1-10-2013
“He’s not dumb.”
The statement was made as Robert Sarver sat in his genuine leather chair, purchased from India, in the drawing room of his home. The walls were decorated with the things that mattered to him: accolades from his businesses, degrees, and pictures of him with other business tycoons.
Veronica had never understood why he didn’t seem to care for the team he owned. She had been sitting here, pretending to listen, for the last ten minutes as he drank his Scotch and ranted about the team.
“McCutcheon has intelligence, Veronica … he can make it in the NBA.”
“Isn’t that good for us?”
He glared at her. “No. He’s drawing a lot of attention from my fellow owners … he’s only signed to a one year deal and he’s getting paid little compared to his peers.” Robert took a deep drink from his glass and wiped his chin. “He’s actually made some good moves … and my fellow owners are seriously considering him for open positions come the end of the season.”
She leaned back in her chair, her eyes sweeping over his face. He was concerned. “You’re worried you’re going to lose him?”
“I’m not paying him so he’s already lost … but what’s more important is how it’ll hurt my image.” He set the glass down, hard, some of its contents spilling to the side. “I have people to answer to.”
“The other owners?”
He scoffed. “Dicks, most of them. Willing to burn money for a shot at the playoffs … a business isn’t run that way. You have to be efficient, you have to be smart about the money and the talent. They want to win now and pay three times more than they need to.”
She sighed and rolled her eyes. “Who are you talking about, then?”
“My peers in the business world. They’ve always been critical of me for not taking risks with this team … I let Amar’e go, I brought Shaq in, but that’s never been enough to satisfy them. They wanted to see me make a hire in an important position, something risky there. McCutcheon was that hire.”
She understood now and smirked. “And now that the team is doing well, thanks to the Gordon trade he made, you’re going to lose him to another organization.”
He stared at his wall with a grim look. “I’ll lose what I’ve gained … this is the first time in years my peers have really showed me any respect. It’s a
‘what have you done lately’ kinda thing.”
She shrugged. “Well, you haven’t exactly done much with the Suns lately, have you? Besides wasting the best years of Steve Nash’s career.”
He growled at her. “Don’t get sassy on me.”
“If you want the respect that badly, just pay McCutcheon … he’s not going to demand a whole lot.”
“He will once the bidding war starts ... I have six owners right now who are willing to fire their current GMs and hire him. If our team makes the playoffs and does decently in them, that number could double.” He shook his head. “I should have hired a bum and tanked this year.”
“Well, we’re not tanking at the moment.”
“We were close.”
She scoffed. “The only reason we’ve gone 4-6 over the last ten games is because Dudley was out with an injury … every team on our schedule took advantage of that. We’ve won the last three in a row since he came back.”
“We need more injuries.”
She glared at him. “Why tank anyway?”
“Higher draft pick … but McCutcheon traded that away for Gordon.” He picked up his drink and finished it off. “McCutcheon is going to leave and make me look horrible … the fans will hate me again and my peers will mock me again.”
She shrugged. “Should have made me your GM. Then you wouldn’t have this issue.”
She was baiting him. He seemed desperate enough to actually consider it now … she’d been pushing for months for him to put her in the front office, to become the first female executive in the NBA. She wanted that honor. She wanted to be that trailblazer.
He looked over her for a moment and said, “If you can figure out a way to get McCutcheon to leave and not make me look bad, you’ll get your shot.”
She extended her had without hesitation. “Shake on it and we have a deal.”
He smirked. “Like hell you can do it … he just has to ride out the end of the year and he’ll be golden.”
She smirked at him. “He’s not going to screw up with the players he puts on the court … but his job has off the court components too.”
He looked at her hand and then at her. He took her hand and shook it. “You have a deal … but tread carefully. If you’re going to do what I think you are, and be sure I don’t want to know, than you had better be damned clever about it.”
She smiled. “Clever about what?”
He let go of her hand and leaned back in his chair. “Exactly.”