“How many guys from your high school are playing pro ball?” he demands.
“Just me,” I reply quietly.
“And from your college team? Any of them in the NBA?”
“Nah,” I admit with a shake of my head, remembering all the great players who just weren’t great enough to be here. “None.”
“Right, so quit thinking about what you don’t have and be grateful for what you do. You gotta pay some dues.” He stands when the coach dismisses us and tells us to report to the gym. “Starting now.” He points to the gym bag at his feet.
“That’s you,” he says.
“Uh . . . excuse me?” I point to my bag a few feet way. “No, that’s my bag over there.”
“I know that, Rook.” His grin is back, and this one is not only natural, but at my expense. “Since you’ve been here all of a day, but already think you should be winning rings, let’s see you carry bags for someone who actuallyhasa ring.”
“Oh. You want me to . . .” My voice trails off as he walks away, leaving his bag for me to haul.
Another veteran player heads over and hands me his bag.
“Glad said you got this, Rook.” He smirks and drops the bag at my feet.
“Yeah, but—”
“This you?” another vet asks, dropping his bag and walking toward the gym.
“Um . . . no, I was just trying to tell Glad that—”
“Thanks, Rook,” he says and walks away.
By the time I make it into the gym, I’m struggling with seven bags, none of them mine. I drop them unceremoniously by the benches and jerk the sweatshirt over my head to join my teammates for practice.
“I wondered what was taking you so long,” Kenan says, bouncing the ball in a dribbling drill.
“So are you, like, hazing me or something?” I try to keep my voice light, but maybe I do resent that stunt a little.
Kenan stops dribbling to look me in the eye. “Everybody knows what you can do, Rook. We may be vets, but Deck is building this team around you. You’re young, but you’re the franchise player. We get that,” he says quietly. “But when you’re in the trenches with somebody, you don’t just need to know what they cando. You need to know who theyare. I wanna know more about your character than I do about your game right now.”
His penetrating stare assesses me. “So yeah, you’ll carry bags for vets from time to time. Nothing wrong with staying humble before all the rings start rolling in.”
“It’s the least I can do,” I grudgingly concede, offering the smallest grin.
“Count yourself lucky.” He takes a shot that’s nothing but net. “They made me clean jock straps.”
“Shit.” I twist my face in disgust. “Ball sweat?”
“Ball sweat.”
Give me bags any day.
August
Life doesn’t always deliveron its promises, and some dreams taste sweetest before they come true.
Such is my NBA career so far. It’s February, halfway through my rookie season, and we have the sub-five hundred year you’d expect from an expansion team. No way we’ll win half our games at the rate we’re going. Kenan keeps reminding me we’re just starting out and to be patient.
Another thing that’s overrated? The all-you-can-fuck pussy buffet. I admit I’ve taken advantage of it. Had a threesome or six. Hell, I was with four girls at once a few weeks ago. I think one chick just sucked my thumb because the other three had all the vital bases covered. It’s a rite of passage for most professional athletes, the overindulged dick. Wilt Chamberlain claimed he slept with twenty thousand women. I just have to wonder did it get old this quickly? Did he lie in bed some nights, a woman on each side, and feel utterly alone? Did he think about one particular girl while he was fucking all the others?
’Cause that’s my present dilemma.
