Tales Within Tales

In the inverse spirit of the Black-comedy-as-penned-by-a-Jew (most recently typified in Neil Berman’s appearance on I Know Black People) and Jews-writing-about-Asians (um, Flower Drum Song?) we present Robert Levertis-Bell (not a Jew) and Jay Caspian Kang (not a Jew) and their feature film treatments of the Amar'e Stoudemire (not a Jew?) pilgrimage. Follow the not-Jews on twitter at @thatkidicarus (Robert) and @maxpower51 (Jay).

There is also a contest! Anyone who wishes to film a scene from either Robert or Jay’s screenplays can submit it to freedarko-at-gmail-dot-com. Don’t worry about racial or religious accuracy—we can all suspend our disbelief, at least that much. The winner will receive a free copy of both FreeDarko books: The Macrophenomal Pro Basketball Almanac and the upcoming Undisputed Guide to Basketball History. These best of the best will also have their work featured on this very site!!!

Furthermore, you should check out Shoals and Spencer Hall on FDPTDOCNBAPC, and consider getting in touch with FD about app development.

THE ALL STARS OF DAVID
a romantic comedy by Jay Caspian Kang.

After missing a last-second lay-up that would have won the Knicks their first NBA championship in over forty years, twenty-nine year old DAVID PERCY (Chris Webber) drinks away his sorrows at Scores. When we first meet him, it is five in the morning. At a floura-lit table near the back, the strippers are stacking their singles. His teammates are nowhere to be seen. After being told by a bouncer that closing time has long since passed, Percy, a notorious carouser and serial womanizer, takes out his cell phone, punches in a long-forgotten number and leaves a weepy, drunken message.

The next afternoon, Percy wakes up and listens to his voice mail. Along with the expected consolations from his agent, his manager, and Knicks team-owner-and-former-President-Barack Obama, there is a message from a timid woman. She says she watched the game and wonders if he is doing okay. This woman is EVE KEDEM (Marissa Tomei), Percy's girlfriend from college who he dumped on draft night. Convinced that the material world was to blame for the cessation of their love, Eve rediscovered her Hasidic Jewish roots and moved out to Long Island.

The two meet in a diner under an ugly bridge. Eve listens to Percy talk about his growing disillusionment. He says, "It used to be about the love of the game, you know, back when we were a thing. But now, it's just about me, about my need to be great. What I realized last night in that strip club is that I don't love the game anymore. I only love what the game does for me." He confesses that he envies Eve and the peace her devotion to G-d has brought. She almost-touches his head and says, "men like you always seek out comfort from old girlfriends because you want to remember that even before you became you, that there was something worth loving."

Then she looks him straight in the eyes, does that Marissa Tomei squint-thing, and says, "There was something to love, Percy. But it's been too long for me to know if that something is still there."

What follows is a montage of Percy in famous New York spots: eating corn outside Cafe Habana, drinks w/ Jay-Z at 40/40, at various nightclubs w/ NBA stars KEVIN DURANT, RAY ALLEN, DWIGHT HOWARD and YAO MING. In each shot, Percy's mood is pensive, reflective. His hand is frequently in contact with his chin, which, as we know, is C-Webb’s go-to move when he wants to look pensive. When the montage spills out, Percy is sitting with JALEN ROSE at Katz's Deli. He is looking up at the sign that points out the exact spot where Meg Ryan faked her orgasm. After a hazy moment of reverie, he bolts upright and runs out of the deli, leaving behind a confused Jalen Rose and a very large non-Kosher reuben.



Outside, he pulls out his cell phone and demands Eve come meet him back at that diner under that ugly bridge. She says yes. At the diner, the two sloppily confess their love for one another and say some stuff about remembrance. Percy blurts out a marriage proposal. Eve goes cold. She says that she can only marry someone who is Jewish. Percy says he will convert. Eve shakes her head and says that the new young Rabbi at her synagogue has strictly forbidden marriage with outsiders. To be even considered, Percy must be able to prove that he can trace his bloodline back to Moses on Mount Sinai. Percy erupts at the news and the two have a long, serious discussion about racism and religion.

Crestfallen, Percy returns to his hedonistic ways. Chris Isaak’s "Wicked Game" plays in the background. The NBA season starts and he plays terribly. TV sports personalities (SKIP BAYLESS, JIM ROME, MICHAEL WILBON) all wonder if the great David Percy might still be shell-shocked from missing that lay-up. The team's leadership begins to shift over to TONY STAPLETON (Tristan Wilds). After a particularly bad game against the Celtics, Percy gets drunk at a nightclub and calls his mother. He explains what has happened with Eve.

The next morning, he wakes to the buzzing of his phone. It is his mother. She reminds him that it is important to be yourself, but that yourself is never exactly what we think it is. Sometimes, she says, yourself is what yourself was and its important to understand that that was has never left, but has simply been sitting patiently for us to notice its absence. She says she will always love Jesus, but that she has always known that Percy has only ever been able to love Eve. Devotion and faith, she says, means doing what it takes to properly love who you love.

Percy touches his chin and purses his lips, grimly.

The next morning, Percy drives out to Long Island and meets with the new young Rabbi (TAMIR GOODMAN). He demands a chance to convert. The rabbi is hesitant, but when Percy refuses to leave his office, the rabbi sees the good in him and asks, "Why do you want to do this, my son?" Percy sets his jaw and says, "Love." The Rabbi nods and sighs. He says, "I was in love once..." and tells a story about a girl he once knew. He agrees, but under one condition-- Percy must walk the straight-and-narrow. One slip-up and the education will end.



Percy moves into a humble one-room apartment above a pickle shop. Everything smells of brine. He lays down on the short couch and takes it in.

Montage 2: Percy getting fitted for a wool suit, Percy learning the Hebrew alphabet, Percy and Eve walking in Central Park hand-not-in-hand, a laughing Percy playing pick-up hoops with a group of Hasidic kids, Percy pulling down the hair around his temples, imagining the sidelocks of his future, a shot of Jim Rome saying that Percy David's shot selection has become more economical, clips of Jay Mariotti making military metaphors about Percy's refusal to play on Saturdays, Percy at the bar with his teammates with a glass of grape juice, Percy playing chess with the Rabbi, Percy at Second Avenue Deli with Eve-- this time he opens up a corned beef sandwich to reveal the absence of cheese, Percy appreciating half-sour pickles, Percy putting the “chhhhhhuuuh” in "chutzpah." Spliced in all these scenes are short clips of Percy scoring all over the league and bonding with his teammates. We see his play progress. We see the Knicks make the finals.

Game 7 of the NBA Finals is scheduled for a Saturday. His teammates who, strangely enough, have just kind of overlooked the montaged Saturdays of the season, plead with Percy to play. He does not know what to do. In the locker room, Tony Stapleton sidles up next to Percy and tells him that when he was growing up, Percy David was his hero because he played basketball like it was a religion. The respect he showed for the game, the heart he showed on the nightly—all of it was the closest thing the young Tony had to church.

Backed by the opening bars to Ghostface's "All that I Got Is You," Stapleton says, "It's hard sometimes, man, to see God in the neighborhoods where we grew up. You look and he isn't there. At least not always and so you look harder and then you see him, man, in what you've always loved. When I was coming up, man, I saw that in your game. Take us to that next level, man. Make up for the past. Write the resurrection for your career. This is Easter, man, this is our reckoning day."



Conflicted, Percy visits the Rabbi. The Rabbi says that he agrees with young Tony Stapelton—God exposes himself in all the things we love, but devotion to what we love is always honed through discipline. He reminds Percy of all the days he spent practicing free throws, all the parties he skipped, all the sweat and blood lost in the gym. If Percy is to love G-d, the Rabbi says, he must abide by his rules. But, he says, our only freedom in this world is our freedom to point our heart in whatever direction we choose. He tells Percy that because he, the Rabbi, has chosen to point his heart towards G-d, he will not be able to tolerate Percy's decision to work on a Saturday and that if he does indeed play, his Jewish education will end.

Percy returns to the apartment above the pickle shop and lies back down on the couch. He calls Eve. She tells him about the moment when she first fell in love with him—it was their sophomore year at Tech U. Her boyfriend-at-the-time had dragged her to see a game. In front of the adoring crowd, Percy dropped 45 points against Duke and even though ESPN was there and the cameras were on and the game was close throughout, he played the entire game with a C-Webb smile on his face. She had never seen a man so blessed-- who else, but basketball players, bring so much joy to people through a beautiful act? How could that ever be called work?

A look of great, epiphanic relief falls over Percy's face. He calls Tony Stapelton and tells him he'll be playing in Game 7. He then calls his COACH (Chad Coleman) and tells him that he will not be collecting a check for the game.

The Garden is packed for Game 7. Percy, smiling the entire time, drops 50 on the Lakers, but he is matched by an equally spry and thinly disguised Kobe Bryant-type named SEAN FLASH (Sean Combs). With time running out, the Knicks find themselves down by 2. The Coach draws up a play for Percy. In the huddle, Tony Stapleton says, "we got one shot, we got one chance here, let's go one time!" He turns to Percy and says, "One love, one love." Percy shakes his head, smiles, and holds up three fingers. He says, "Three loves."

The ball is inbounded, Percy, in super-slow motion, catches it, fakes twice, steps behind the three point line and drains a three. The Garden erupts.

His teammates mob him. He holds up three fingers as he is carried off the court.

EPILOGUE: As the credits roll, under the watchful eye of the Rabbi, Eve and Percy stomp on the glass and everyone yells Mazel Tov!

Then, the horah.

MESHUGGAH
Feature Film Treatment
Robert Levertis-Bell



ACT ONE:

The film opens on a basketball game in progress, the St. Louis Canucks at the New York Knights. MARK JACKSON, STAN VAN GUNDY, and MIKE BREEN are announcing. It's in the fourth quarter with only a minute to go. The Canucks are up 97-72. DON NELSON is standing the Canucks sideline, he's yelling at the court, hammering with roll of paper. One might think he was overdoing the pantomime as a manner of contradicting reports that this was, indeed, his final game as an NBF coach. MESHUGGAH SMITH (Mehcad Brooks) is playing for the Canucks, the camera follows him as the announcers wrap up the game:

BREEN: The clock is winding down in this final regular season game for these two middle-of-the-pack teams. Neither will make the playoffs and the game is completely meaningless…

VAN GUNDY (interrupting): But what about Meshugga Smith?! Nobody told him this game was meaningless.

JACKSON: 55 points?! Are you kidding me? Mama there goes that man!

BREEN: Yes, a phenomenal night, but still a disappointing season by Meshuggah Smith—whose off-court issues are very well-known. And, even despite this great performance here in New York, you have to wonder if Meshuggah will find a team this summer in free agency.

VAN GUNDY: Absolutely, a player of his calib...

Zap. We pull out from a television inside a luxury box in the same arena. Inside, the Russian oligarch SERGEI BAZAROV (Vladimir Cuk) and PAUL MCCARTNEY (Ricky Gervais) are sitting with the Knights' current majority owner DANIEL GREEN (Paul Lieberstein) and his financial advisor DIPESH CHATTERJEE (Aasif Mandvi). The foreigners have offered Green a staggering $2 Billion to purchase the New York Knights, one of the most storied franchises in professional basketball history, in order to relocate the team to London. They wish to create, in the British Knights, the Old Country’s sole representative in the National Basketball Federation, and a singular magnet for European talent from Ljubljana to Buenos Aires. Green and Chatterjee are very receptive to the offer as they have recently lost their shirts building an as yet unoccupied office park with money embezzled from the Knights.

They are especially skittish as Knights employee, MINDY ROSEN (Bar Refaeli), has started to ask questions about missing funds and Green and Chatterjee are eager to cover up their crime. However, they inform Bazarov and McCartney that, though they wish to sell, the team is far too beloved by the people of New York — especially the black and Jewish fans — and by the league’s commissioner to ever allow such an important team to leave the city. Bazarov replies that he has already witnessed, over the years, that Green has a knack for mismanagement and squandering the good will of Knights fans. He and McCartney can wait a year. McCartney asks Dipesh and Green: “Do you think you can turn the city and the commissioner against the team enough to allow the sale in a single year?” “Yes,” they reply in unison.



Meshuggah in street clothes visiting his MOTHER (Khandi Alexander, with a green wig) at the hospital. She is dying of breast cancer and is lying on the bed while Meshuggah and his fiancé ASHA (Kat Stacks) argue over the remote. She wants to watch the playoffs, he wants to watch Life is Beautiful. They switch back and forth between the NBF Finals and the film and they don’t notice at first that his mother is calling him to her side. They finally hear her summons just as the television switches for the last time to the NBA Finals. He rushes to her bed.

“I have to tell you something, Meshuggah…” “What is it mom?” “It’s about who you are, who we are, something I’ve never told you before and that you’ve never guessed…” “OK?” “Something that will change everything about the way you live from now on…” “Mama, what is it?” He leans in and listens. His eyes widen. “You’re Jewish!”

His mother flatlines… “Beeeeeeep.” His mom expires and when he looks up, he sees his arch nemesis PRINCE HALL (Carlos Boozer) score the championship winning shot over RON ARTEST in order to lead the San Diego Wolverines to the championship. Hall’s teammates mob him. Green and Chatterjee in their office brainstorming what they can do to alienate their fans and the commissioner so they can sell the team. They could field successively worse basketball teams. Tried it and the fans still show up. They could engineer an embarrassing sex scandal that affects both players and management. Tried it and the fans still show up. Something will come up, surely, Green announces and turns on his television, on which is Meshugga at a press conference on ESPN, wearing a yarmulke. He’s announcing that his mother told him that he’s a Jew on her deathbed and that he would from now on be living a Jewish life. “I think I got it,” Dipesh announces.

ACT TWO:

Green forces his GM, FRANK FRANCIS (Idris Elba, with an American accent) to sign Meshuggah Smith to a max one year contract. Posey is beside himself — Meshuggah is a notoriously bad teammate, won’t fit the offense, and is a known “headcase” — “remember that time he was arrested for using a Colt .45 on the Whack-a-Mole at Chuck E. Cheese?” — and is in the midst of a bunch of bad press for the bizarre claim that he’s Jewish. “Sign him or resign,” Green says. “Fine.”

Believing Meshuggah to be a member of one of the problematic Black Hebrew sects, who believe that blacks are "the real Jews," the plan is to encourage Meshuggah incite New York’s racial hostilities by making a public show of his “Jewish” identity while alienating the city’s “real” Jews. In the beginning, the whole thing works, Meshuggah makes a host of disastrous public comments, including one on the eve of his visit to the Western Wall. Asha is very skeptical of the whole enterprise and leaves him. The season starts and soon the team is attracting heat from the JDL and from an anti-Semitic black group headed by FAROUK SHAHAD (Wyatt Cenac) as Meshuggah very publicly “learns to be Jewish,” under Green’s tutorship.

On ESPN, with JIM ROME, Meshuggah announces that he’s been “learning Hebrew… making bagels…. doing standup comedy… and learning to balance his checkbook,” all things Green has told him to say. After this, the Post and Daily News let him have it. The Knights Arena has hordes of protesters outside but hardly anyone inside. Meshuggah, for his part is distraught over the whole thing but Green reminds him of the noble truths of Judaism: “life is suffering and that suffering comes from attachment — you have to let go, Meshuggah and walk your own path, who cares what the fans say, shake them Nazis off. Shalom!” Meshuggah gives another interview to ESPN, this time very stridently denouncing any and all critics as haters including the girl who he thought loved him, but left him because she was jealous of his faith.

After hearing this, Asha returns to confront Meshuggah. She tells him that she’s done some background checks and Green isn’t even himself Jewish — turns out that there are people with that name that aren’t Jewish — and he’s been getting a fake Jewish education all along. Meshuggah is distraught but it only makes his faith stronger, and he’s glad to have Asha back. He feels guilty for falling victim to the ruse but he can now focus on basketball.

ACT THREE:

The Knights begin to win games and the whole plan begins to backfire. Meshuggah’s conversion continues, in good faith now with Asha (a Catholic who clutches rosary beads during close ball games) and his new buddies JASON SCHWARTZMAN and OMRI CASSPI at his side. The Knights make the playoffs and Meshuggah-fever sweeps New York City. Fans leave the picket lines to enter the arena. When they return, the fans sport celebratory clip-on payos and hats and chant for the team in Yiddish. Black-Jewish relations (cf. Jeffrey Melnick) are at an all-time high in New York. Reconciliation montage: There’s a sign on the door of Sylvia’s that says “now 100% kosher!” The Post and Daily News are back on their side.



Meanwhile, the old and potential ownership groups get desperate and start trying, and failing, to astroturf a race war, even going so far as to anonymously funnel money and guns to Farouk Shahad, who stays in front of the arena with rifles and a megaphone denouncing Meshuggah as an affront to the black race. But when the Knights make the Finals, Shahad switches his tune “Meshuggah Smith should be at THE FRONT of the black race. Mazel Tov, my brother!” Frank, the GM, asks Mindy, the Knights employee, whether she’s sure she did the right thing; she says yes and they kiss. “I support you always,” Frank says to Mindy. “I support you always,” Asha says to Meshuggah.

The Finals come and Meshuggah ends up with a perfectly balanced stat sheet—“Just like his checkbook!” Jeff Van Gundy jokes. When he scores the series winning shot, over Prince Hall, the arena erupts into a round of “Hava Nagila.” As everyone is celebrating, the FBI show up to Green’s luxury box and haul off Dipesh and Green in cuffs. Paul McCartney looks at Bazarov, who’s looking down, and says “Oy Vey!”

Final scene: Meshuggah and Asha get married in a Jewish ceremony at Rucker Park. Those in attendance include Tamir Goodman, Larry Brown, and Jordan Farmar.

Of Golden Eagles and Maltese Falcons

I've been on this planet for sixty-three years now, and I've found that there are only a few rules that are worth following as closely as their nomenclature would dictate. I mention this because at the beginning of the events in question I was knowingly violating one of the rules I'd made for myself. It wasn't yet noon, and I was locked into a coaches-only meeting with my assistant, a Mr. Jack Daniels. Those who had worked with him extensively often found that he was a whole lot of fun to have around and could lead to some extreme short-term success, but in the end would leave you worse off than when you started with him. But he was always there when you wanted him to be, didn't run his mouth, and he at least gave you the illusion that you were always in control. In my book, that put old Dr. Jack at least one up on Larry Brown.

As I mentioned, I tried to refrain from the bottle before the Miami sun reached its throne and enticed the lifers to enter the safety homes and the Spring-break crowd to leave their clothes, but when you're staring down the barrel of a 13-win year, sometimes you have to remind yourself why you had to make the Goddamn rule in the first place. I explained this logic to my doctor. He told me that if I could convince my liver to only have trouble processing what I drank when we were over .500, then there wouldn't be a problem; but seeing as to how I wasn't even able to get Dorell Wright to provide consistent weak-side help I'd be better off just limiting my minutes, if I knew what he meant.

I thought of this as I poured out my drink. There was a knock at my door, and it swung open before I had a chance to respond. My first reaction was a sense of relief that it wasn't Dr. Greenthorpe, which in retrospect was somewhat inappropriate. She was taller than at least one of the players I had on payroll, with legs that looked like a pair of Eucalyptus trees. Shit, I know I'm getting old when a pair of legs like those reminds me of Central Park and not a co-ed named Lacey back at the UK who, I'm told, runs a Whole Foods now but wasn't too picky about what she put in her mouth back in 1964. Well, that and Joe Smith being underrated lets me know I'm getting old. And yet I digress.

"My name is Nicole. I represent the interests of the ownership group."

I thought about wondering aloud just which of the owner's interests Nicky represented, but thought better of it. Even old guys like me have to watch our mouths nowadays.

"As you well know, this upcoming draft is going to be a defining choice for this franchise in the coming years."

Oh yeah, I knew. Everyone knew that. Paul from accounting knew it, and I don't think he could tell you the difference between Kobe Bryant and Kobe Beef. Kina from ticket sales knew it, and she thinks God Shammgod was the guy Lew changed his name for. Ricky Davis knew it. We even shut down The Kid, Udonis, and Marion so as to better help ourselves go for dead last. Like I told Chris the one time I can remember looking up at her when both of us had all of our clothes on, if you're going to do something, you might as well go all the way with it.

"I've been sent here to provide you all the best knowledge on the possible prospects and make sure you have everything you need to make the decision that will best benefit this franchise. I've obtained game film, recommendations from coaches, and comprehensive statistical models so as to give you the best possible information on all the prospects. Right now management is really high on this K-State kid, Michael Beasley, and…"

"Hold it, right there, Nicky, I don't have many rules but the ones I have, I stick to. And one is to not trust anyone under 20 with significant responsibility unless there are clear labels."

I punctuated that by finishing my drink. Hopefully Nicky hadn't attended any of my speaking engagements, but I'm pretty sure I'd have been able to pick her out of the crowd that usually shows up at those things.

"If I'm going to break my rules for this B-Easy, I'm going to make sure I know what the kid's deal is."

"Well that's why I'm here, Mr. Riley, I'm to give you game tape and…"

"Nicky, Lew Alcindor didn't learn the hook by watching Better Basketball, Magic didn't learn how to pass by hitting tires or learn to screw from Beyond the Green Door, and contrary to what you may have heard, I didn't learn principles of leadership from MacBeth. I didn't meet my wife on eHarmony and I'm not making a top-three pick based on tape. Get your coat, Nicky. We’re hitting the road.”

She gave me a look like I’d just suggested we trade The Kid for Jermaine O’ Neal. I don’t know if it was because she thought the idea to be out was insane or because she’d never seen any possible benefit in covering herself up, but she thought I was crazy either way.

“But…you’re the coach. Don’t you have to stay here until the season ends, to watch over practices, or set the rotations, or make the substitutions, or something?”

Just then she looked out my window onto the practice court, where Chris Quinn was taking bets on whether or not he could dunk. By the time Mark Blount and Earl Barron were engaged in a left-handed 3-point contest, my point made itself clear to her without me needing to say a damn thing. She put on her coat, although it’s worth noting that the ensemble she chose made me a good deal warmer than it could have made her.

On the plane, Nicky kept asking me about everything; my past, the Lakers, the Knicks, my marriage, everything. At one point she put her hand on my knee and her mouth told me that she wanted me to know that she had my best interests in mind, while the rest of her told me she also had my worst interests in mind. I told her she seemed like a nice kid, but that I was going to be making the decisions on this trip. I’ve got six rings, but the only one I could lose would be in serious jeopardy if Nicky got what she wanted out of me at 30,000 feet, in between the mini-bar and the film room. Not that I thought about it or anything. I used to only trust women as far as I could throw ‘em, but after my second kid I decided to stop performing that particular test. Now I don’t trust anything with an A-cup, up to and including Shaq.

We set down in Omaha. Not my kind of town, but I could deal with that. When the tournament rolls around, everything’s such a corporate dog-and-pony show that there’s not too much of a difference. It was, after all, the NCAA tourney. I remembered playing in it when I was a kid, running off screens and playing defense for ol’ Coach Rupp. Of course, Hollywood would have you believe that Coach Rupp took our defensive sets out of The Triumph of The Will. Of course, I picked up a USA Today when I took my seat, and read articles about “The Ultimate Hard Worker” Tyler Hansborough, “The Consummate Teammate” David Padgett, and “The Humble and Polished Student of the Game who dominates not through talent but through intelligence and skill” Kevin Love. Coincidentally, they’re all white. The more things change… Anyways, I wasn’t there to ponder whether or not T.I. would play the role of Mario Chalmers 15 years from now. I was there to find out about Mike Beasley, and just what this kid's "character issues" entailed, the old-fashioned way. I found an old colleague of mine in the stands who knew these kinds of things.

“Hey, Bob, I like this Beasley kid. Acts like the ball is the orb from Sleeper but can flat-out score the rock and pull down boards. Only thing is that I hear he’s got some skeletons in the closet. What can you tell me?”

I brought up Sleeper because I knew Bob was one of the few guys still in basketball who knew Woody as the guy who’d beat Star Wars for an academy award and wrote Side Effects and With Feathers, not as the guy who married his daughter and still got seats almost as good as the guy who made She Hate Me and those commercials for sneakers that cost almost as much as my loafers. I've always had a bit of a weakness for spending money on clothes, but when I buy my shoes, I'm trying to pick out the ones that make women go lower, not me go higher.

“Riles, cat went to six high schools. Dude’s got skeletons in his foyer. You ask me, I wouldn’t take a guy with an attitude like that on my team.”

“Yeah, I know exactly what kind of a guy you want on your team. I saw your reality show, Bob. How does it feel going from Dean Smith to a poor man’s Flava Flav?”

“Straight to sabers, eh, Riles? Y’all might want to pick up a win soon, 13’s an unlucky number to finish up with. Not because it’s cursed or anything, because it means your team’s a Goddamn insult to the sport of basketball.”

“Tell me, Bob, has studying under Digger Phelps improved your knowledge of the game?”

Bob broke out into a wide smile then, and I kindly offered him a red as a token of good will. We both walked out of the stadium to enjoy our cigarettes then, silently marveling at how much things had changed; 40 years ago, Red Auerbach lit up a victory cigar on the sidelines as his team strolled to its 9^th championship. Now the best coach of the modern era, as I’ve been known to say when my modesty and sobriety have departed me, and the all-time leader in college wins had to act like 17-year old kids failing out of boarding school to have a smoke. Actually, scratch that. The coach of the worst team in professional basketball and a guy who wished he could get Erin Andrews' face time had to sneak out like kids flunking out of boarding school for a smoke.

“Seriously, tell me about this Beasley kid.”

“Nobody knows too much about him. Worst story we know is about him marking up the principal’s car back at The Factory.”

Shit, Oak Hill Academy. Back when I was in high school I saw exactly two notable persons: Big Lew and my home ec teacher. This kid had played with Ty Lawson, Brandon Jennings, Bill Walker, and even that kid Kevin Durant, who by those advanced stats was the next Wilt and to hear Jay Bilas talk showed elements Pete’s handle, Iverson’s first step, Drazen’s jumper, Pippen’s perimeter D, Kareem’s touch from the post, Shaq’s power, McHale’s moves, Jordan’s driving ability, ‘Niques finishing, Magic’s court vision and West’s savvy every time he took a 15-footer. I didn’t need any statistical models to tell me that the kid needed a cheesesteak before he’d be within spitting distance of Jamaal Crawford, let alone any of those other guys.

“Well, that’s the reason he left one school. That leaves us only four short.”

“That’s all I can tell you, Riles. You want to know more, you gotta find someone who knows.”

“Always fun to see you, Bob. There aren’t enough guys like us in the league anymore. What was the final straw for you?”

“Probably when Floyd pulled DeRozan by giving ‘Lil Romeo a scholarship for the pure hell of it. I’m all for pulling out the stops to get blue-chippers, but you gotta draw the line somewhere. And mind you, last year Tim had a kid who recruited himself. If I want a 7-footer with a left hook, do I have to give ‘Lil Mama my backup shooting guard’s scholarship?”

“I think it’s just Romeo now.”

“Way I see it, taking the ‘lil off your name is like Bill Walton trying to re-invent himself as an ‘avid reader’-you can act like William H. Buckley all you like, you’re still the dead-head who went on a hippie rebellion against Wooden and pushed his coach to allow him to use performance-diminishing drugs.”

“Those were the good times, Bob. On the bright side, we now have a legitimate hip-hop artist who goes by the name ‘Bow Wow.’ Shit is music’s answer to the Utah Jazz.”

“I really don’t care. Digger’s calling me over. If anyone sees these tapes 15 years from now, say the mob made me do it.”

I asked around about the kid all day, to varying degrees of nonresponse. I was getting frustrated; was the kid just not into social studies, or was he doing for his coaches what Peter Sellers did for his wives?

The kid was out after a quick roll over that Mayo kid in the first round, the one who was supposed to be the next Pistol Pete and who had pretty much made it clear the only way he was staying in college another year was if they found dogs in his basement. But after a second-round exit, it got even tougher to find any solid leads on the kid, until I saw a kid with a limp who saw my face and jumped clean over a chain-link fence to avoid me. I threw a ball into his hands, which made him stand dead still until I was able to catch up to him.

“Bill Walker.”

“What’s it to you, bitch?”

“That’s Mr. Riley to you. Back when I was a kid, we respected those who came before us.”

“Last I checked, your generation stuck those who came before you on reservations and gave ‘em casinos.”

“If I wanted smart mouth on this trip I’d have shared a room service order with Nicky and gotten the 25-dollar movie. What can you tell me about Beasley?”

“I don’t know the cat. He shows up, goes to practice, leaves. He shares details about his life about as often as he hits the cutter.”

I put my knee into the one of his with the type of crap going on inside of it that turned Elgin from being the good kind of unstoppable to the kind of unstoppable that gives Yaroslav Korolev 8 figures, only nowadays they had better ideas for fixing a busted knee then switching Elgin to the more nutritious Camel Lights. Mine probably hurt more, but I had the benefit of not giving a crap.

“Whaddya say, Billy? I’m ten seconds away from putting another one into your knee, telling Chad Ford you’ve got a stubby wingspan, and telling Clay you’d be a steal in the second round.”

“Okay, okay. There’s a guy. Beasley talks to him after practice every day. Calls himself Manny C. Nobody knows his real name, but give me your number and I’ll have him call you.”

“If I don’t get that call, rest assured, you’re going to be balling with Lenny Cooke and James White next year.”

Sure enough, I got the call that very night. It was a deep voice, not one I recognized. It just said to show up at the parking garage at 2:00 in the morning, and to make sure I wasn’t followed. One of my few positive traits is to know when I shouldn’t let my own inhibitions mess up a good thing. I gave Magic the ball, I let Patrick get shots up and women down, and I wasn’t about to do anything other than what this guy told me. It probably wasn’t the best idea I’ve ever had, but when you get to be my age you’ve got assurance that any idea you have won’t be the worst one you’ve ever had either. When I showed up, a tall guy with a hood on and a trail of smoke finding its way between whatever smoke detectors were in the building like Reggie coming off screens back in the day when lighting up the Mecca meant something other than Miley Cyrus coming to town.

I walked over to the van, and felt a crack to the back of the head the likes of which I hadn’t felt since I played football for the U, back when everyone didn’t act like KU was playing keep-away with a Faberge egg just because they let one of their basketball players do something other than practice pull-up jumpers and screw when I wasn’t busy playing ball. I didn't think of that at the time, because sudden and extreme physical pain rarely induces nostalgia.

I awoke to a pair of legs that ruled Hell out of the equation fairly quickly. My head drew up to find a dark skirt attached to what could truly and honestly be called a glower. That ruled out two of the three possibilities. I was still alive. Unfortunately, the other information I was processing kept me from being able to definitely see that as a “glass half-full” type of situation.

“Well, Nicky, of all the ways this could’ve shaken out, I sure as hell didn’t think I’d end up on my back before you.”

“Shut up, Pat. You’re going to listen now. You’re going to stop digging around Beasley. As far as you know, the kid enjoys to listen to Crime Mob with the volume at 14 and that’s all there is to it. We’ve got the thing set up, all the way to Stern. We’re getting Beasley. He’s the next big thing, and he’s coming to Miami with the kid and setting up a rivalry with King James. Mayo’s going to New York and he’s either going to extinguish or fan the flames of Isaiah. At this point, the big man doesn’t really care either way. Rose is feeding the skinny kid for the next decade. We appreciate all you’ve done, Riles, but at this point you’re really and truly an expendable resource. I don’t know if you’ve picked up a paper lately, but Doc Rivers is going to be coach of the year and Avery Johnson is looking into subletting options. Your luck can change just that fast in this league. In fact, you’re a 63 year old man with La Brea in your lungs. I don’t think anybody would be too shocked if you had a heart attack in your hotel room this weekend.”

“Nicky, I don’t play with Jerry West anymore, but I think I can tell when I’m dead, and seeing as to how you’re neither fully clothed or Stan Van Gundy, I don’t think I’m in the afterlife right now. And I know the big man-if he wanted me dead, I’d be on the sidelines in the sky. So I gotta think there’s a variable here you’re neglecting to mention, hopefully one influenced by my tan. What I’m saying here is that if I’m to go Rockefeller this weekend, I’d at least like the full experience.”

As I said all this, I’d closed the distance between us. A few seconds after I’d finished, the only laws either of us were breaking were biblical. I’d already broken most of my rules this week, so what was one more? And if you’re going to make a mistake, you might as well make one that involves enveloping. I wouldn’t have called what happened that night a good idea by any stretch of the imagination. But as bad ideas go, I had a lot more fun with this one than I did with Earl Barron.

I’ve always considered myself a fairly fortunate guy, and Nicky being a heavy sleeper after intense physical activity fit right in with being the 12^th man with West and Baylor and taking The Kid being rated somewhere in between Darko Milicic and Chris Kaman. I had a cigarette, for tradition’s sake, and also because I'm addicted to them, and left one for Nicky. Then I put on my coat, grabbed my notebook, and went to see Memphis play against Kansas. There were no guards. The door wasn't even locked. Hell, I'd probably been checked out. That's what you've gotta love about Dames-the less you trust 'em, the more you end up getting out of 'em. I made a note to mention that to Stern. I walked unimpeded into the sunlight, got in a cab, and told the driver to take me to the airport, I was going to Manhattan, and not the goddamn Manhattan where Beasley played. I was going back to my town to pay the big man a visit. Somebody had messed with the wrong guy. The only thing left to find out was who.