Ch. 1
May 19th, 1996
“And it’s official — after 323 days, the owners and players of the NBA have agreed to a new collective bargaining agreement, meaning that pro basketball is back in the lives of all those around the world. For nearly a year the world at large has gone without professional basketball, robbing fans and players alike of the sport …”
ESPN drowned on and on about it, but he wasn’t bothering to listen. It was over. It was official. The NBA was back and, for the first time in months, he felt he had a damned purpose. No more scouting, no more watching college games, no more traveling on the road … his duties as a bystander were done.
Beside him, the form of a beautiful woman stirred. “Ron?” she muttered in the barely lit room, only the light of the TV flashing across them. “What is it?”
He rested a hand on her thigh and gave it a loving squeeze.
Cynthia? Jasmine? Veronica? He struggled for her name — they had met at a bar, they both knew what they were there for. Not the drinks, certainly.
“Shhhh,” he whispered soothingly. “Just sports junk. Go back to sleep.”
She nodded and turned her head away, her arms wrapping around the pillow tighter as she took his advice to heart.
One of the benefits of being on the road so much was having little reason to settle down. He never saw the point in it; everyone would get older. Everyone would get weaker. It was a fact of life, one that was cruelly applied to even the most gifted of individuals.
He certainly wasn’t that gifted, but he did have a gift; one that was useful only on a basketball court, with a group of gladiators around him, hearts pounding, blood flowing, and minds at work. He would, after months, have a team at his command again.
And this time, he’d be in charge of that team, from top to bottom. The NBA lockout had robbed him and the world of the last season; 1995 was gone and it was 1996 now, the summer and draft approaching. For the first time in his life, he had control of who was signed, who was traded, who was on the floor, and who was off it … everything was in his hands.
For some people, that realization would cause them fear. For him, it only emboldened his need to be there again. On the court. In the arena. On those buses and those flights, readying himself and the men around him for the coming contest.
Basketball wasn’t just a sport, it was his way of life. It was the only life he had ever known and it had given him life when he was at his lowest.
Reflexively, he reached out and traced the long scar on his leg. For every inch it existed there was a memory.
“You won’t define me,” he whispered, his eyes on the scar. “I will be more than what you made me.”
As he focused back on the TV, he couldn’t help but smile. It was showing Jordan highlights and, after another year off for his career, Ron doubted Jordan had spent the long offseason waiting around.
He was probably starved and ready to take the league by the throat.
Bring it on.
***
“You’re *hitting me.” The words were barely out her mouth before her boss held up his hand.
“Helena, don’t give me that.”
“Give you what? Attitude? Grief?
Guilt?” She shot out of his chair and pressed both her hands into Grant’s desk. The old thing creaked at the weight, and it wobbled slightly thanks to the short leg on the left side. “God damn you! I put in for that beat, that story is mine and you assigned it to Floyd?”
Grant took out a stick of gum, looked at it for a moment, then took out two sticks of gum and popped them into his mouth. “Yeah,” he said as he chewed on the giant wad, “I did. And you know why? Because Floyd sucks sweaty Cuban *ss at covering the sports beat.”
“Don’t *ucking take that line —”
“And,” Grant continued, the veins in his forehead flushing a little, “he doesn’t
regularly piss off our sources on the governor’s beat!”
She bit his lip. Grant had a point. “*uck you,” she mumbled as she slouched back into the chair, searching for any counterargument she could make. She didn’t have one.
Grant just nodded. “I’ll tell Gloria you want a turn, I’m sure she’d be thrilled to have you deal with my snoring for a night.”
“So, that’s it then?”
Grant scratched at his scruffy wanna-be beard, gray specks dotting the normally black hair, and nodded. “Yeah.” He took his pen and tapped it against the cork board behind his desk. “So, tell me: what do you about Ronald Bazemore?”
She pulled down on her blouse and made a face. “Nothing.”
“Well, that’s a problem, because the Heat have just named this no-name as head coach and GM of the team.” Grant looked at the board mildly perturbed. “I know this much: he used to be a pro-prospect. Left the USA in the early 80s, headed overseas.”
“To play?”
“To coach.” Grant tapped his left thigh. “Guy was in a terrible biking accident, wrecked his leg. Was projected to be a solid rotation player in the league, maybe a starter for some team desperate enough to give him the chance.” He shook his head. “Pretty passer, heady player … had a temper, though. Called him ‘Raging Ron’ when he was having one of his foul-heavy nights.”
Helena stood up and leaned over his desk, eyes reading through what little was on there about Bazemore. “Lots of old game-recaps, a few write-ups … this is old news.”
He blew a bubble and popped it. “So it is. Go get me some new news, huh? We need an article on this guy in the next two days, I want to get at this while it’s hot.”
“They snuck in his announcement with the other press release about the end of the lockout … not a resounding vote of confidence.”
What did he do to get this job?
“Strategy, they just wanted to get it out of the way with minimal fuss.” He tapped at Bazemore’s picture, put out with the press release. “Get me some depth to this. I don’t want this face to be just a picture, got me?”
She shot him a sidelong look, a smirk on her lips. “You just want me to dig.”
“You
like to dig.”
She thought for a moment, then gave him a nod and headed towards the door. “I’ll have it to you by tomorrow afternoon.” She paused at the doorframe and tossed a glance over her shoulder. “But I’m telling you, I want to get on the political stuff, Grant. I’m better than sports.”
He blew another bubble and popped it. “Give me something good on Bazemore, and I’ll see if I can find you something that doesn’t involve you interrogating our sources, huh?”
“Fair enough.” She took one last look at the picture, then headed for her desk.
All right Bazemore, let’s see what you’re hiding.