Bellybuster Part 3: “Ejection”

Third in a series of installments documenting my failed political ambitions, my warped sensibilities, and my Portland Trail Blazers.

1.

While I was in the Cayman Islands, I generally tried to avoid being around the bustle of the palace. In June, only three months into my stint as the US Ambassador, interactions between Mckeeva and myself had became wrought with tension and a genuine sense of foreboding. So, although my living quarters were located right next door, I spent most of my nights and weekends on the east coast of Grand Cayman, near the area of the botanical gardens and nature reserves. The Chinese ambassador, Yang, owned an incredible beach bungalow on Gun Bay, and he rarely used it.

I met Yang on a birdwatching session I took in April. We bonded over our shared love of the Rolling Stones and a mutual distaste for Premier Mckeeva. A particularly cutting jibe I made about Mckeeva’s asinine celebrity impressions led Yang to give me a copy of a key to his bungalow, which he encouraged me to use at any time. I took him up on his offer and used the bungalow often during the summer, and I have very fond memories of riding my light blue 100cc Vespa scooter along the main road that surrounded the island. My hair was getting long and I loved how it felt speeding along in the Caribbean wind.

This was actually one of our points of contention at the palace. Mckeeva insisted I present myself in a “professional manner” at all times, and chided me when I arrived at a state dinner with a stubby nubbin of a ponytail. I tried to communicate that my superiors knew my philosophy of self-hygiene before they appointed me to my post, and hinted at his hypocrisy by pointing out his off-putting habit of wearing suits that were three sizes too big. His daughter, Ruth, was so embarrassed by his inept fashion sense that she refused to be seen with him in public. I told him as much.

“I never see you doing any work around here,” he grunted one morning as I bought a muffin at the palace cafeteria. “All I ever see you do is eat, and your office is littered with records and bottles of rum. It’s disgusting.”

“Why were you in my office?” I said with mock surprise. I knew he had been snooping around my stuff, and one night I actually found him passed out drunk next to my fireplace. He wasn’t wearing pants, and drool was soaking through his undershirt. I took a photo of him and sent it anonymously to the New York Times.

“Doesn’t matter. I’m the premier, in case you haven’t noticed. I can do whatever I want. Besides, you didn’t answer my question!”

“Listen: I represent my country and the cultural interests of the Stars and Stripes. And don’t forget – I have diplomatic immunity.” I tossed the rest of my muffin at Mckeeva and he fell over while trying to dodge it. I tossed the paper wrapper at him as I walked away, intending to spend the remainder of my day at Yang’s bungalow with Ruth. My tan was still a work in progress at this point, and I needed some serious time in the sun to even out my blotches.

“HEY!!” Mckeeva yelled as I started to walk away. “I know about you and Yang. You’d better be careful.”

I stopped and turned back to him. “Nonsense. We’re friends. We like the same music.”

“Just be careful,” he warned. “Be careful.”

2.

I sat in the press room cafeteria at the Rose Garden, my Oregon Sports News press pass dangling around my neck, awaiting tip-off. The woeful Cleveland Cavaliers were in town, and fellow sportswriter John Canzano and I enjoyed our beef briskets as we had a very animated discussion about public school funding. John, one of the only writers in this town worth his salt, had married an old high school friend, and so we knew each other well. I appreciate his professionalism and his unwillingness to judge me based on negative stories that he’s read about me as a result of the Cayman Islands affair.

This is a problem that I’ve encountered with many of my colleagues, and it has interfered with my capabilities as a journalist – specifically, when the interview subject tries to turn the interview around and starts asking me questions: “What exactly happened in the Cayman Islands, anyways?“

And, to be honest, I was getting used to it and it was manageable, and I had developed a way to deflect the focus and downplay the sordid tale… that is, until I had the brick thrown into my window with the Operation Bellybuster documents attached. It ripped the scars back open, just as I was turning the page of that chapter of my eventful life. I still was reeling from that bizarre New Year’s Day, and I started spending my time piecing together the bits and pieces of my time in the Cayman Islands. How did Bellybuster fit in? Why was I involved? It was affecting my performance, and I struggled to hide these events from my editor, who was already displeased with my growing friendship with Gerald Wallace. I repeatedly stressed that our friendship would not get in the way of my unbiased reporting, and I convinced Gerald to treat me like a stranger when I would conduct our post-game locker room interviews.

We finished our meals and headed down the hallway towards the Blazers training area and locker rooms. I expressed my interest to John about getting a sit-down with Larry Miller and possibly doing a long-form profile of him for the website. He laughed at my optimism and suggested that with time would come an overwhelming pessimism regarding possible interviews or candidness from anybody associated with the team. This is unfortunately how it’s been for years, and breaking through that hypothetical wall has proven to be the ultimate unattainable goal with media members who cover the team.

In fact, John had a reliable source that insisted that in the late 1990s, employees were forced to sign a lengthy document which included a laundry list of humiliating demands. One particular item on the list was a requirement for the employee to stand motionless against a wall, head bowed, if Paul Allen or Bob Whitsitt (the president at the time) happened to enter the room in which the employee was already in. This also pertained to hallways. Eye contact was expressly forbidden, and a dictatorial environment was thusly ensured.

The source was of the opinion that this document was solely the product of Whitsitt’s massive ego, and although Whitsitt is now long gone from sports and currently spends his time actively contributing to Zionist causes throughout the world, the emotionally squalid environment he fostered seems to have persisted to the current regime. Even more bizarrely, there are whispers that Whitsitt is still involved behind the scenes, running the show with an iron fist, huddled over a bank of computer screens in his fortified compound off the Puget Sound.

John and I were waiting outside the locker room for the pre-game meeting to finish so we could interview the coaches, when Larry Miller and his bodyguard walked by and frowned at us. Miller did a double-take as he moved closer to us, acting surprised that I had access to this area. He examined my credentials wordlessly and stared up at me. He was much shorter than I imagined, and his paunch was noticeable underneath his Armani suit. He reversed track and stormed off, to my consternation. John convinced me that this was standard operating procedure under the Miller regime, and I started to laugh it off until a minute later, when the bodyguard came up to me and grabbed me by the throat, pushing me up against a framed photo of Jack Ramsay.

“What do you think you’re doing here?” the bodyguard asked me. Before I could respond, he yanked my shirt and dragged me through the training room and down some hallways until we were in the loading dock. My neck was sore from the bodyguard choking me, and as we moved toward the large doors, I saw John running after us, only to be stopped and detained by security. My shirt ripped and I wriggled free of the bodyguard’s grasp, only to feel him grab my leg and twist, and I was face down being led toward the exit. The bodyguard kicked the door open and threw me down the stairs, flinging me like a chicken bone. Instinctively, I tried to brace my fall with my hand, and I felt a sharp pain in my navicular.

I was shell-shocked. An elderly parking attendant came up to me and I said I was fine. I walked down the road and called Lala, asking her to pick me up. I sat down in the pouring rain on a concrete bannister along Interstate Avenue, bitter, confused, and alone.