Scene: An unmarked white van creeps to a stop outside a modest home in the suburbs of Cleveland. The mailbox is customized in wine paint with gold trim, not all is modest. From the van emerges a film crew and a man who exudes his power over the rest with his neatly combed hair, whitened teeth, spray tan, and tailored suit. In his right hand he clutches a microphone with a vice grip. As he hurries his team out of the van, two men struggle with a banner large enough to black out the side of a skyscraper. The film crew ready themselves near the front door as the two men struggle to unveil it across the lawn. Next door a concerned middle-aged woman looks out her window as the men invade half of her lawn to unroll the banner. Her brain is alive with photons pinging in her memory bank as the banner triggers buried visions of her husband cursing in the street and eventually crying into bloodied fists from pounding the pavement. She tells the kids to go up to their rooms and lock the doors. In her hand is the house phone, she’s conflicted as to whether or not to dial 9-1-1.
The white-toothed man with the spray tan glances momentarily at the doormat, which reads “Mr. Cavalier” in the same wine with gold trim as the mailbox, before taking his place and pressing the doorbell—“Tonight’s The Night” plays. He clears his throat, flicks his tongue across his pearly teeth, and straightens his tie. He looks back at his crew. “Are we live?”
The men nod.
The door opens, revealing Cleveland Cavaliers color commentator Austin Carr who is clutching a chili dog. “Why hello there…” he trails off as he takes in the 10 men who are positioned around his doorstep before returning to meet the crystal eyes of the man with the spray tan.
“What’s this all about,” Carr says.
“Mr. Carr, will you step out onto the porch, please.”
Cautionary steps are made into the white light from the camera.
“Mr. Carr, we’re here to inform you that King James is reclaiming his thrown. Effective immediately.”
“Get that weak shhstuff outta here,” Carr replies and begins to head back into his home.
“Mr. Carr, I assure you this is very real.”
The white-toothed man turns and directs Austin Carr to the banner on the front lawn. The same banner that once hung proudly on the red brick across the street from The Q in downtown Cleveland. On it is an Adonis of a man with his hands outstretched to the heavens. Above his visage are the words “we are all witnesses.”
The live feed is obscured back in the studio and the news anchors are trying to remain stoic as they watch a proud family man, joyously curse inaudible shouts of, “he throws down the hammer”, while hugging the white-toothed man and attempting to feed him the chili dog. “We live for these moments, don’t we?” one anchor says and the rest coo.
*****
Scene: Tucked in eagle’s nest of the Q is Dan Gilbert, owner of the Cavs, in his office. He’s pacing and swearing into a speakerphone, spittle showering his framed photos of his children in the arms of former Cav Hot Rod Williams and a bronzed set of nail clippers. On the other line, director of communications Tad Carper is wincing as though he’s trying to retreat into his nostrils. He’s fishing for options.
“We can say it was a loophole in a new CMS on a stagnant archived page.”
“I DON’T CARE IF IT WAS A WORMHOLE IN THE SPACE TIME CONTINUUM. GET IT OUT OF EXISTENCE BEFORE THE PLAIN FUCKING DEALER GETS WIND OF IT.”
“This will work, sir.”
“IT BETTER! I JUST HOODWINKED THE CELTICS AND NETS INTO TAKING OUR BLOATED CONTRACTS. THOSE SUCKERS ARE PRACTICALLY ENCOURAGING US TO BECOME THE NEW POWER HOUSE IN THE EAST AND I’M NOT ABOUT TO SQUANDER THIS OPPORTUNITY BECAUSE OF A GODDAMNED LETTER I WROTE FOUR YEARS AGO.”
[The secretary intercom interrupts: “crrr. Sir, the Plain Dealer is on line two, would you like them to hold?”]
“TAD YOU’RE ON THIN ICE AND I’M THE LAKE ERIE MONSTER BENEATH IT.”
“I’m on it, sir. I’ll make it seem like an accident.”
“HANDLE IT OR YOU’LL BE MAKING THE NEWS TWICE FOR INCIDENTS THAT SEEM LIKE ACCIDENTS.”
Gilbert clicks off the speakerphone and turns to observe the view from his office window. He watches the acid rain smear against the pane and admires how it mixes with the grime clinging to the industrious red bricks. He holds up his hands like a photographer framing his muse to the bare brick wall in his sights. To no one but himself he says, “You’ll be naked no longer, my beauty” and he looks down to the Cuyahoga river and imagines it on fire once again, lit like the flames that burst from the arena’s backboards in the pregame show. He hums the chorus to Lupe Fiasco’s “Superstar”, crumples up a memo and shoots it at a wastebasket across the room. It looks as though it might rim out for a second, but tumbles in. Gilbert is poised. He reaches for his intercom.
“Diane, I’m ready for the Plain Dealer.”
*****
Scene: It’s late in the Sports Illustrated offices and mostly quiet, except for the cubicle of Lee Jenkins. Basking in the glow of his laptop, Jenkins is pantsless and intoxicated from polishing off the bottle of Glenmorangie 20-year single malt he’s kept stashed for an undetermined occasion worth celebrating. It might have rested there until the day of his retirement had it not been for a call he answered from sports agent Rich Paul.
“I’ve got your whale,” Paul had said.
Now, Jenkins was approving his intern’s transcription of LeBron James’ essay explaining his decision to leave the Heat organization and return to his home in The Cleve. He struggled with the manuscript through blurred vision, and resigned to approve it without question. “Fuck it,” he thought, “my name will barely read next to his.” Besides, this was his time to rub it in faces of his sports journo peers.
He logs in to Twitter to DM @WojYahooNBA:
“Hey Woj, how’s it feel to have the shackles on? You’ll be sucking my wake in the morning.”
A Facebook message alert enters his screen. It’s Chris Broussard of ESPN:
“Hey Jenks, shit is dry out here. You got any scoops? Got editorial breathing down my neck. Need a save, buddy.”
Jenkins replies:
“In the same desert… psyche! LOL Wait til morning. I’m gonna make it rain like T-Pain.”
A reply arrives from @WojYahooNBA to Jenkins’ cell:
“-___-“
Jenkins DMs back:
“tell me how my ass taste in the morning. g’night.”
Lee Jenkins tosses his cellphone onto his desk and leans back in his chair, propping his feet up on the plastic surface cluttered with documents. He grabs his scotch glass and rotates it in his hand, admiring the brown liquid as it conforms to the tilts. He ponders, “do I tweet a teaser?”
Around the corner a night janitor enters Jenkins vision. Jenkins remains unfazed with his feet up, his bare legs and boxer shorts exposed. He even lifts a smirk to strengthen his presence.
“Big night, pal?” the janitor asks.
Jenkins nods and tips his glass in the janitors direction. He does not speak, but holds his satisfied smirk as the thought enters his mind that this is his night before Christmas and tomorrow nothing will be the same.
*****
Scene: In a Las Vegas high rise suite Pat Riley is holding a hand mirror. He glides his palm over his dome, his touch to his oiled follicles is slight but with purpose. He has the look of a man who has never perspired a day in his life, not from overexertion nor panic. To his side is Andy Elisberg, hired salary cap guru and executive. Elisburg is eyeing the full spread of expensive delicacies, assorted exotic fruits, gourmet sweets, and a bottle of the hotel’s most expensive champagne on ice—yet to be corked.
Without looking away from the mirror Riley scolds Elisburg, “Don’t touch a morsel of it. Don’t even breathe on it. Not even the champagne… that’s for when we celebrate.”
The double doors to the suite swing open. In walks sports agent Rich Paul, each step he makes towards the Heat executives looks as though his legs will burst from his waist line. Behind him is a calm LeBron James with a zen expression and ears covered by Beats By Dre headphones.
Riley: Gentlemen, welcome. Have a seat and help yourself to some h’orderves.
Paul: You ready to start begging for forgiveness, ya bish.
Paul and James sit in the couch across from Riley and Elisburg. Handshakes are not exchanged and the food remains untouched, in less than an hour this will send Chef Wolfgang Puck into a swearing frenzy and send one sous-chef to the emergency room.
Riley: James, how about you remove the headphones and we talk like civil gents?
Paul: My client is nearly finished with the book on tape of Hunger Games: Catching Fire. He’ll speak shortly.
Riley: Fine. As you’ll see I’ve brought my salary cap genie with me today. I think the message is clear. We’re prepared to do what it takes to keep the King in South Beach. Ol’ Elisburg here will make it so Dwayne Wade plays for Cuban tacos if that’s what it takes.
Paul: My client has instructed me to deliver the following statement: Go suck an egg.
Riley’s left eye gives a twitch and he clasps his hands in his lap. Elisburg crosses his legs for fear that the tiny trickle of urine let loose is visibly staining his trousers, but he dares not look down to draw attention.
Riley: Elisburg, why don’t you tell Mr. Paul here what measures we’ve taken to ensure our return to greatness in 2015.
Elisburg: We’ve signed Josh McRoberts, who will undoubtedly be a fan favorite due to his resemblance to an Appalachian lumberjack. As proven by Birdman, our fan base responds well to white forwards with outrageous grooming techniques. Also, Danny Granger will join the roster who’ll be added fire power off the bench.
Paul: Why is he speaking? In fact, why is he here. You wanna know why my client is listening to Hunger Games on tape right now? It’s to distract him from the urge to dangle Elisburg off this balcony for the amnesty of his dear friend, Mike Miller. And you have the gall to bring him to this meeting, Riles? Is this real life, dog?
Riley: Would that please your client? Elisburg, let LeBron dangle you from the balcony.
Elisburg [panicked]: Wewee we drafted Shabazz Napier! LeBron you like him, right? You said so on Twitter.
Riley [poised]: Elisburg quit stalling and go dangle yourself from the balcony.
Elisburg [heightened panic]: LeBron, what about Melo? I can get you Melo. And we’ll dump Chalmers. How’s that sound?
Paul taps his client on the shoulder and motions towards the door. LeBron, looks at the food briefly, sniffs with disgust, and nods to Paul.
Paul: Gentlemen, we should be going. My client has a plane to catch… to The Cleve.”
They rise. Elisburg cowers behind his chair. Riley’s eye twitches once more. It is a twitch just seismic enough to ripple up his forehead to his hair line. A solitary blade of slicked hair moves, tumbling down from its place in line, to fall across his brow. It is the first time in his life that he understands existentialism, though no one in the room will know it.
As the two head for the door, LeBron stops at the doorway and removes his right earphone. He looks back on the Heat executives.
“Hey Riles, be sure to pick up a Sports Illustrated tomorrow.”
*****
Epilogue:
