Formerly titled "Richard Jefferson and I meet Coach Mark Jackson"
Mark Jackson was the newly-minted coach of the Golden State Warriors. Curious about this plausible train-wreck, I decided to see what was up. So one morning, I packed my bags, headed to the station, and before noon an equally curious Richard Jefferson and I were on a train, going west to Jackson's "season combine".
"Why is he hosting a season combine? Is that normal?" I asked as the conductor left our compartment.
"John, nothing about this is normal. Mark Jackson was the Nets' color commentator for a couple years while I was there. He's the most abnormal person anyone could possibly have chosen for a coaching gig."
This took me by surprise. Of all the players likely to be considered for a job in the surreal and paranormal, Richard Jefferson was right below Ron Artest and Deshawn Stevenson. He had seen it all in this league, and had an acute sense for what was abnormal, largely because he was the most average player in the history of the league: What was abnormal was merely what was unlike Jefferson.
"Oh, yeah, this one time he tried to teach us all defense," Richard continued.
"Wait, he was the color commentator then?"
"Yeah. Mark jumped, literally jumped, the media box 20 minutes before this game, I think against the Pacers, and then ran over to our pregame huddle," Richard said this like he was narrating a dog run across a yard. Complete indifference.
What could you say to that? "Oh. That's pretty weird."
"Not really. He just jumped the box and ran over to us."
"That still seems pretty weird, RJ," for sometimes calling him by his ridiculously childish nickname withered his beliefs away. But he insisted:
"I mean, Mark actually jumped the media box a bunch of times, usually to deliver a motivational speech or something, ask about how we were doing," Richard said, again, without any sense of the oddity he was describing, "Usually, Coach Scott would give Mark a few minutes if he asked. He just wanted to talk with us."
"Well, that doesn't seem so odd, after all, I guess."
"Normally it wasn't, but this time, he tried to teach us defense. Now, we weren't great that year..."
The train arrived and we disembarked just 100 feet away from Oracle Arena. We started walking.
"What did he teach you guys, RJ?"
"Well, he tried to teach us defense, like I said. He stood up on a soap box, and, like a magician, he asked for a volunteer. This volunteer, he claimed, would then demonstrate his sound defensive principles."
"Did anyone volunteer?"
"Listen, I'm not going to talk bad about that Nets team, but there weren't exactly a lot of volunteers on that team," Richard trailed off with an unmistakable but slight anger in his brows.
"So you volunteered," I inferred, as we passed through the Arc.
"For charity events, for media appearances, you name it. Yeah, I volunteered for Mark's demonstration. I didn't have much of a choice. Mark Jackson without a volunteer is like...well, have you ever seen a game where Mark Jackson is there but Jeff Van Gundy isn't?" I shuddered at this suggestion.
"Yeah, that's like... watching a game commentated by a dog." I mimicked a Mark Jackson monologue. "Tough defensive matchup, enough firepower, but tough offense beats enough defense every time. Ruff Ruff Ruff Ruff Ruff. Mama, there goes that man."
Jefferson suddenly shuddered in recognition: Towards Mark Jackson, shuddering is the healthy response. "Pretty much that's what it was like. If no one volunteered, he would just stand there until the game started. Then he would follow us around on the bench the whole game."
"Really?"
"It's a really, like... organic extension of his persona when you actually see it. Yeah, he would just follow us around, you know, on the bench and Mark even stepped on the court a few times. There's a reason we hired Mike Fratello the next season. You don't have any idea. He looked like a dying puppy when he didn't get a volunteer for his motivational speeches. It was sadness of a territorial variety, I guess you could say. I had to volunteer."
"So...you volunteered. Then what?"
"You know that catch phrase 'Hand down, man down' he always uses?"
"Of course."
"He meant it. He really, really meant it."
"Wow. Damn, that's dumb," I wonder if it is possible to be more condescending to a person.
"Yeah. It's not, I mean, it's not totally dumb. A lot of times, you know, people just plumb forget to raise their hands, heh. But it's not like some eternal law or something. It's just an easy mistake to correct. Basic coaching. But no: He told me that phrase was 'all ye know, and all ye need to know, here on Earth.' I mean, picture him... he was just standing on this soap box, telling me that I always had to keep my hands up, for like 10 minutes, 'on the court or off the court, because we're always on defense if you think about it. But don't. Because you don't have to think about it. Just raise your hands. Your mama will thank you and you won't have to use any effort to raise the roof. ""Mama, I made it,"" you can say, ""I'm on television.""'. It was a free flowing, yelling ramble that sometimes touched on the content of raising one's hands to guard, and that was basically the only message of his that I remembered."
"Wow. How did you make it through all of that?"
"Well, I wasn't in great mental shape by the end of it. By the end of his little speech, 'Hand down, man down.' was like a lulling mantra in my mind. I felt a bit dazed, but no matter how bored or tired I got, my hands started instinctively to rise into defensive position."
"You'd been hypnotized."
"Yeah, I guess," Richard continued without a pause to give this recognition any import. "So the game started...and I guess we were playing the Celtics, because I was guarding Paul Pierce.... So, for the first 45 minutes, I hold Paul to something like 5 points on 2 of 10 shooting. And this was a pretty crucial blow to the C's. I mean, they had like 2 good players that year."
"I guess Mark Jackson's advice really was called for."
"Paul was real sick that day, like he had the flu or something, and I had some size and speed advantages. It was probably a fluke, all considering. But I did have my hands up, that's true. And I was having a great game on offense too, but both teams were really bad that year: We weren't winning by much. So with 3 minutes left I was still in the game."
"Pierce drained an elbow jumper right in your face." I said instinctively.
"How did you know? Were you watching, John?"
"No, but I've watched the Celtics and every game that fits your description remotely has that in the next part of the story."
"Oh...So, my hands were up, but not sufficiently high to block shots. I mean, after a game of holding them up, my shoulders were completely exhausted. I was still hypnotized, but I wasn't going to hyperextend my shoulder. I wasn't that hypnotized. So, he drained the elbow jumper, and we..."
"...missed a contested 3, and Paul, going the other way, hit an open 3 from the elbow, putting the Celtics up 1 with just 33 seconds left in the game."
"Uh...yeah. That's exactly what happened. Jesus, John."
"Like I said, I've watched the Celtics a lot, Richard. All their games are exactly the same."
"Anyway,... after that Pierce 3, Byron Scott called a quick timeout. Now, I don't remember seeing this, but apparently at this point, the other players told me that Mark Jackson jumped the media box in one hefty leap."
"Oh. That's pretty weird."
Richard again denied this. "Ah, maybe he had some motivation to give us this time."
"He jumped the media box, Richard, during a game he was commentating."
"Yeah," Richard said, "So then...during the timeout, I saw him standing there. He was looking right at me. Mark Jackson was just staring at me from his new position at half-court. He took the ball from one of the officials, ran over to the huddle, and then he started dribbling the ball with...," Richard struggled for the word before deadpanning: "...with malice. Now, at this point everyone in the huddle just clears out, except for me. So, with my back to the basket, I was 'guarding' Mark one on one now. I wasn't sure what I was supposed to do, so I just kept my hands up and my feet shuffling. Then, without warning, Mark, who's been staring at my eyes this whole time, abruptly picks up the dribble and lifts the ball above his head in one hand, all in one fluid motion, like a bowler or something. So I, you know, naturally tried to put my hands all the way above my head to shield myself from the ball, but my shoulders wouldn't let me." Richard was still in this weirdly indifferent descriptive mode, like he had blocked all the emotions from this incident out of his conscious memory.
"Then, out of nowhere, with his other hand, Mark tries to punch me in the stomach. I...," Richard stopped short.
"You...didn't, RJ, you didn't..."
"I put my hands down to block the gut punch, John. As soon as Mark saw an opening, he bopped me in the skull with the ball and I strained my shoulder trying to block it."
"What happened? Was he restrained? He didn't get away with that, right?"
"I actually was unconscious at this point. I don't know what all happened, but Mike Fratello was interviewing within the week. I never asked any questions once I knew he was getting out of there."
"Oh, God. How serious was the injury?"
"Actually, I was fine after a couple weeks. Heh. My shoulder took longer to heal than my head. I only had a minor concussion. I moved on with my life, and now for some reason I'm at his season combine."
"That's the most absurd story I've ever heard."
"No, it's not. Lots of people have issues like that. I mean, we were in New Jersey, John. No, I'm completely over that. But you know what is the most absurd story?" Richard pointed to himself, and then to the floor of Oracle Arena as we entered. "This man is an NBA coach, John. That's the punchline of my anecdote." I didn't have a face that sufficed so I just nodded along.
We entered the floor of the arena where Mark Jackson and the Warriors were doing some drills, as some assorted players from other teams (mostly decent rotation players) watched with a mixture of confusion and horror on their faces. I wasn't sure why, until I saw the poor little Warriors.
"Stephen, what happened to your shoulder? Oh my God!" I blurted out. Little point guard and shooting whiz Stephen Curry's shoulders were gigantic and his arms were raised. "Oh, noooo!"
Stephen complained with bitter tears about "never being able to put my hands down without getting bopped."
"This is some sick shit, Richard," I said privately.
"Par for the course~" Richard trailed off.
We just stood there in astonishment, letting sights like David Lee's arms, that seemed to be grotesquely welded to his neck, really sink in. We just watched the Warriors run these sprints, with their lungs forced open by the unnatural pose.
"That's right, we're going to make Golden State into the Defense State, where the Lakers fear to tread. Hand down, man down," Mark Jackson said. Monta Ellis, the shooting guard best described as mercurial and baroque, had a look of undivided hatred towards Jackson in his eyes. Increasing the scope of view, we could see that he was, like the others, crucified by habit.
As we stared with the other players from across the league, Mark Jackson sauntered over and, like a general, annexed us. "Do you think that this is a spectator sport? Get in the sprints, all of you! Arms up!"
Then he addressed Richard alone, "I'm glad to see that you're finally figuring shit out." Fear came into Richard's eyes, the same fear and the babbling it inspired that had cost him a shot at ultimate glory so many times.
"Move!" Mark ordered us.
"Move!" Richard fearfully begged of me, instinctively putting his hands up as high as he could.
We did so, and sprinted for 10 minutes. Eventually I, who was not an athlete, passed out from exhaustion. This was ignored and I stayed on the floor, dodged by the hateful, fearful athletes, raising their hands out of mortal fear. I just watched courtside at the oppressed soldiers' marching as they eventually stopped and settled in at center court, arms still raised.
"We're going to do a defense drill. Now, how many of you have had a defensive drill with me?"
All the Warriors raised their hands, I noted. Then I thought about that and was really confused. Looking a little closer, I realized that they had skewed their shoulders and tilted their hips a bit so that one hand was higher than the other.
"How about someone not on my team right now? That's the whole point of a combine, after all!"
Richard Jefferson raised his hand.
"Oh, good, Richard, that's right. I remember I had a defensive drill with you, back in New Jersey," Mark Jackson said, oblivious to the malice of his pronouncement, "You can be our 'victim', today." Mark said 'victim' in the cutesy, innocuous, ironical way of motivational speakers that says to third-graders and office workers: "Oh, gee whiz, isn't it embarrassing to be made a fool of in front of your peers!" But of course, Richard was afraid. Nonetheless, Richard stepped out, his hands as high as they could go.
Mark Jackson began to dribble the ball he'd been holding. Hypnotically, he dribbled with the practiced malaise and focus of the 3rd all-time assist leader. Richard held his hands up as best he could, shuffling his feet masterfully to make sure the slow-footed Jackson wouldn't overtake him on either side. But, to our collective astonishment, Mark Jackson suddenly made an unfathomably high-arcing 50-foot three-point shot, which took about 20 seconds from shot to landing.
"I guess it's true what they say," Mark Jackson began.
"What?" Richard and I asked.
Then Mark Jackson punched Richard Jefferson in the face, knocking him unconscious immediately. "'Hand down,...'" Before he could finish we instinctively tackled Mark Jackson to the ground and called the cops.
It was 3 days later, and I had gotten a hotel room near the hospital. Richard had woken up, but they were keeping him around for evidence of a concussion. I was in his hospital room as they were beginning the process of discharging him. Apparently, to Richard's great relief, there was no concussion.
Then Mark Jackson stormed into the hospital room.
"Listen, Richard. I'm out as coach. I don't think I deserved it, but what can you do?"
I ironically asked, "Why would they fire you, after all you've done?"
"Well, there was a lockout taking place, and apparently holding a combine for players offended David Stern a lot. Stern threatened to take the team away from my owner if I wasn't removed. The owner told me as much himself."
"What about punching RJ?" I asked, "Did that factor in at all?"
"Well my owner knows how I have to be to make my team the best, so he didn't really care. He's going to hire me back in a week when this all boils over. 'Pay a fine, do your time,' that's how it is in this league. 'Them that's got shall have, them that don't shall lose, so the Bible says, and it still is true'."
"Wait, really? You're going to be a coach again?" I said. Richard was completely indifferent.
"Yeah, I just wish I hadn't had this little setback," Mark turned to Richard. "Richard, how are you? What I did was necessary, but I'm sorry you got hurt. Here's some medicine," Mark Jackson said, holding up a clear, cubical bucket of greenish water.
"What is it?" Richard asked skeptically.
"It's homeopathic face cream, Richard," Mark said. "Your face is still a bit swollen." This was true and kind of insulting all considering, but Richard looked vaguely complimented by the gesture.
"Thanks, Coach. I hope you are able to lead the Warriors to the playoffs this year. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to be discharged from the hospital."
"You're very welcome, Richard." Mark and I went outside the hospital room. I asked Mark what he thought of Richard.
"Tough worker, hard worker, smart thinker. Stops on a dime and gives you back 11 cents. The ideal workman in the league today. Mama, there goes that man."
I gestured towards the medicine. "Is that...is that just lake water?"
"Homeopathic face cream."
"What kind of water did you use to prepare it," skipping the obvious question of who had prepared it.
"It was from the Bay."
"Okay. Well, nice seeing you."
"Hey, kid," Mark said.
"Yeah?"
"What's your name?"
"John."
"I want to hire you as a 2 guard for the Golden State Warriors."
"What in God's name? I'm only 17, which is the least of-"
"19? Listen, commissioner Stern won't even find out."
"I have a birth certif-"
"Listen, I'm sort of a polymath here. Doctor," (he gestured towards the medicine), "Coach, Player, Hypnotist, Color Commentator," he looked at me and smiled, "Birth Certificate Alterer."
"Okay...let's talk about that later. Why in God's name do you want me to play for you?"
"Because even after you passed out from exhaustion, you kept your hands up. You are going to be our lockdown defender. You'll get in better shape so you don't pass out, and we'll put you in for 20 minutes a night."
It's October now. I'm preparing to play the backup two-guard behind Monta Ellis (how could I turn such an offer down?), who regards me as a usurper of sorts and has threatened my livelihood. With shoulders enlarged and the quickness of a jackrabbit, I nevertheless don't fear him as much I fear the unknown unknowns - like the unusual and distinguished Coach of the Year in waiting, Mark Jackson.
Mark Jackson was the newly-minted coach of the Golden State Warriors. Curious about this plausible train-wreck, I decided to see what was up. So one morning, I packed my bags, headed to the station, and before noon an equally curious Richard Jefferson and I were on a train, going west to Jackson's "season combine".
"Why is he hosting a season combine? Is that normal?" I asked as the conductor left our compartment.
"John, nothing about this is normal. Mark Jackson was the Nets' color commentator for a couple years while I was there. He's the most abnormal person anyone could possibly have chosen for a coaching gig."
This took me by surprise. Of all the players likely to be considered for a job in the surreal and paranormal, Richard Jefferson was right below Ron Artest and Deshawn Stevenson. He had seen it all in this league, and had an acute sense for what was abnormal, largely because he was the most average player in the history of the league: What was abnormal was merely what was unlike Jefferson.
"Oh, yeah, this one time he tried to teach us all defense," Richard continued.
"Wait, he was the color commentator then?"
"Yeah. Mark jumped, literally jumped, the media box 20 minutes before this game, I think against the Pacers, and then ran over to our pregame huddle," Richard said this like he was narrating a dog run across a yard. Complete indifference.
What could you say to that? "Oh. That's pretty weird."
"Not really. He just jumped the box and ran over to us."
"That still seems pretty weird, RJ," for sometimes calling him by his ridiculously childish nickname withered his beliefs away. But he insisted:
"I mean, Mark actually jumped the media box a bunch of times, usually to deliver a motivational speech or something, ask about how we were doing," Richard said, again, without any sense of the oddity he was describing, "Usually, Coach Scott would give Mark a few minutes if he asked. He just wanted to talk with us."
"Well, that doesn't seem so odd, after all, I guess."
"Normally it wasn't, but this time, he tried to teach us defense. Now, we weren't great that year..."
The train arrived and we disembarked just 100 feet away from Oracle Arena. We started walking.
"What did he teach you guys, RJ?"
"Well, he tried to teach us defense, like I said. He stood up on a soap box, and, like a magician, he asked for a volunteer. This volunteer, he claimed, would then demonstrate his sound defensive principles."
"Did anyone volunteer?"
"Listen, I'm not going to talk bad about that Nets team, but there weren't exactly a lot of volunteers on that team," Richard trailed off with an unmistakable but slight anger in his brows.
"So you volunteered," I inferred, as we passed through the Arc.
"For charity events, for media appearances, you name it. Yeah, I volunteered for Mark's demonstration. I didn't have much of a choice. Mark Jackson without a volunteer is like...well, have you ever seen a game where Mark Jackson is there but Jeff Van Gundy isn't?" I shuddered at this suggestion.
"Yeah, that's like... watching a game commentated by a dog." I mimicked a Mark Jackson monologue. "Tough defensive matchup, enough firepower, but tough offense beats enough defense every time. Ruff Ruff Ruff Ruff Ruff. Mama, there goes that man."
Jefferson suddenly shuddered in recognition: Towards Mark Jackson, shuddering is the healthy response. "Pretty much that's what it was like. If no one volunteered, he would just stand there until the game started. Then he would follow us around on the bench the whole game."
"Really?"
"It's a really, like... organic extension of his persona when you actually see it. Yeah, he would just follow us around, you know, on the bench and Mark even stepped on the court a few times. There's a reason we hired Mike Fratello the next season. You don't have any idea. He looked like a dying puppy when he didn't get a volunteer for his motivational speeches. It was sadness of a territorial variety, I guess you could say. I had to volunteer."
"So...you volunteered. Then what?"
"You know that catch phrase 'Hand down, man down' he always uses?"
"Of course."
"He meant it. He really, really meant it."
"Wow. Damn, that's dumb," I wonder if it is possible to be more condescending to a person.
"Yeah. It's not, I mean, it's not totally dumb. A lot of times, you know, people just plumb forget to raise their hands, heh. But it's not like some eternal law or something. It's just an easy mistake to correct. Basic coaching. But no: He told me that phrase was 'all ye know, and all ye need to know, here on Earth.' I mean, picture him... he was just standing on this soap box, telling me that I always had to keep my hands up, for like 10 minutes, 'on the court or off the court, because we're always on defense if you think about it. But don't. Because you don't have to think about it. Just raise your hands. Your mama will thank you and you won't have to use any effort to raise the roof. ""Mama, I made it,"" you can say, ""I'm on television.""'. It was a free flowing, yelling ramble that sometimes touched on the content of raising one's hands to guard, and that was basically the only message of his that I remembered."
"Wow. How did you make it through all of that?"
"Well, I wasn't in great mental shape by the end of it. By the end of his little speech, 'Hand down, man down.' was like a lulling mantra in my mind. I felt a bit dazed, but no matter how bored or tired I got, my hands started instinctively to rise into defensive position."
"You'd been hypnotized."
"Yeah, I guess," Richard continued without a pause to give this recognition any import. "So the game started...and I guess we were playing the Celtics, because I was guarding Paul Pierce.... So, for the first 45 minutes, I hold Paul to something like 5 points on 2 of 10 shooting. And this was a pretty crucial blow to the C's. I mean, they had like 2 good players that year."
"I guess Mark Jackson's advice really was called for."
"Paul was real sick that day, like he had the flu or something, and I had some size and speed advantages. It was probably a fluke, all considering. But I did have my hands up, that's true. And I was having a great game on offense too, but both teams were really bad that year: We weren't winning by much. So with 3 minutes left I was still in the game."
"Pierce drained an elbow jumper right in your face." I said instinctively.
"How did you know? Were you watching, John?"
"No, but I've watched the Celtics and every game that fits your description remotely has that in the next part of the story."
"Oh...So, my hands were up, but not sufficiently high to block shots. I mean, after a game of holding them up, my shoulders were completely exhausted. I was still hypnotized, but I wasn't going to hyperextend my shoulder. I wasn't that hypnotized. So, he drained the elbow jumper, and we..."
"...missed a contested 3, and Paul, going the other way, hit an open 3 from the elbow, putting the Celtics up 1 with just 33 seconds left in the game."
"Uh...yeah. That's exactly what happened. Jesus, John."
"Like I said, I've watched the Celtics a lot, Richard. All their games are exactly the same."
"Anyway,... after that Pierce 3, Byron Scott called a quick timeout. Now, I don't remember seeing this, but apparently at this point, the other players told me that Mark Jackson jumped the media box in one hefty leap."
"Oh. That's pretty weird."
Richard again denied this. "Ah, maybe he had some motivation to give us this time."
"He jumped the media box, Richard, during a game he was commentating."
"Yeah," Richard said, "So then...during the timeout, I saw him standing there. He was looking right at me. Mark Jackson was just staring at me from his new position at half-court. He took the ball from one of the officials, ran over to the huddle, and then he started dribbling the ball with...," Richard struggled for the word before deadpanning: "...with malice. Now, at this point everyone in the huddle just clears out, except for me. So, with my back to the basket, I was 'guarding' Mark one on one now. I wasn't sure what I was supposed to do, so I just kept my hands up and my feet shuffling. Then, without warning, Mark, who's been staring at my eyes this whole time, abruptly picks up the dribble and lifts the ball above his head in one hand, all in one fluid motion, like a bowler or something. So I, you know, naturally tried to put my hands all the way above my head to shield myself from the ball, but my shoulders wouldn't let me." Richard was still in this weirdly indifferent descriptive mode, like he had blocked all the emotions from this incident out of his conscious memory.
"Then, out of nowhere, with his other hand, Mark tries to punch me in the stomach. I...," Richard stopped short.
"You...didn't, RJ, you didn't..."
"I put my hands down to block the gut punch, John. As soon as Mark saw an opening, he bopped me in the skull with the ball and I strained my shoulder trying to block it."
"What happened? Was he restrained? He didn't get away with that, right?"
"I actually was unconscious at this point. I don't know what all happened, but Mike Fratello was interviewing within the week. I never asked any questions once I knew he was getting out of there."
"Oh, God. How serious was the injury?"
"Actually, I was fine after a couple weeks. Heh. My shoulder took longer to heal than my head. I only had a minor concussion. I moved on with my life, and now for some reason I'm at his season combine."
"That's the most absurd story I've ever heard."
"No, it's not. Lots of people have issues like that. I mean, we were in New Jersey, John. No, I'm completely over that. But you know what is the most absurd story?" Richard pointed to himself, and then to the floor of Oracle Arena as we entered. "This man is an NBA coach, John. That's the punchline of my anecdote." I didn't have a face that sufficed so I just nodded along.
We entered the floor of the arena where Mark Jackson and the Warriors were doing some drills, as some assorted players from other teams (mostly decent rotation players) watched with a mixture of confusion and horror on their faces. I wasn't sure why, until I saw the poor little Warriors.
"Stephen, what happened to your shoulder? Oh my God!" I blurted out. Little point guard and shooting whiz Stephen Curry's shoulders were gigantic and his arms were raised. "Oh, noooo!"
Stephen complained with bitter tears about "never being able to put my hands down without getting bopped."
"This is some sick shit, Richard," I said privately.
"Par for the course~" Richard trailed off.
We just stood there in astonishment, letting sights like David Lee's arms, that seemed to be grotesquely welded to his neck, really sink in. We just watched the Warriors run these sprints, with their lungs forced open by the unnatural pose.
"That's right, we're going to make Golden State into the Defense State, where the Lakers fear to tread. Hand down, man down," Mark Jackson said. Monta Ellis, the shooting guard best described as mercurial and baroque, had a look of undivided hatred towards Jackson in his eyes. Increasing the scope of view, we could see that he was, like the others, crucified by habit.
As we stared with the other players from across the league, Mark Jackson sauntered over and, like a general, annexed us. "Do you think that this is a spectator sport? Get in the sprints, all of you! Arms up!"
Then he addressed Richard alone, "I'm glad to see that you're finally figuring shit out." Fear came into Richard's eyes, the same fear and the babbling it inspired that had cost him a shot at ultimate glory so many times.
"Move!" Mark ordered us.
"Move!" Richard fearfully begged of me, instinctively putting his hands up as high as he could.
We did so, and sprinted for 10 minutes. Eventually I, who was not an athlete, passed out from exhaustion. This was ignored and I stayed on the floor, dodged by the hateful, fearful athletes, raising their hands out of mortal fear. I just watched courtside at the oppressed soldiers' marching as they eventually stopped and settled in at center court, arms still raised.
"We're going to do a defense drill. Now, how many of you have had a defensive drill with me?"
All the Warriors raised their hands, I noted. Then I thought about that and was really confused. Looking a little closer, I realized that they had skewed their shoulders and tilted their hips a bit so that one hand was higher than the other.
"How about someone not on my team right now? That's the whole point of a combine, after all!"
Richard Jefferson raised his hand.
"Oh, good, Richard, that's right. I remember I had a defensive drill with you, back in New Jersey," Mark Jackson said, oblivious to the malice of his pronouncement, "You can be our 'victim', today." Mark said 'victim' in the cutesy, innocuous, ironical way of motivational speakers that says to third-graders and office workers: "Oh, gee whiz, isn't it embarrassing to be made a fool of in front of your peers!" But of course, Richard was afraid. Nonetheless, Richard stepped out, his hands as high as they could go.
Mark Jackson began to dribble the ball he'd been holding. Hypnotically, he dribbled with the practiced malaise and focus of the 3rd all-time assist leader. Richard held his hands up as best he could, shuffling his feet masterfully to make sure the slow-footed Jackson wouldn't overtake him on either side. But, to our collective astonishment, Mark Jackson suddenly made an unfathomably high-arcing 50-foot three-point shot, which took about 20 seconds from shot to landing.
"I guess it's true what they say," Mark Jackson began.
"What?" Richard and I asked.
Then Mark Jackson punched Richard Jefferson in the face, knocking him unconscious immediately. "'Hand down,...'" Before he could finish we instinctively tackled Mark Jackson to the ground and called the cops.
It was 3 days later, and I had gotten a hotel room near the hospital. Richard had woken up, but they were keeping him around for evidence of a concussion. I was in his hospital room as they were beginning the process of discharging him. Apparently, to Richard's great relief, there was no concussion.
Then Mark Jackson stormed into the hospital room.
"Listen, Richard. I'm out as coach. I don't think I deserved it, but what can you do?"
I ironically asked, "Why would they fire you, after all you've done?"
"Well, there was a lockout taking place, and apparently holding a combine for players offended David Stern a lot. Stern threatened to take the team away from my owner if I wasn't removed. The owner told me as much himself."
"What about punching RJ?" I asked, "Did that factor in at all?"
"Well my owner knows how I have to be to make my team the best, so he didn't really care. He's going to hire me back in a week when this all boils over. 'Pay a fine, do your time,' that's how it is in this league. 'Them that's got shall have, them that don't shall lose, so the Bible says, and it still is true'."
"Wait, really? You're going to be a coach again?" I said. Richard was completely indifferent.
"Yeah, I just wish I hadn't had this little setback," Mark turned to Richard. "Richard, how are you? What I did was necessary, but I'm sorry you got hurt. Here's some medicine," Mark Jackson said, holding up a clear, cubical bucket of greenish water.
"What is it?" Richard asked skeptically.
"It's homeopathic face cream, Richard," Mark said. "Your face is still a bit swollen." This was true and kind of insulting all considering, but Richard looked vaguely complimented by the gesture.
"Thanks, Coach. I hope you are able to lead the Warriors to the playoffs this year. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to be discharged from the hospital."
"You're very welcome, Richard." Mark and I went outside the hospital room. I asked Mark what he thought of Richard.
"Tough worker, hard worker, smart thinker. Stops on a dime and gives you back 11 cents. The ideal workman in the league today. Mama, there goes that man."
I gestured towards the medicine. "Is that...is that just lake water?"
"Homeopathic face cream."
"What kind of water did you use to prepare it," skipping the obvious question of who had prepared it.
"It was from the Bay."
"Okay. Well, nice seeing you."
"Hey, kid," Mark said.
"Yeah?"
"What's your name?"
"John."
"I want to hire you as a 2 guard for the Golden State Warriors."
"What in God's name? I'm only 17, which is the least of-"
"19? Listen, commissioner Stern won't even find out."
"I have a birth certif-"
"Listen, I'm sort of a polymath here. Doctor," (he gestured towards the medicine), "Coach, Player, Hypnotist, Color Commentator," he looked at me and smiled, "Birth Certificate Alterer."
"Okay...let's talk about that later. Why in God's name do you want me to play for you?"
"Because even after you passed out from exhaustion, you kept your hands up. You are going to be our lockdown defender. You'll get in better shape so you don't pass out, and we'll put you in for 20 minutes a night."
It's October now. I'm preparing to play the backup two-guard behind Monta Ellis (how could I turn such an offer down?), who regards me as a usurper of sorts and has threatened my livelihood. With shoulders enlarged and the quickness of a jackrabbit, I nevertheless don't fear him as much I fear the unknown unknowns - like the unusual and distinguished Coach of the Year in waiting, Mark Jackson.
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