Mike Brown's Future After LeBron

Prequel is here

Mike Brown, jauntily, paces the whole of the benches of both teams. The Q is empty now, save for Brown's practiced, dangerous stomping. His skin glows and his teeth, occasionally shown in smiles and vocalized chomps, shine with layers of shoe polish. Brown is, as he puts two steps on the court to practice a shout at Mo Williams to play some defense for once, a "propah fuck-hawse", beyond the power of the rest of the universe to add or detract. As he jumps up and down because he is practicing seeing an outrageous call against his team, Brown suddenly ponders.

"Oh LeBron, whatever will the rest of the team do without you?"

Brown knows that whatever the answer is for one player, the answer will be different for another. The same is true of fans, writers, and assistant coaches. But not to Mike Brown. His answer is the absence of an answer: He will be a basket-ball coach - for ever, independent of any players that done come and gone. LeBron has left this town, and, barring a little hop that hasn't taken for him anymore, Mike Brown's coaching repertoire and his unwritten "playbook" is exactly the same for him.

"Maybe I'll take out the play where our small forward dunks from the free throw line, or the play where our small forward out-thinks the entire Boston Celtics, or the play where our small forward is better at his position than Mo Williams, at the very fucking least."



Richard Jefferson signing with a team is a sure sign that a franchise had given up any aspirations of any sort for the duration of his contract. Coincidentally, this same Jefferson is the newest Cavalier. Mike Brown sighs raspily.

"Nah, I can't throw out the playbook just because he's gone."

Atlanta Hawks coach Mike Woodson enters the court of the crimson Q, smiling enough to cause little wrinkles under his eyes. He has something to say, never breaking his happy eyes away from Mike Brown's annoyed spectacles.

"Well, if it isn't Mr. Fuck-Horse."

"What the fuck are you doing in this arena, Woodson? Ain't I done laughed you out the fuck away from this beat?"

"Ha, ha, ha, ha," Woodson tried to mimick a real laugh, "Oh, I won't stay long, but I have some photos to show you."

"No, get out. Fuck you and all the irritation you bring this whole city, Cleveland to which I refer, you goddamn cunt-train."

"Are you sure it's not just you that's annoyed?"

"What's with your airs today, you airy, fucking, desert! Is there a fucking pyramid bursting from your chest, that makes you think you're Egypt today? Respond!"

"I just have some photos to show you, like I said."

"Alright, let's see this shit, RIGHT NOW, before I call security."

"I just want you to identify the people you see in these photos. A little exercise, like a cross-words, or a pun, or an Internet message board, you know?"

"I don't know what any of that shit is, Woodson. Next five fucking seconds, SEE PHOTOS, WILL I."

"I call this the fuck-collection. Identify that shit."

Woodson insultingly placed a photo right in front of Brown's huge bifocals.

"Just in case you can't see, Coach."

"That's...Larry Brown."

"Oh, of course it is. Seen here coaching the Spurs, in 1993. Do you know how the Spurs did that year?"

"How?"

"Not good. Notice how he looks like a pacifist."

"Yeah, Larry's always been like that - the Wenceslas of King Coaches. Heh, heh, heh."

"Yeah. Well, here's another picture. Identify it."

Woodson this time held the photo six inches away from Brown's thick glasses.

"Uh...move it closer, I can't see otherwise."

"Aren't you a profes..."

"Yes, this is no time for explanations. Press it to my lenses and shut up."

Woodson obliged. Brown identified.

"That's Phil Jackson."

"What do you think of Phil?"

"A prahm fuck-hawse - a man that would stab your heart out if he had any honesty or dignity - a man that does not."

"That was also from 1993."

"What's the point of this, Woodson?"

"You'll see."

"Then move it along, you airy fairy fucking Gobi cold desert motherfucker."

"Here's another picture... Identify it."

"That's good ol' Larry Brown again."

"Wrong. That's Phil Jackson. Look closer."

Brown shuddered, causing an echo to shudder the Q in turn.

"You're...right. That is Phil."

"That photo was taken during the 2004 Finals."

"My God..."

"The year the Pistons beat the Lakers. Here's another photo of Phil, in happier times."

"Yeah, the change is remarkable. Jax looks just like he did in 1993, and how he's supposed to look, in this one."

"Ha. Ha. Ha ha."

"What the fuck are you trying to laugh about, Woodson?"

"That picture is of Larry Brown, taken during the decisive game 5 of the 2004 Finals. I was his assistant then, and I took it."

"What? How the fuck is that not Phil Jackson?"

"Look closer, and it's clear. That is definitely Larry Brown."

Mike Brown was astonished, and lagged in his pacing behind Woodson for a moment. Larry Brown had the fire that seemed to surround Phil Jackson - the same fire that he'd seen in Ron Artest and Ben Wallace that very next year, when they infamously brawled, punching fans like they were point guards, kicking ushers to the curb.

"So he started, the fight. That tyrant!"

"Yes, Coach. Larry Brown, in his championship year, started fights and personally could blame his geriatric fist for six hundred deaths that year. He was the ultimate fuck-horse that year. You want to know how you win a championship without a great player? That's right: A terrifying coach."

Woodson's brown, husky frame with navy blue sport coats now looked jaundiced. His formerly well-shaved goatee now seemed energetic and unconquerably unshaven.

"The elevation of the meek personified," Mike Brown thought briefly.

"Without LeBron," Woodson continued, "You will turn back into Larry Brown, a mild-mannered, thoughtful milquetoast, and even Austin Carr will not be able to make you seem like a great man anymore. Without LeBron," Woodson paused to indulge, "You are not really a fuck-horse, anymore. You are not a champion, as you know, but now you are fucking nothing. You will get on the cunt-train, which is really the 'can't-train', along with the rest of us, only getting for snatches that uncanny glow in your teeth and skin you savor so much."

"...Wow. So if are you done, you perverted speaker of Beatitudes, you can sit right down on the floor, because I have my own fucking coach album, if you'll kindly sit a spell. FUCKING SIT."

"Okay, Coach Brown, I will sit - after all, this is your waning moment, and to disregard your authority at such a sad -"

"I SAID FUCKING SIT RIGHT FUCKING NOW."

Woodson wordlessly, with knees on the ground, rested his haunch on his feet. His smile continued.

"What's your photos, Coach Brown?"

"You'll see, Coach Woodson."

Brown was looking in his undersized plaid coach-coat for something.

"Well, what is it?"

"Just a second, bird-fucker. I saw your damn pictures and you will see my goddamn pictures."

From Woodson's eyes, the size of the posterboard Brown then pulled from his coat and unrolled was tremendous.

"That has to be 18 by 36 miles, at least. How did you fit -"

"It's a fucking landscape, just like the proportions of my body, Coach. Ain't you taken geometry?"

"But how -"

"It's surface area. Look at how thin it is. A millionth of an inch. I can fold this up almost 20 times and still it will be an inch thick."

"But that's still massive, even if..."

"Surface area is fucking tight. Let's go over what we see. What do you see, Coach? Identify all of what you see."

"I see...a coach."

"Which coach, Woodson."

"That's...Gregg Popovich, I think. But there are some kids in there."

"That's Pop again. This is Pop's life, from 8 minutes after his birth until the present, taken at 20,000 frames per second, and placed in this posterboard, and updated constantly."

"Why 8 minutes?"

"Because he had to develop enough sarcasm and inventiveness to tell his family to videotape him, and how to create the posterboard, without seeming to be arrogant. That took him all of eight minutes."

"Oh."

"Tell me, does he ever waver in his eyes? Does he ever have weakness? Does he ever look like Larry Brown in 1993 or Phil Jackson in 2004?"

"No."

"That's what I thought. He is omnipotent. Is there ever a moment he couldn't coach a team to a million championships?"

"No, but..."

Brown pulled out another posterboard, even larger.

"This is me."

"That is as large as Ohio. But there aren't any frames."

"Correct. This is me at one moment."

"But..."

"Because this is me at all moments. The frames were simply unnecessary, in my case. One frame sufficed, motherfucker."

"What's the point?"

"The point is, my shock at your album was only at losing my remaining respect for Phil Jackson and Larry Brown, and their transient fucking ways. I am the same as I have ever been, modulo the natural weakening of age. LeBron's departure has only empowered me, and will continue to empower me until I die. The same is true of all real coaches. And you are changing right before my eyes, into a fucking leper. Leprosy is contagious, you know, so I want you out of my fucking sight, right now."

Mike Brown was three feet taller now, and Mike Woodson was three feet smaller, even as Woodson stood up from his kneel to confront Brown. Brown stomped, like a gallop but with legs spread. Within a minute he had stomped out an earthquake with epicenter exactly center-court. Afraid for his life, Woodson had to run out, hopping many times his now-tiny height over chasms containing lava and fire-water directly from Cleveland's lakes.

And then Woodson was gone, and Mike Brown continued to pace the sidelines, testing with success his renewed hop, practicing how he could make Richard Jefferson fear him.