gonna be there on the QT. If you know what I mean?”

“Yeah. So?”

“So they scrimmage every day after their therapy sessions, and the runs are extraordinary. You’d be surprised how many top-notch players are secretly enrolled there. Even a few All-Stars. And they all play as hard as they can.”

“So?”

“So you should get yourself down there, Elliot. Not for the drug therapy, just for the runs. The experience would do wonders for your game. And you’d be in great shape for the summer league. It was McCue who suggested this, and he said they would pay all of your expenses. It’s a great deal and a great opportunity, Elliot. And a way to get back into McCue’s good graces.”

“Maybe. Let me think about it while I chill for a few days.”

Not a fucking chance!

“Great. I presume you have enough ready cash, and there’s always your credit card. So I’ll continue to deposit your checks in the OKC bank.”

Great yourself. Wonderful. Thanks. No thanks. Good-bye.