Bellybuster

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

Part 1: Back on the Thankless Beat

1.

I had heard that popular refrain often over the course of the past year: the emperor, as it seemed, had no clothes. However, this maxim became all too real and painfully intimate one regretful autumn day, as I walked through the unlocked door of the palace bathroom to see Premier Mckeeva sitting on the toilet.

It all spiraled out of control from that day forward, and I was forced to leave the Cayman Islands in the dead of night. The following day I resigned and blame it on an unresolved tax evasion problem. Unofficially, on one end, Washington was afraid that I was getting along a bit too closely with the Chinese delegation; on the other, the Premier was utterly convinced that I was in the midst of a series of trysts with his daughter (an allegation that is untrue and completely ridiculous, regardless of what you might read in the Washington Post).

The Americans rushed me back home to the Pacific Northwest, apologized to everyone involved, urged the Washington Post editorial staff to slander my name at every opportunity, and offered me a fair stipend in exchange for a non-disclosure agreement… which I finally signed “Spiro Agnew xxxooo” in a lime green crayon after five men in matching olive suits loitered around my sparse living room, waiting for me to finally “sign the damn thing”, as I lounged in my back garden with my attractive girlfriend, wearing my favorite wine-red robe, pretending to give a damn about the details of this large packet of documents that were sitting in my lap, and openly mocking the government agents who had eventually wandered into the kitchen, looking for something to eat.

I was a diplomat for a grand total of eight months, and although I don’t regret much about my time in the Caribbean, it was nice to get back home just in time to enjoy the Christmas holiday with my family and friends. I decided immediately to change gears and make a sharp shift away from the high flying world of international glad-handing and savoir-faire – I needed something admirable, yet something that contained the possibility of maintaining the level of prestige you get used to – nay, you expect – living in a palace on the government’s dime.

I’m talking about sportswriting, a trade which I aligned myself with vigorously many years ago on the short-lived but nationally-recognized sports website, “Rip City Forever“. Ah, sportswriting – a noble pursuit, yes? Essentially, an impossible task: my job is to “quantify the unquantifiable”, as I urged my staff on RCF all those years ago. So, here goes. All or nothing. Back on the thankless beat, more lonely nights staving off the dark winter with the clickety clack, hunched away in a little corner of Northeast Portland, surrounded by a variety of pensioners and picket fencers. Ho hum indeed.

2.

At a mid-December neighborhood watch meeting, I took my customary spot in the back corner as one suburbanite prattled on about his “close friendship” with Trail Blazers president Larry Miller.

“Wait… you mean Larry Miller as in our Larry Miller?” asked KP as, weeks later and hours before the Blazers home opener versus the Philadelphia 76ers, we settled into the luxe Windows Skyroom, pregame destination for the cash-strapped 300-levellers and those who prefer to keep a… low profile.

“The very same!” We debated whether we could, through this vague connection, manage to coordinate a face-to-face sit-down with this reviled yes-man under the aegis of an intricate business meeting. To make things clear: KP is my dear friend and provides services that are very much in demand among the glitterati, and so we sat and concocted a plan in the corner of the skyroom, adjacent to the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the Rose Garden and the northern expanse of the I-5 corridor.

Think about it: there are very few men who have proven publicly their ineptitude time and time again, and we just happen to be the supporters of a franchise that employs (say it with me, now:) not one, not two… but three men at the top of the food chain. How the franchise still even exists is a downright miracle that might actually make you believe in Jesus, and I see by the smirk on KP’s face that he gets a small kick out of the whole situation. Does it define us, this mediocrity?

“Listen: now is not the time for Schadenfreude. You know how I feel about this whole charade.” I finished my drink and urged him to do the same, eyeing his wristwatch and communicating to my long-time associate with a flick of the eyes.  “We’ve got to get back on that horse. The gold will be ours someday, my brother, and we will be the kings.”

The game itself was marred by erratic, sloppy play and a noticeable lack of opening-day theatrics by the production team. No matter. It was a solid night which further established Gerald Wallace’s status as the new enforcer, a sniper whose soft demeanor off the court hides a ferocious competitive edge. However, he seems to be able to switch his focus on and off like a night light, and I fear he has developed some myopic tendencies over the course of his years in Charlotte.

He’s never been on a winner, yet he seemed comfortable with that tag. Would stability on the west coast help? Was he bothered by his involvement in the trade rumors that circled players like vultures in that mind numbing post-lockout week? Was he going to take the plunge and move the family to a city where he felt no connection… and possibly no love?

3.

We hung out for a bit at the Rose Garden after the game, chatting with some of KP’s business associates who were headed to J’s Jazz Club. We followed them to the club and managed to grab a booth. The house band finished their set, and we were left to our whiskey as the sounds of Miles Davis’ “Sketches of Spain” filled the cold smokeless air of the ruby-tinted club. I finally started to recount to KP my side of the Cayman Island affair, only to see a familiar face across the room at the end of the bar, sipping a sloe gin fizz and gazing up toward the chandelier in the center of the room.

I stopped mid-sentence and motioned over to the bar. It was Gerald Wallace, two hours removed from his fine 21-point performance, sitting alone and enjoying the lazy atmosphere. We gave up our booth and made our way to the bar and sat on either side of him, offering pleasantries and introducing ourselves.

I asked him about Portland. “Cold and wet,” he deadpanned. “Hard to get used to again when you’ve been in Alabama for six months.”

“Tell me about it,” I replied. “I just spent eight months in the Cayman Islands, but there were some weird vibrations. I had to leave in the middle of the night on a hijacked prop plane.”

“Yeah, I thought I recognized you from the news. Local celebrity, goin’ out to listen to some jazz on a Monday night? Damn. Tax problems I heard?”

“Look, there’s some stuff that I have to sort out, but all that matters to me is that I’m home, man. They paid me off, so I’ve got some stability now.” I ordered some more whiskey. “That’s important, man. Stability.”

Wallace grinned sheepishly, looking back and forth slowly between me and KP. “Stability,” he repeated. He took a long sip from his gin as we watched the band get plugged back in and rip into an incredibly passionate version of “The Girl From Ipanema”. We sat at the bar and talked, undisturbed, for the next two and a half hours, as the whiskey and gin started to blur the band’s entire set into one long extended slow jam. “So what are you gonna do now?” he asked me.

“I’m a sportswriter, Gerald, and a damn fine one. But don’t worry – I’ll make you look good.”