Longshot (29 page)

People often go to New Orleans for the same reason they go to Las Vegas. I hate Vegas. I hate the superficial flair that coats the hollow city. I hate the heat. New Orleans is all heart and soul. There are casinos there and other outlets of vice, just like in Vegas, but accompanying these are things that Vegas cannot offer: plantation tours, the French Quarter, Jackson Square, St. Charles Cathedral, voodoo shops, steamboat rides, crocodile farms and other aquariums, fishing tours, and so many other things. And then there's the food.

I'm not a big food guy. I eat basically just to survive, as I grow bored and impatient when I'm eating, eager to get on with the daily chores of life. But in this place, New Orleans, the food was indescribable. When Cory and I arrived at the downtown Hilton, right off the French Quarter, we found Randy walking back in, as he had arrived a few days earlier to organize many of his NBA community events for his hometown. He told us to walk a few blocks down to Mother's. It was a red-brick building, and from the inside it looked a former slaughterhouse or meat-packing plant. The restaurant had been created in the 1930s. Their sandwiches—or “po'boys,” as they call them—were very good. When you go, get the “Debris” sandwich. And let's not even talk about the pecan pie. It was the most delicious pecan pie I've ever had. Cory and I went back the next morning for grits and ham and eggs. Just a great place.

That first night in New Orleans, after we did our NBA TV interviews, Randy took us to a five-star restaurant in the French Quarter that a high
school friend of his had inherited, named Brennan's. The atmosphere was incredible. When you sat down and looked out the window from the deck to the garden and absorbed all the sounds and the music, you knew you were in the Big Easy. His friend, who owned the place, was Alayna, a pretty blonde with an easygoing but sophisticated dialect who was very welcoming and generous, as most New Orleanians are. Randy led us to his favorite spot, asking to be served by his favorite waiter, Ray, an older gentleman who had spunk. We ate turtle soup and gumbo for appetizers and then some salad. Growing up with a turtle, I was very conflicted about eating the turtle soup, but it was delicious. I had to eat it, because food is a part of one's culture, and when Randy offered me a bit of his heritage, it would've been rude and closed-minded on my part not to try it. The main dish was an incredible trout with fresh crabmeat on top. I cannot emphasize enough how amazing this meal was. For dessert, Ray cooked us some bananas Foster in a giant pan with a huge scoop of brown sugar and some rum, topping it off with ice cream. And when we were done, Alayna wouldn't let us pay for anything. It was the greatest meal I have ever had, free or not.

After dinner I walked down Bourbon Street. You see and hear things about Bourbon Street, and as this was my first time in New Orleans, I wanted to make sure I walked along Bourbon. Two things stuck out for me: how short the street is, and how many strip clubs there are in the tightly packed street, hidden in the old French-and Spanish-style buildings. For as much free sexuality as there was, or was said to be, via beads on Bourbon Street, I had never imagined that there would be strip clubs. It just seemed like trying to sell water to a fish.

Randy is the King of New Orleans. He is a legend there, and you would think the New Orleans Hornets would consider themselves lucky to have him on their team, even as a fifteenth man. Even if he isn't playing, he is a great coach and tutor for the younger point guards, and he is a part of the community. People know and love him. Just by having him there on the bench, the people of the city would be more inclined to go to the games, knowing they have a guy there who grew up in, understands, and thrives in their intricate city and culture. As of right now, the Hornets have no natives on their team.

That night was dream-factory night for the Development League. Randy participated in the hot-shot competition, and made one shot, I believe. There was a three-point contest, and then there was a dunk contest, and two of my high-flying teammates, Brent “Air Georgia”
Petway and Mike Taylor, were participants, both facing off in the final round. There was also the H-O-R-S-E contest, which I was slated to participate in. In a H-O-R-S-E contest, one player puts up a shot, and the opponent has to duplicate the shot exactly or he gets his first letter, an
H.
The first player to spell
H-O-R-S-E
loses. It was the first-ever H-O-R-S-E contest for the D-League, and would be the first in the NBA for over thirty years. “Pistol” Pete Maravich and “The Ice Man” George Gervin faced off once. I'm sad we never got to see Bird and Jordan face off in an official game of H-O-R-S-E.

My father hated basketball, but H-O-R-S-E was a game, the only game, he would play with me. Utahns take H-O-R-S-E very seriously. There's a basketball court in every church house. And to stretch the letter of the law, Mormon boys play H-O-R-S-E on Sunday, so they won't break a sweat and thus the Sabbath.

I found out only the weekend before all-star week that I'd be participating in the H-O-R-S-E event. I had injured my shooting hand the week before, bruising the bone in a palm when I tried to break my fall after being undercut following a layup. I had spent the entire week resting, icing and rehabbing my hand, and it was very painful to shoot the ball, so I couldn't get into the gym to practice any creative shots. I went into the contest cold turkey. Seeing that I wasn't able to practice on anything tricky, my strategy was to simply shoot my bank shots from long distances and funny angles. These are game shots for me, and I have been shooting them for years. It was a safe way to go for the H-O-R-S-E competition. Now, I know most people want to see flair and jaw-dropping visuals, but that isn't me, and I didn't get invited to all-star weekend by doing any of that. I was going to simply keep doing what got me there.

In the final round, I was matched up against Morris Almond, an assignee from the Utah Jazz, who was the scoring leader in the D-League at the time. He had played around in the first round with lots of balancing, and sitting and kneeling shots, and he was having a good time. I, however, used the same approach that I did in the first round—straight for the kill. I ultimately ended up beating him with a bank shot, boring him into submission.

It meant a lot to me to hold up my first-ever trophy, winning the first-ever D-League H-O-R-S-E competition and the first in the NBA enterprise in over thirty years. I finally had a trophy to put on my shelf when I retire, and it was from playing the game that my father played with me on Uncle Saul's outside basketball court on summer evenings as a boy.

The next day was the all-star game, and though we lost, I was happy with the way I played. What was more important, I had a great time. I wasn't letting myself believe I'd receive a contract based on how I played at the all-star, because…well, because it was an all-star game. Though the trip would end on a sour note—I'd spend the entire next day, sixteen hours, in my beloved Chicago O'Hare Airport, that lovely loose organization of an airport, due to weather—I loved the trip.

I was proud to be in New Orleans. I was proud of that city for what it has overcome. I was proud that I could call these people my fellow Americans. New Orleans to me is what America is all about, or should be: various and strong cultures and history melting into one, with so much diversity and so many options for everyone to pursue. From now on, whenever someone tells me they want to go to Vegas, I tell them to go to New Orleans instead. I was so grateful that the NBA allowed me the opportunity to be there, to eradicate the impressions of chaos that I allowed, through the news and the words of others, to filter into my mind. And I'm grateful that I was there with Randy, my brother from another world, who was proudly able to show it to me.

March 12, 2008

I'm driving in Orem, Utah, away from the practice facility of the Utah Flash, with Cory Violette in my passenger seat and Roberto Bergerson scrunched up in the back, on our way back to the hotel in Provo, when Coach Gates calls me.

“Where you at?”

“I'm just bringing Cory and Berto back from the gym. They wanted to stay after and play some Ping-Pong.”

“Well, get your things packed up. You're flying out tonight.”

“Huh?”

“You're going to Cleveland, baby!”

“Really?”

“Yeah!”

I nearly wreck my car as Cory and Berto, who are never silent when they're in the same room together, sit there in dead silence, both staring at me.

“I'm going to play for the Cleveland Cavaliers?”

“Yep,” Coach Gates confirms one more time.

I begin to cry. “OK, I will be at the hotel in two minutes.”

“K, see ya.”

Cory pats my back: “That's what I'm talking about.”

“'Bout time!” Berto hollers in the back seat.

John Greig calls me right after I hang up with Coach Gates: “Congratulations, man. Call your family, and call me when you're at the airport tonight after you have settled down.”

I call Dad and tell him, but my phone is about to die, so we make it short.

I arrive at the hotel in Provo, an hour south of Salt Lake, and charge up my phone as I wait for my teammates to gather in the lobby so I can say good-bye to them and the coaches. I cry as I hug Randy good-bye.

I drive up to Mom and Dad's, where my family and friends are waiting for me, but not before I quickly buy a new suit at Dahle's. I want to make a good first impression. Dad and Mom are at the door waiting for me. Dad cannot speak as he hugs me. Mom strains in outright joy to say, “You did it, boy-o.”

After Mom and I split from our long embrace, I lean down to pick up Mac, my friend and companion, who has been with me through thick and thin. He looks me in the eyes, and he can see tears. He thinks something is wrong until I smile at him. “We did it, buddy,” I say softly.

I hug my dear friends Max, Josh, Jared, Jacob. Court, Tara, and John are there to hug and congratulate me. They have never doubted me. Not even John Greene in his infinite skepticism, which he inherited from an accountant father, ever doubted me.

I call Raphael, who tries to cheer me up over the phone but cannot as her tears get in the way. I am only able to leave a message for Nathan and Vanessa. I call Coach Rupp and Coach Cravens and thank them for everything. I call Pax and Sam to let them know I couldn't have done it without them and their unconditional love for me. I ask them to tell Yaya that I love her. So many more people that I wish to call, but I don't have the time.

As Mom, Dad, Court, and Mac ride with me to the airport, we sit for a moment, the four of us talking, reflecting on things that were and things that are and things yet to come. Dad will be beginning his doctoral studies in education in the summer.

I say good-bye to them and Mac as I walk into the airport.

I'm going to join the Cavs in Washington, D.C., where they have a game against the Wizards. I can't sleep a wink on the plane. I'm in first class, and it feels awkward. Big seats or not, I never sleep well on planes. But I'm able to sneak back into coach, lie across a row of seats, and sleep for a bit. I guess I feel more comfortable there.

A town car picks me up at the airport, where I'm taken to the Four Seasons in Georgetown. I walk down to the team breakfast and meet Amanda, who has my contract ready for me. Ben Wallace walks in. I introduce myself. I then introduce myself to Mr. James. I'm too tired to say anything stupid.

I grab a small bite and walk up to my room, where I sleep until Max, the team trainer, takes me to get my physical. I pass with flying colors, return to the hotel, and sleep some more. I wake at four and prepare to leave early with Chris, the player-development coach, who is taking me over to the arena early to put me through a workout.

I lace up my shoes, which I brought with me, and walk out to the court. I stare at the floor, almost scared to step onto it—but I do. I feel the lights of the big stage warming my skin. I throw up during my workout, but swallow it back down so no one can see me and think I'm out of shape. I'm not out of shape. I'm just tired and nervous.

When I'm done, I walk back into the locker room and put on my very first NBA jersey, which is waiting for me. Allred 41, it says on the back. My very own NBA jersey. I stare at it and want to cry, but there are photographers from NBA.com taking shots of their “D-League poster-boy.”

I sit in silence as my new teammates exceed my expectations by walking over to individually introduce themselves if they haven't already. Coach Brown comes in. I like his demeanor: calm and confident.

We say the Lord's Prayer out in the tunnel and then run out to the floor, where the boos from the Washington fans cascade over us. The adrenaline, which I felt was depleted, kicks into reserve. The rush is surreal as I run up and down shooting hoops on an NBA stage—where the lights are brightest, where the lights shine on a court that so many said I'd never see.

“Ivan Drago!” a heckling fan calls at me, indirectly letting me feel right at home. It's just another gym.

The buzzer sounds. The players are asked to assume their places for the national anthem. It begins. I look down to my feet:

I stop. I look up to the flag, lit in the dark. And it all finally truly sets in.

I begin to weep.

In a quick flash of frozen yet endless time, I see the faces of my loved ones before me. I see my parents. I see my sisters. I see my brother. I see Yaya, Pax, and Sam. I see them all. I hear the voices of my childhood, floating along the Bitterroot River, laughing happily back to me, as innocence is reclaimed, if for but a fleeting moment.

I see Szen sitting on the side of the court watching me, having walked with me every step of the way, whether I could see him or not.

I see the pain. I see the hurt. I see the anger. I see the love. And I see the joy. I see it all in this moment that's now immortal.

This moment is mine. No one can take it from me. No matter what comes after or what came before, this moment is mine. It will forever be mine.