THE THREE WISE MEN OF THE NBA

LeBron James,  Dwyane Wade & Mario Chambers bike ride once a month in Miami's Critical Mass Ride.  The route takes them through Omni, Edgewater, Upper East Side, North Bay Village, Miami Beach, Venetian Islands, ending Downtown.   An event that bring respect for the bike rider in Miami.  Thousands ride every month.  What better way to bond with the people of Miami?

The three ride on Christmas Day, after their game with the Thunder.  It is a special ride.

"Hey, guys," says LeBron.  "A little different tonight.  A detour.  We're going to stop in to the Fontainebleau Hotel.  They're having a Christmas Toy Drive.  Whole bunch of little kids'll be there."

"Toy drive?"  says Dwyane."

"Yeah," says Mario.  "They have it every years, give kids toys during Christmas.  Real nice thing."

"But, LeBron", says Dwyane.  "I don't have any presents to give any kids. Only place open now, 7-11?"

"Got it covered," says LeBron."  He shakes a paper bag.  "We'll give these.  They're gift cards. Got a couple hundred or so.  Magic Johnson's Theaters.  Each gives you a year's worth of movies.  Just pass them out.  Kids'll love them." 

"But," says Mario, looking into the bag.  "They must have cost you...?"

LeBron looks over at Mario.  "Come on.  It's Christmas.  Let's go.  It'll take about an hour to get over there." 

North on Biscayne Blvd, twenty minutes, they slow down.  They're lost.  The Fontainebleau is west of the AA Arena, but aren't they traveling North?

"We're lost, I think," says Mario. "Sure this is right?" 

"You might be right.  Let see,"  says LeBron. "We know it's west of the Arena."  He looks into the sky.  "I got it.  We'll follow the lights of the planes landing at MIA. That's west of here. Just follow the lights, and we'll get there."

And they do.  The Lights in the sky show them the way.

Half hour later, relieved, they sail into the parking lot at the Fontainebleau.
  
Inside, a lady stands at the hotel's reservation desk.  She has no bags.  She's pregnant.

"I'm sorry ma'am.  This place's full.  There's absolutely nothing available."  His voice is grim.  "You must have a reservation.  I'm real sorry, but you'll have to leave..." 

The lady moves back, a tear in her eye, but goes into the hotel instead.  She needs a place to sit down.

"Ma'am, you can't go back there," he says.  He taps the bell for security.

Outside, our Three Wise Men park their bicycles and plow through the glass doors.  There is a red and green sign pointing toward a large room full of screaming children.
   
"This must be the place," says Dwyane.  He waves to children going in.  They stop and wave back, their mouths hanging open.  They wave back, fun in their eyes.
 
As the three moves toward the room, LeBron look down a long corridor, and sees a woman sitting on the floor.  She holds her head.

"This isn't right," says LeBron.  He walks down the corridor.  "Are you okay, Miss?" 

"Hello.  Well, I tried to get a room...there are no rooms...I'm having a baby.  I didn't think it was going to be so soon..."

"Your kidding?  A baby?  Right now?" says LeBron.   He scoops her up in his arms.  "We gotta get you to a hospital."

On the run, "Hey, Dywane.  Mario. Another detour. We're not staying.  We gotta get this lady to a hospital."

The man at the reservation desk points.  "There.  Get her. There she is."  Two security guards move from the shadows.

"But...it's LeBron James?" says one of the guards.

"Dwyane Wade...and Mario Chambers?" says the other.  "We can't..."

"But she isn't supposed to be in here?  Arrest her."

"But..."

The Three...well, actually it's The Four now...rush by the open door of the Toy Drive.  There are hundreds of kids and presents inside.  Pandemonium.

"Here," says LeBron to the guards.  "We brought gifts.  Pass these out to as many kids as you can."  He tosses them the paper bag.  "There's a couple hundred in there.  We gotta go."


Out they fly, piling into a cab.  And they're off, with all four, in unison, yelling, "Jackson Memorial Hospital."

"And step on it." says LeBron. "It's Christmas Day.  And we're going to have a baby."
......................

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dltk-bible.com/cv/the_wise_men.htm
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KOBE'S CHRISTMAS CAROL - PAST, PRESENT, AND FUTURE

Kobe sits in the break room,  right after the Lakers game.  They beat the Bobcats by one.  He watches  Sports Center,  relaxing.  Still in uniform, he sits back, feet up, a Red Bull in one hand, a PayDay in the other. 

Jerry West sticks his head in the door.  "Hey, Kobe, good job tonight.  Pretty close, huh?"

"It was a tough game tonight, Mr. West, but we pulled it out. Still working on defense."

West comes into the room and looks up at the TV.  They're talking about the old Lakers, and showing fast breaks. 'It's Show Time,' they're saying.

"Remember those days, when it was up and down the court, setting up plays on the run, long passes.  You were there.  Rebound, one pass, four on two, and score.  Those were the days."

"Mr West, come on," says Kobe. "When we get our team all on the same page, get into synch, everybody's healthy, we can do it.  Maybe my legs were stronger when I was a rookie.  But I'm still fast, you know I am."

"Those faster days," says Jerry.  "We'll get there again.  That's the Lakers.  Show Time."  He leaves with a wave.  "Good game, Kobe."

Kobe lifts his Red Bull.  "See ya, Boss."

What was that all about?  Does Jerry think we should be like we were?  Fast breaks, Running, Show Time,  on every play?  We won with Show Time, but come on, you're talking 17 years ago."

Matt Barnes bounces by, sees Kobe, and does an about face.  "Kobe?  Saw the game.  A squeaker, one point, right down to the buzzer."  He laughs.  "How many of those did I play in when I was a Laker?" 

"Matt Barnes?  What are you doing in here.  Don't you play for that other team?  LA Clompers?"

"Came by to get Jodie Meeks.  I'm taking him to my tat guy.  Get tattoos.  Like to get a crown like you got, but it's been done.  Back when everything was so exciting.  Well," as he looks at the TV, "that excitement, we had, I got it now with the Clippers. You guys were...kinda slow tonight...really..."

Kobe's feet hit the floor and he throws the Red Bull can at Barnes. "Matt go. Get out of here. Go play with your Clompers.  I'm trying to relax here."

Barnes ducks, arms up, then waves.  "Good Luck, Kobe.  You guys'll get it into gear...maybe...someday." Big grin, and he's off.

What?  Again with the Slow?  Are we that slow?  We're a little older, maybe, but come on.  What about The Nicks.  Look at them.  How old are they?  Rasheed, Jason Kidd, Canby.  How old is Kurt Thomas? 75?

He looks up at the TV.

"...Sports Center will be right back with a list of illegitimate children of NFL players.  Darren McFadden, Santonio Holmes, Jason Caffey...there's a whole long, long, loooong list.  We'll be right back..."

"...When your back hurts...get the ICY HOT patch.  I do..."

Pau Gasol walks in, goes over to the glass door fridge, pulls out a large can of Beaver Buzz, and sees Shaq.  "Hey, look it's Shaq, doing another commercial.  How many does he do?  I see him all the time?"

"Once I retire," says Kobe, "I'll be out of my contract and I'll be doing all those too.  Buick, Icy Hot, Pepsi.  I've seen them all?"

"They say he makes $20 million for every commercial he does.  Not too shabby."

"He's so big, they like that I guess." says Kobe.  "I'll be all over the TV too, when I retire."  They bump fists.

"Who's better than you?" says Gasol.  "That stuff in Colorado, everybody's forgotten by now."

They hear Shaq's voice, and look up at the TV.

"Luv Shaq," says Shaq.  "Luv Shaq Vodka.  Of course it's what I drink."

"Luv Shaq Vodka?  Can you believe."  Kobe starts laughing.  "Shaq was nothing more than just a huge center.  Should have been a football lineman.  Now he's everywhere.  His own Vodka? Give me a break.  If it wasn't for him I'd have 40,000 points, not only 30,000."

"Gotta admit, he's a savvy marketeer," says Gasol.  "Shaq's probably known by more people round the world than you, Kobe.  I know he's better know than me."  Gasol throws his towel over his shoulder and turns toward the showers.

"Damn Shaq," mumbles Kobe.  He gulps down the red bull, and chomps off a chunk of his PayDay.  "I can do that too, you know.  I'm a much better player than Shaq. Hello."

Kobe pops another Red Bull, and rips open another PayDay.  We win the game, and all I'm getting here is how slow the team is.  And how come I'm not doing more commercials? What is that?  More people know Shaq than me?  Come on guys,  I lead the NBA in scoring.  What do people want from me?
 
He wolfs the PayDay, and gulps the Red Bull. 

The door slowly pushes open. Two young high schoolish kids stick there heads inside. They're tall. 

Kobe waves them in.

"Hi," one says.  "It's a pleasure to watch you in action, Mr Bryant.  We're high school all-stars."

"They said it was okay to come back here," says the other.  "Just be real cool about it."
 
"That's okay," says Kobe. "Just winding down from the game. We almost didn't get it done this time."

"Yeah, but we knew the Lakers would win," says one. "The Bobcats, come on."

"They got tired in the last 5 minutes," says the other. "Couldn't make a three pointer to save their lives."

"There was no passing," says Kobe, "just shoot and miss.  Good defense won the game."

"Good Luck, Mr Bryant."  And they leave.  But Kobe hears as they slowly close the door,  "Yeah, Kobe.  They call him the ball hog. They all say it.  He doesn't like to pass to anybody.  He doesn't set up shots for anybody else.  But he's still pretty good."

What?  That's how people see me?  Ball Hog?  He squeezes the Red Bull can in his hand and shoots it at the trash can across the room.  It hits the rim and bounces back behind the fridge. "Damn."

He looks up at the TV.
 
"...and 5,000 assists for Chris Paul.  Officially 6 foot, but...5 10's more like it.  Only four other players got to 5,000 assists faster in their career's than Paul, and they're all Hall of Famers...."

Kobe waves his PayDay at the TV.  "Don't have to be a good shooter to get assists.  You just need good shooters on your team to dish it off to. Shaq are you listening?"

"...and the crowd chanted C. P.  Three, C. P. Three, when he got his 5,00 assist.  C. P. Three...C. P. Three..."

Kobe points the remote, the TV clicks off.  He sits there, snapping the PayDay wrapper.

So, when I retire, Jeeez, 17 years at this.  Next year, yeah.  It'll be next year.  So...How will I be remembered?

A Ball Hog?
 
Not my Champion Rings?  Not my buzzer beaters?  Not my scoring points?  He was a Ball Hog.  That's how they'll see me?

So, okay, I am kind of a ball hog.  But...I don't want to be known...I guess...okay, I'll be a much more giving player in the future. All right already, I'll stop hoggin' the ball. 
 
Kobe jumps to his feet, grabs a towel and turns toward the showers, an inspired new spring in his step.
.......................

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nba.com/clippers/news/paul-records-5000th-career-assist?quicktabs_nba_clippers_qt_1=0
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THE HORNETS ARE CHANGING THEIR NAME TO THE PELICANS...WHAT?

Two Brown Pelicans balance atop the far rail on the pier at Paradise Cove, Malibu.

"Hey," says Billy, moving over to Scoopie.  "See the Sports Section in this morning's Times?"

"Hi, Billy," says Scoopie.  "What?  Are we  finally off the endangered list, and now we're fair game again?  What with the economy, you know we're just as tasty as turkeys."

"No, no.  The owner the New Orleans Hornets...NBA...he's changing the name of his team."  

Scoopie raises her eyebrows.  "Okay?" she says.

"The Pelicans.  He's going to change Hornets to The Pelicans."
 
"I don't know," says Scoopie.  "New Orleans Pelicans?"

"Makes sense to me," says Billy.  "Being it's down in Louisiana.  All those Pelicans down there.  It is the state bird."

"New Orleans Pelicans? I guess?  But wouldn't something like, I don't know, The  Brass be better.  Like the horns in all the parades they have?"  She smiles.   "And when New Orleans team gets a rebound, it'll be the Brass' ball.  Now that sounds cool?"  

A wharf rat sticks his head out from under a piece of ratty canvas. "Brass Balls?  What?" 

"Hey, Plague," says Billy. "You heard?"

"The New Orleans Pelicans?" says Plague.  "I read about it.  Sounds real intimidating.  I'm all scared.  The Pelicans?  They're kidding, right?"

"We're part of the landscape on the Gulf Coast.  As team mascots go, could be a lot worse.  They thought the Anaheim Ducks were a joke, until they won the Stanley Cup."  

"Billy...Scoopie,"  says Plague.  "I hate to say it, no disrespect, but you guys are big, clumsy sloth kinda birds, hanging around the pier, all like slow motion."

"Come on, you know us," says Scoopie.  "We eat fish, not rats...usually... so you don't see the killer in us.  Hey, we can be real ferocious when we want to be.  But yes, we're usually pretty calm.   Unless, you know, some little rat get under our skin."

"Okay, okay," says Plague.  "If they're changing their name, why not the New Orleans Funk?  New Orleans gotta have that funk."

"You ask me," says Scoopie, "We're pretty beautiful, and fascinating.  Pigeons?  Sea Gulls, Sandpipers, come on.  We are the ones that stand out."

"Or," says Plague, twitching his whiskers, "How about The New Orleans Cornbread N' Beans?  You want a home town name.  I got relatives down there on the bayou."

Billy flaps his wings. "Strong, dedicated, selfless and fierce are good ways to describe us. We can carry more than our weight while flying.  Can survive a hurricane and would tear off our own flesh to feed our young.  Can a Baltimore Oriole, or a Cardinals, or a Blue Jay come close?  Don't think so."

 "Why not New Orleans Zydeco," says Plague.  "Zy..de...coooooo, yes."

Both scowl down at Plague.  Billy pokes his beak at him.  Plague scurries back under the canvas, a weak squeak in protest. 

"Hell," says  Billy, looking off toward the horizon.  "We can certainly be fearsome. Take a Raven. It eats bugs, and seeds, and fruit.   Dead stuff.   We eat meat, and only meat, and only if it used to be alive.  And we're not like Eagles or Falcons, or Hawks, we don't scrounge somebody else's kill.  We're not like that." 

Scoopie nods.  "We don't splash around in the water, either, trying to gulp fish swimming by.   No way.  We put our wings back and dive to catch them.  Sardines, smelt, anchovies, grunion.  We are the real Raptors."

"The New Orleans Mardi Gras." peeps Plague. "Talk about something New Orleans-ish."
 
A Sea Gull, a tad scrawny, drops onto the rail.

 "Scraps," says Scoopie.  "You need to eat something.  Not enough left overs on the beach this morning?"

"Clean as a whistle, sweetie.  Hey, couldn't help overhearing.  New Orleans Pelicans?  Can you believe?  Aren't they the creepiest and scariest birds, with those honkin' long  beaks.  You know that's how people see you.  You can't deny it, you know."

"Scraps, you've seen us do our death dive.  The last thing those fish see is lights out when we chomps down.  Swallowed alive."

To the side there's movement, and Billy sees it.   A man in plaid shorts and dress shoes, a camera around his neck, creeps along the railing.  "Maude, look-ee.  It's a Pelican.  I'll get real close, and grab it's bill.  Watch me."

Adrenalin shoots through him. He jumps up, floats off the rail, then turns and dives straight at the man's chest, knocking him backwards.  He snaps his bill.  "Get lost, pal.  Grab my bill?  Like hell."

"Hey," says the man, scurrying away.  "I didn't mean nothing...take it easy..."  And slithers off back to safety behind Maude's day-glow pants suit.  "Sorry."

Scoopie smiles as Billy flutters back to the rail. 

Plague noses out into the light.  "I got it.  The New Orleans Jambalaya."  He raises up on his back legs.  "Two ways, see.   Jam like they're jammin', or like a slam dunk type jam."  He waves his front paws. "Now that's the perfect name."


"Don't think so," says Scoopie, watching Plague's little dance.  "Pelicans work together.  We practice 'cooperative fishing,' herding fish into a bunch so we can do our dive-bombing.   A mascot that works as a team.  No my friend.  Pelican.  That's the perfect name." 

"Guys," says Scraps.  "Mascots are supposed to be fierce.  Tigers, Lions, Raptors.  Not Pelicans.  It's too...goofy.  You guys are my friends, but come on, jeeeeez." 

Billy shakes his head.  "The real power teams aren't aggressive.  Yankees, Packers, Browns, Maple Leafs, 49ers, Jazz, Nets, Nicks, Red Sox, White Sox."

Scoopie nods her head.  "Pelicans gotta better than Cornhuskers, or Boilermakers, or how about  Beetdiggers.  The Irvine Anteaters, talk about ferocious."

"What's worse?" says Plague. "The name'll be shortened to The Pels.  'Tonight, the Pels face off with the Clips in a battle the silliest nicknames.  The Pels, ya gotta love it."

Scraps starts to giggle.  "How about the New Orleans Popeyes.  Or have I been watching too many TV commercials?"

"Well," says Billy.  "I don't care what you two think.  I like the new name.  It means something to New Orleans, and it's better than the Hornets.  It about the city.  Lakers?  Where's all the lakes in L.A.  Utah Jazz?  Memphis Grizzlies?  Wizards?  There's no connection. "

Scraps looks down at Plague and winks. "New Orleans Gumbo.  Kid gets drafted right out of college, 'I can't wait to be a Gumbo.'"  They both snicker.

"No," says Plague. "I still like the New Orleans Jambalaya.  JAM...bull...eye...yaaaaa."

"You want something New Orleans...Frozen Daiquiris." says Scraps.  He guffaws.

"I got it," says Plague, jumping up on his hind legs again, little arms in the air.  "The New Orleans Levee.  Come see your New Orleans Levee's fast break.  Get it?  Levee's fast break?"

He does a jig.  Scraps hops on the rail.  Both howl.

"Ugg," says Billy as he touches Scoopie's wing.  And as they both push off and soar away over the vasty deep, Billy says,  "In the never ending search for the perfect name, and the New Orleans Pelicans is an exceptional one, none can compare with UC Santa Cruz's mascot.

"Yes, my friends, they're the mighty, the magnificent, the unmistakable, Banana Slugs." 
.........................

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huffingtonpost.com/2012/12/04/hornets-pelicans-new-orleans-changing-name_n_2241256.html
huffingtonpost.com/2012/12/04/hornets-pelicans-new-orleans-changing-name_n_2241256.html
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THE REAL STORY BEHIND ANDREW BYNUM'S BOWLING MISHAP

The Official Story:

Philadelphia 76ers' center Andrew Bynum, confirmed an ESPN report that he injured his left knee Bowling.  Bynum said he didn't remember when it happened, only that he noticed the swelling later. Bynum hasn't played yet for the Sixers in either the preseason or regular season since coming over from the Los Angeles Lakers.  He was already in rehab for a knee problem.

The Real Story:

They sit together on the plane.  Andrew Bynum, and his friend D.J. Player.

"Get away from Philly," says D.J.  "Get some snow.  Skiing.  It'll be fun."

"Good, but I don't know how to ski," says Andrew.  "Guess they'll teach me, right?"

"How tough can it be?  Best athletes in the world play in the NBA."

"Yeah, I guess.  Okay, if you say so.  Won't hurt my knees?  I'm in rehab, you know."

"Forget about it.  You seen on TV how skiing's so smooth.  It's snow.  It's real soft, come on."

They land in Aspen, private motor coach, La Chateau Hotel, bags in the suite, and they're at the Ski Shop.  All hyped.

Bob and Ray watch them enter. 

"I know this guy" says Bob, big smile.

"Yeah, it's Andrew Bynum," says Ray, eyes wide.  "Plays with the Lakers...no 76ers.  He's here to ski?"

"I didn't think they let players...Hello, gentlemen, looking to do some skiing?"

"Set us up," says D.J.  "We're going skiing."

"Do you know what you'd...like...?" asked Ray.

"Whatever we need, guys, " says Andrew.  "I only got a few days.  Gotta get back for rehab in Philly, so..." 

"Okay," says Ray.  "Where do you want to start?"

Andrew and D.J. scan the shop, blink, look at each other, then back at Bob and Ray.

"Gentleman," says Bob.  "No problem.  You need our Klondike ThreeDogNight Sub Celsius Power Package.

"You get the Iceman Suspension Skis with full sidewalls, full wood core, with a titanium coat, creating a powerful driving ski with an edge that transfers all your power to the snow.  It has a 5mm tip rocker that gives you a real smooth turn. You get Iceman Fire Rocket X200 Ski Boots with the strength to resist twisting. And there's a 60 degree instep retention buckle..."

"We'll take it...we'll take two," says D.J.

"And what about pants, mittens, long underwear...?" says Ray.

"Yup," says Andrew.  "Whatever we need."

After an hour, looking, trying on, too big, that's really ugly, red, no green's better, I like that, it too tight, but yes, finally they're all set up.  D.J. snaps his fingers, Andrew passes his credit card, $6,300.00.

Bob and Ray, shake their heads, muscle the two to the top of the slope, say good luck guys, and slog back.

The two look down the slope.

"Just like on TV.  Nothing to it.  Andrew, go ahead.  GO."

"Okay," says Andrew. 

A shove from D.J., Bynum moves, slides, arms windmilling, picks up speed.

"Yikes," says Andrew.  Then the trees start to jump out, all round him.  "Whoaaaaaaa.  I can't stop.  I can't stooooopppppp."  Thanks to a tall pine tree, and it's collision with Andrew's knee, he is saved from going who knows how far, how many head over heels, and how much more agonizing pain?

Skiers arrives, rescuers arrives, D.J. comes running.  And an hour or so of, lights in his eyes, bandages, snow bunnies pointing, 'Is that Andrew Bynum?',  how many fingers do you see, and pain, Oh Boy.  The pain.

As the sun sets, Andrew sits with his leg up by the main lobby's fireplace.

"What am I gonna tell 'em happened?" says Andrew.  "They don't like us doing stuff like this. Looked real easy, you know."

"I been thinking about that too," says D.J.  "How about this.  We tell them you hurt your leg Bowling. Think they'd go for that?"

"Bowling?  I guess," says Andrew.  "Yeah, I was Bowling.  Screwed up my knee...Bowling, yeah."

"I can fix it.  Lois Lanes up in Allentown'll do it.  Few bucks, get you on their surveillance, so it looks real."

"Damn," says Andrew.  "I won't be playing for a long time now.  But hey, they won't be saying how I'm slow on the court, or how come I don't rebound more."

"You got it made, Andrew.  Big contract, and a real bad knee."

"After the Lakers traded me...I don't know...My knee, it just got worse.  It just keeps hurting..."

D.J. smiles.  "You know it might never get well...and then they won't be trading you, or talking about how you play.  We could really learn how to ski, or maybe wrestling, you know, you'd be good at that...or be an actor like WorldPeace, John Salley, or Kareem."

"An actor," says Andrew.  He stares into the fire. "I wouldn't have to workout all the time...this rehab...them reporters...a new adventure...?  Yeah.  I'd like to maybe get a Harley, too."

And that's the real story behind Bynum's knee problem.  "I twisted it Bowling.  It's true.  Really." 

I twisted it Bowling?  Andrew, my man, come on.  That's a hard one to swallow.  Even for me. 
.................

HELP COME FROM:

usatoday.com/story/sports/nba/sixers/2012/11/18/bynum-injures-knee-bowling/1712877/
aol.sportingnews.com/nba/story/2012-11-19/andrew-bynum-injury-update-bowling-knees-
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LAKERS COACH MIKE BROWN DISAPPEARS AFTER GETTING FIRED

Lakers ex-Coach Mike Brown sits next to his agent Jimmy Chintz at the LA Coliseum.  Halftime, USC vs Arizona State.

"Jimmy," says Brown. "Thanks for the tickets, but I can't enjoy this.  I can't relax.  Come on, I just got axed.  It's just not a fun time."

"I had to get you away from basketball.  Out in the open.  We can talk here.  But first, let's get some food."

He pulls two $20 bills from his wallet.  "Kids, get everybody something, hot dogs, whatever."  They stare at him, so he pulls out another $20.  They both smile.

"I'll go too, give you two a chance to talk." says Brown's wife Carolyn . Elijah and Cameron, run ahead of her.

"Five games and I'm out," says Brown. "It was so quick." 

"Lakers management doesn't like losing.  I guess they didn't want things to get out of hand."

"They really didn't give the team a chance to jell.  If this was College basketball it's like me being fired during the 2nd game.  Or an NFL coach getting fired before the end of the 1st game.  Team was coming together.   All I needed was a little more time.  Five seasons with the Cavs, I was the most successful coach they ever had.  Hell, I was Coach of the Year in 2008."

Just before the start of the second half, the announcer is very loud, while the JumboTron shows Brown and Jimmy in full color.  "And in attendance Mike Brown, ladies and gentlemen, former Lakers Coach, fired from the Lakers after a dismal one and four record.  Good Luck Mike."

The crowd turns from the JumboTron, and stare at them. No cheers.  Instead the sound begins to build, like an oncoming freight train. An intense boooo.

Brown looks toward the large screen, and smiles, but the crowd's reaction hit him, high voltage through his body.  He stiffens.

"This seems rather harsh." says Jimmy.

"Bloodthirsty,  you ask me," says Mike.

A yell comes from a few rows back.  "Brown, no defense.  You have to have defense...reason the Lakers are losing..."

"I'm their scapegoat," says Brown. "I'm the one gets blamed for the huge payroll, $100 million plus."

"That's right," says Jimmy.  "Not only that, but Nash only played a game and a half.  Howard is still recovering from back surgery, and Kobe has that injured foot.  He can't even practice."

'It started with a whisper...'  "Sorry," says Brown. "My ringtone.  Hello?...Yes, this is Mike...yes...No, I think I'm going to be busy."

He turns to Jimmy.  "That was a high school coach in Thousand Oaks, asking since I'm now unemployed, could I maybe coach their basketball team?"

They both shake their heads.

"It's not like we're destitute," says Jimmy. "Still under contract. $10 mil over four years."

"Guess I'm not broke.  But come on, this is my professional life here." 

"We'll find something else," says Jimmy.

Another in the crowd.  "He's right, Brown.  Princeton Offense?  What the hell is that?  You go to Princeton for a lawyer, or an accountant, economist, but basketball theory, give me a break...that's the reason you're a loser."

Young kid down in front,  maybe six, looks up from texting.  "The Princeton Offense is an offense that emphasizes constant motion, passing, back-door cuts, picks on and off the ball, and disciplined teamwork.  I'll have to agree. The Lakers are just too old for that constant movement."

"What the hell is this," says Brown.  Then to the crowd, "Can't blame me for Nash, and Kobe, and Howard.  It's not really my fault."

"I don't think that's what this crowd wanted to hear.  Blaming their heroes, Mike."

'It started with a whisp...'  "Hello," says Brown.  "Yes this is...yes..."

 "...our new cable show, Survivor Los Angeles. We start in The Valley as street people, six episodes, through Tarzana, Beverly Hills, Watts Towers, Venice Beach, ride the Metro, and end up at Staples...you're not doing nothin' now...there'd be some panhandling involved..."

"I think I'm going to be busy..."  He hangs up.  "Damn."

As Brown sits up straight, ready for the second half, a jolt runs down his spine.  He is hit with a rock, or marble, something hard and small, thrown from behind, hitting him in the back of the head.  He freezes. He knows there is blood, but doesn't rub it.

He squeezes Jimmy's arm.  "We have to get out of here.  They're throwing stuff at me."

Jimmy frowns.  "What?  You got hit?"

"I'm not kidding.  Come on."

The JumboTron is still on them.  Everyone watches as they duck down and move down the row.  Fans along the row stiffen. They do not move their knees, pushing back as the two try to move past.  Brown is shoved by one fan, but Jimmy grabs the back of his jacket before he plunges ten rows. 

"Son of a Bitch," says Brown.  Jimmy puts his head in Brown's back and pushes him forward.

The boos intensify.  The crowd angry and red faced, show teeth.  Brown can feel the heat.

They get to the aisle, then move up the cement steps two at a time.  As they run, three large men tail them.  One points, "There's that loser Mike Brown, the Lakers Coach."  Now others take chase.

Brown sees his wife and kids holding footlongs.  He waves. "Meet me at  home.  Gotta run.  I guess I said the wrong thing." 

Panting hard, Brown veers off toward the exit, while Carolyn and the boys simply wave, befuddled.  And they thought LA was a step up from Cleveland.

A chant erupts, 'Mike Brown, Mike Brown, Mike Brown.'  The mob increases. 

They make it to their cars, Mike to his SUV, and Jimmy his red Jaguar Convertible, the crowd now throwing large cups of beer.

Brown, in a panic careens down Figueroa Boulevard, and onto the 110 Harbor Freeway.  But, he hits the wrong onramp.  He's going East on the West bound lanes. Within thirty seconds this woeful lack of bearings alerts the highway patrol.

'It started with a whisp...' "Hello?  Hello?...Yes this is...yes..."

'This is Dancing with the Stars, and we were just wondering...now that you've got a whole lot of time on your hands...'

"I'm kinda busy right now...but...call me back...sounds like fun..."

What did he just say?  "My God, I'm losing it." as he see the oncoming traffic.

And the CHP.

"Please, step out of the car." 

After an arrest, a trunk search, an impound, a police escort to Central Lockup at Parker Center, Brown sits in a cell.

And once they realize it's the ex-Lakers Coach, he is charged with resisting arrest, assaulting a police officer, fleeing the jurisdiction, and whatever else pops into the Booking Officer's head. 

All he remembers about the arrest as he sits in the cell is someone saying, "You got some guts showing your face in public, Brown.  Do what you did."

But, and this is the strange part, not a word is heard from him after that.  Mike Brown simply vanishes.

July 5, 2015.  The disappearance of Mike Brown will be solved.  A very unfortunate mix up.  If it wasn't for Carolyn watching an episode of, 'Top 100 Crazy Criminals,'  Mike Brown Ex-Lakers Coach, and Mike Brown, Serial Exhibitionist will never be discovered. 

From the Prison Warden, "Sorry about that.  Guess we mixed up the files.  Honest mistake.  Lots of Mike Browns in the system.  Hard to keep track.  We're real sorry."  He laughs,  "And, trust me, it had nothing to do with me being such a loyal Lakers fan either.  Really."
...............................................

HELP COMES FROM:
winnipegfreepress.com/sports/basketball/report-la-lakers-fire-coach-mike-brown-after-1-4-start-178144741.html?story=LA Lakers
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tmz.com/2012/11/09/mike-brown-lakers-coach-chick-fil-a/
readabilityformulas.com  -  Google/Images  -  Mike Brown Wiki 

SMUSH AND KOBE'S ARGUMENT ENDS IN GUNFIRE

It looks like a bowling alley.  Built as a secret Masonic Lodge, it was converted into a Gentleman's Club in the 60's, primarily a cigar lounge.  Today it's the Beverly Hills Gun Club, in the basement of the Beverly Wilshire Hotel.  Gunsmoke's the only smoke there now.

Kobe Bryant, feet apart, aims and fires.  For the rush.  His release valve from the pressures of the NBA.  Blasting the hell out of a paper target does the trick.  He looks forward to the challenge.

Smush Parker, an old teammate pushes through the door, stops, and taps Kobe on the shoulder.

Kobe pulls down his earmuffs.  "Hey, Smush Parker.  What are you doing here?"

"I can't come in and shoot off my gun a few times?  I gotta have your permission?"

"Hey.  Relax.  I haven't seen you for what?...7 years."

Kobe sets out another paper target, a torso and head outline.  He sets his earmuffs, points his Smith & Wesson .44 Magnum, and blasts.  Six shots.  He retrieves the target.  All six shots in the forehead.
 
"Well," says Smush. "I'm sure you've heard the interview I did for TMZ.  I told them you were a terrible teammate, so I stopped passing you the ball."

"Yeah, I heard," says Kobe, pulling down his earmuffs.  "And you think I was the reason you got traded...back in 2005.  Face it, it was your lack of talent.  You cost me the 2005-06 MVP trophy to Steve Nash."

“You said I was the worst.  I didn't belong in the NBA.  So, you had them replace me with Jordan Farmar in the playoffs.  I was better than him."  He stares at Kobe.

"It wasn't the passing, Smush.  You just weren't that good.  What are you doing now?  You left the NBA.  I heard Iran?"

Smush unzips a bag and pulls out his gun.

"What the hell?"  says Kobe.

Smush hold the gun at arm's length.  "It's a  Pfeifer Zeliska 28mm.  World's biggest hand gun."

"I thought my gun was big."

Smush sets up and shoots.  Two hits out of six.  Smush looks at his target, then glances over at Kobe's target.  His shakes his head. 

"So what have you been doing since you left the NBA," asks Kobe.

"Well after you made them trade me...I played for the Heat, and I was doing good, then I get jumped by this guy in the parking lot...but it's too hot down there, and the bugs, so I got a chance with the Clippers."

He puts on his earmuffs on again, and shoots. Three hits this time. He glares down at the gun, and then sights down the barrel.  He takes a deep breath.  His hands shake.

"Didn't you play with the Nuggets?" asks Kobe.

"So?  I played with the Nuggets...2008."

"You know Smush, there are tons of players who have rings because they were my teammates.  They played as part of the team.  They didn't hog the ball.  You just didn't perform when you were supposed to."

"What he hell?  I performed.  You know that."

 "The Rio Grande Valley Vipers of the NBA Development League.  I think that's where you went next?"

"What, you been stalking me?  I'd still be on the Lakers wasn't for you."  Smush stares over at Kobe.  Sweat forms above his eyebrows.

"Sour grapes, Smush."  Kobe puts on his earmuffs, and pulls off six more.  They all hit chest high.

"It's only because you played with me, you got signed with Guangdong Southern Tigers of the Chinese Basketball Association,  I read about  it."

Smush hold his gun to his side.  He glares at Kobe.  He takes a step toward him. "You know so much about me..."

"You can't blame me for getting dropped by the Tigers," says Kobe.  "Then it's the Russian club Spartak Saint Petersburg."

"So I went to Saint Petersburg.  I stayed a professional."

"Last year?"

"Last year I played in Greece with Iraklis Thessaloniki B.C...So what?  You know, I don't like you, Bryant.  Never did."  He waves his gun in the air.

Kobe moves back. He looks around for security.

"I don't care."  Smush gets very loud.  "I'm traveling around the world.  That against the law?  Petrochimi Bandar Imam of the Iranian Super League, played some in Venezuela, then signed with the Indios de San Francisco of the Dominican Republic."

"Well, I'm real glad you're getting a chance to see the world."

He jams on the earmuffs, and shoots.  He misses the target altogether.  He breathes through his teeth.  His body shakes.

"You didn't fit into our program," says Kobe.  "You know I could have been MVP." 

"I didn't kiss your ass. That's the reason."

He yells,  "You're the one who screwed me," and waves the gun in the air.  Wildly. The Pfeifer Zeliska 28mm goes off.  One. Two. Three times.  Fire.  Smoke.  Explosion.  Like an earthquake, the entire Hotel shakes.

Kobe grabs his leg and goes down, hit high in his thigh.  Kobe's mouth opens but there is no sound.

Blood shoots everywhere.

Smush freezes, ducks down, turns, and bolts for the door.  Up the stairwell, he's out onto Wilshire Boulevard, across the street, past Cartier on the corner and up Rodeo Drive.

But running down the sidewalks of Beverly Hill is a mistake, especially when you hold a large, very large, hand gun.

The police react quickly in Beverly Hills.  Very quickly. Police cars already block the street, their doors open, guns drawn.  "Stop,"  "Drop the gun.  "On your knees."  All at once.  Smush knows there's no way.  "Damn."  He stops and as he raises his hands, another cop tackles him from behind.  His face mashed to the cement, he watches his Pfeifer Zeliska 28mm bounce into the street, and slide into a storm drain, gone.  "Damn."   Kobe's fault.  I hate him.  I hate him.

Six hours later and a $100,000 bond, he sits on a bed at the Beverly Hills Hotel.  ESPN, he watches the news conference from Cedars Sinai Hospital.

 "We were talking basketball, and Smush kinda lost it.  We were at the Gun Club, and well, he shoots me in the leg.  It really hurts, but my uniform will cover the bandages.  I'll be playing tonight.  A little gun shot can't stop me."

And it didn't.  Against the Clippers, Kobe, with a slight limp, scored 29 points, 8 rebounds, 5 blocked shots.

Smush watches the game.  He paces as he watches.  He wants to punch the screen.

Then, after the game:  "We'll just have to see what the doctor says.  Smush, I don't know, probably had a lot of anger issues to overcome.  About pressing charges against him?  Well, he did shoot me in the leg."

As for Smush, he's in the wind.  Last seen late last night, on his stomach, reaching down into a storm drain along Rodeo Drive.  Smush, don't leave town, the Beverly Hills Police would like to talk.
 ..........................................

The entire argument can be found:
http/sports.yahoo.com/blogs/nba-ball-dont-lie/smush-parker-fires-back-kobe-bryant-worst-slam-205745231--nba.html

HELP COMES FROM:
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Smush/WikiPedia,  readabilityformulas.com,  Google/Images, 

METTA WORLD PEACE AND NANCY GRACE SEEN HOLDING HANDS

They stand in line on the red carpet.  Everybody will be watching.  They're given their queue.  In five it's their turn to walk in front of the cameras.

Shrine Auditorium, mid way between USC and the Staples Center.  Jefferson and Figueroa.   It's the 33rd Annual Emmy Awards.
 
Metta World Peace and Nancy Grace, rub shoulders.  Or, more precisely, Metta's hand rubs up against Nancy's shoulder.   It's nearing  4 p.m., time to begin taping, for the 'Live' presentation on the East Coast.
 
She looks him up and down.  "Maybe you didn't get the memo, Metta, but...you were supposed to dress like...in a tux, or something...you know, designer.   You're wearing the detective clothes.  They were just for the movie?"

"Well, I like being a cop.  You said I looked the part."

"Yeah, when we were on the set. But...everybody knows who you are.  It's okay."  She smiles up at his tallness, his largeness, his presence. 

"Today," says Metta, "I'm  Garlan Fincher, Georgia detective.  Got the season opener against the Mavs next Tuesday, so I'll be him...Detective Fincher... until then. Why not?"

A young man holds up two fingers.  "You're up in two," he says.

Metta's hands shake.  He sways, on one foot then the other.  Grace can feel it.  She elbows him.  "Metta, don't be nervous . Nothing to be nervous about."

"Garlan.  Remember?"

"Okay, Garlan.  Let me hold your hand.  Just relax.  You're not nervous before a basketball game are you?"

"I am, but once it starts, I'm good to go."

"Remember, these questions, they're all fluff.  Let me do the talking." She looks at his compact abs, his large biceps, and strong hands. She takes a deep breath.

Together they move out on the red carpet.

An interviewer whispers to his cameraman.  "Watch me.  I'll make sure my interviews get on the 11 o'clock news.  You'll see."  He snickers.

And as Metta and Nancy arrive, the interviewer jams his microphone in Nancy's face.  She pulls back.

"Hey, it's Nancy Grace...along with...Metta World Peace...you know, Ron Artest...from the Lakers.  Grace is nominated for Best News Commentator, and Lakers Metta World Peace is here to advertise Grace's Lifetime Movie.  'The Eleventh Victim.'  It shows November 3rd.  Metta plays a police detective.

"Hello. Nancy Grace, and Metta World Peace.  Jimmy Twit, WDUD TV, Buffalo.  Wow, what a night, huh?"

"It's wonderful," says Grace.  "It's always exciting to be nominated for what I do.  I fight for the rights of those who don't have a voice when they are screwed over by..."

"And World Peace," says Twit. "How do you feel about acting.  Are you going to say good bye to the Lakers?"

"He's not there yet," says Grace, "but Metta is just beginning a new profession.  He was very good..."

"Didn't you two meet on Dancing with the Stars?  Metta, you going to be a dancer now...quit the Lakers?"

Metta looks down at the man.  He losses his smile.  "I'm not much of a dancer.  I'm better under the basket.  Why would you ask that?"

Grace squeezes his hand.  "Metta put supreme effort into his dancing.  For a non-professional he did very well.  He certainly put maximum effort..."

"You're telling me," says Twit.  "I saw you on the show...Rhythm you ain't got, Metta.  Guess that's the reason you were the first one cut." He giggles toward the camera, shaking his head.

Metta's hands became fists.

Grace's eyes turn red.  "He was excellent for someone who is not a dancer."  She moves into the man's face, waving away the microphone.  "He was a lot better than anyone thought he'd be.  I saw his potential in front of the camera.  That's the reason we chose him for the part."

"But Grace, as a cop?  From his crazy stunts on the court, running into the stands, that elbow shot...I don't know?"

Metta eyes get big.  He breathes heavily.  He starts shaking again.

"But a cop, dealing with criminals and all?  Come on. Nobody'll ever believe it."

Metta moves forward.  Twit moves back a step.  "Now that you're a novelist, Nancy, are you going to concentrate on writing books?  I'm guessing you won't get sued as much.  I bet that gets pretty old?"

"They're all nuisance cases.  I beat most of them.  People who can't stand the heat, they just sue me.  If they'd just come clean, they'd feel a whole lot better.  The truth will set them free."

"Now, Metta,  this cop outfit.  Who's your designer?  Columbo?"    He looks up at Metta, looking for a smile.

Metta stares down. His eyes are black.   "What's your name again?"  He steps on the man's foot, and presses down hard, his chest an inch form the man's nose. 

Grace moves in between.  "It's his character in the Movie ," she says.  "He doesn't need an Armani original.  You don't think Metta is so unsophisticated..."

Twit looks down. They are still holding hands. He points.

"Is there a connection here? Grace? Metta?  Beyond Producer and Actor?"  Then he points at her stomach, and his cameraman moves in for a close up. "Is there something going on you're not telling...?"

She squints at him. "Just what the hell are you trying to say?  That I'm pregnant?  I produced a movie, so I must be sleeping with all the actors?"

Metta's fist is a blur.  Twit's jaw, teeth, nose. Crushed.  Blood gushes through his fingers.  Metta certainly doesn't need it all spelled out.

Twit lurches back, his mouth opens, his head twists.  He drops to one knee, and flops over. 

"What... is your... problem?" says Twit.  His voice cracks. He kicks wildly at the camera as it comes in for another close up.  "Get that thing..."

"What is my problem?  What is MY problem?" says Metta.  He leans over the man, his foot ready to kick him hard high in the ribs.  "I don't like you." 

Grace pulls him away.  "These guys are no different than paparazzi."  She checks the crowd. "We gotta get out of here. Follow me." They push through, off the red carpet and out toward the parking lot, running, Metta flashing his badge the whole way.

Twit's groans are loud.  Everyone hears the commotion.  The other cameramen stop, and turn.  They too can see a good story.  They are on the move.

Security rushes up.  They see Twit's face planted in the plywood.  They can't miss all the blood.  They look toward Metta World Peace, hand in hand with Nancy Grace on their way to the streets.

"What the hell did you say to them, to make them react like that?" asks security. 

"What?  I didn't say anything...well...I just asked if they were...seeing each other.  And...HEY, get that stupid camera out of my face..."

 "And that's when you got slugged?"

"Go after them.  He hit me.  I want to press charges."  He tries to get up, but falls forward.   His face is a mess.

"Press charges?  Against Metta World Peace, and Nancy Grace?  Exactly who are you again?"

Without looking back, they sprint out the front door, across the street, and into her limousine.  "Drive, Billy Ray,  Drive."

"Oh boy." says Nancy.  She puts her hand on Metta's knee.  "I was watching that guy.  I think, matter of fact, I'm sure of it, he had a knife in his hand.  He was going to stab you."

She pats his knee.  "All he wanted was to get big TV ratings.  These small-time Blogger guys doing the red carpet interviews.  I saw it.  No wait...a gun.  Yes, a gun.  I'll tell them that's what I saw.  No way he's getting away with this."
 
"Man," says Metta.  "I'm so stupid.  I'm going to get suspended for this...again.  I know it."

"Guy had it coming.  You're the only one with the guts to fight back.  That's the way little men are.  You wait, I'll make you a hero."

"You'd do that for me?" He grabs her hand. His eyes big.

She looks again at his large bicep's.

"Cops know where to find us.  Come on, you saved my life."

With a wave of her hand, and a 'Take us home, Billy Ray,' the limo shoots up Out Post Drive, and into the Hollywood Hills.
  
"I like you, you know," says Metta.  He looks out the window, as he rubs her leg, high on the thigh.  "Girl, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship."  He puts his head back.  "I remember that from an old movie I saw once."

"I like you too, Metta, and remember, we'll always have the Red Carpet."  She laughs and puts her head on his shoulder.
.............................

HELP COME FROM:
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deadline.com/2012/04/nancy-grace-to-produce-lifetime-movie-
latimes.com/sports/lakersnow/la-sp-ln-will-kobe-bryant-be-ready
readabilityformulas.com/   Google Images/ 

N.Y. KNICKS: THEY'VE FALLEN AND THEY CAN'T GET UP

It's one on a Saturday.  Jim aims the TV remote.  Knicks Nets game is in progress. 

"...rejected by Jason Kidd...Camby has it...pushing it...takes it hard all the way to the basket...foul...he'll get to the free throw line..."

Toward the kitchen, "Hey, games already started.  Got any beers?"


"Too expensive," says Jeff from the kitchen.  "We got Brandy.  Just as good.  Mix it with the Pepsi that's out there."

Jim mixes fifty-fifty.  "Yikes, this stuff is strong."

"Take it easy.  That stuff's 80 proof."

"...that's the right idea...little up fake...get to the free throw line...Camby makes the first one..."

"Come on," says Jim.  "It's already the second half."

We hear the horn.

"...Time out with the score...Brooklyn Nets 60, New York Knicks 40...Be back..."

 A man holds his back.  "Do you have annoying back pain?  Can't bend over to tie your shoes, play with your grand kids, pick up a penny off the sidewalk?  Then you need BenGay to relieve that back and joint pain."  (Yada, yada, yada.)  "But wait, there's more.  Call today, we'll double the offer.  Two tubes for the price of one, you pay only shipping and handling."

We hear the horn.

"...We're back.  The Knicks made some off  season trades, filling  their roster with playoff warhorses.  Guys are older.  Jason Kidd, he's 39, Marcus Camby, 38, Kurt Thomas, 40,  and Rasheed Wallace who's 38.  Some say they're just too old, all these youngsters in the NBA.  We'll just have to see..."

"They're saying the Knicks are a bunch of old men, can you believe?  Not much older than the Lakers, come on."  Jim gulps down his Brandy, and mixes a second.  Strong, but tasty.

"...Knicks will have to get down the court a little faster...well, a lot faster if they are going to keep up with the Nets today...70-45 Nets..."

"Hey, this Brandy tastes real good, you know.  Come on, Jeff.  What're you doing?  You'll mizzz the whole game."

"Breakfast. I'm making Pigs in Blankets. Found some hot dogs in the freezer...expired 2003, but hey, they look okay."

"Now what?"  Jim points at the TV.

Jeff sticks his head around the corner.  "Looks like he lost something on the floor?"

"...it's Marcus Camby...looking for something...Oh, it's his bifocals, they got flipped off, banged up against the official's table...right under...okay, he's got them..."

Camera pans to Coach Woodsen, who's filling his cup from a large orange barrel.  Duct tape covers the old Gatorade name.  Stenciled below it is, 'Sunsweet Prune Juice.'

"Remember," says Jeff.  "Easy on the Brandy.  I'd like some with my P's in B's."

Jim empties the glass.  "I can hardly taste it," he says, as he mixes number three.

...and a floater by Kurt Thomas...nice shot...very impressive...but what this?  Time out?  Rasheed has dropped something, must be his lower dentures. Yup, see them?  There... skidding under the bench.  Okay, a quick wipe off, and their back in his mouth.  No problem, didn't even stop for a time out.  Okay..."

Jim smells the Pigs coming from the kitchen.  "That smellzz Real gooood." He flops onto the sofa, his head back against the cushion.  "You're mizzing this whole game."  He half closes his eyes.

We hear the horn.

"...Time out, we'll take it.  One fifty seven left third quarter...Reggie Evans 20 second quarter points for the Nets...it's a 23 point game...be right back..."

"Do you have those embarrassing, ugly, sickening age spots?  You need Porcelana.  It helps remove those nasty..." (Yada, yada, yada), "Money back guarantee if you don't look 60 years younger after just one application.  Don't wait.  Buy it now.  Don't look old."

We hear the horn.

"...We're back...Tickets for all Knicks home games, visit us on the web...19% shooting for the Knicks...1 for 15 from 3 point land...they'll have to do better..."

Eyes partially open, "What is that?" says Jim.  "It looks like a...cane?"

Jeff looks in at the TV.  "Kurt Thomas is watching from the bench, his chin on a...cane?"

"Whazzz going on here?" says Jim.  "They said they were old, but come on guyz?"

"Maybe he's got some kind of injury," says Jeff.  "But, wasn't' he just out on the court.  Makes no sense."

Jeff sticks his hand in the oven.  It feels about 350 degrees.  Good.  And in slides the tray of P's in B's.
 
The TV camera pans the Knicks' bench.  Some rub their eyes. Others yawn. All look haggard.  Then down at their shoes.

"...There see?  Right there.  Marcus Camby's new autograph shoes...Kinda like Air Jordans...I gotta get me a pair of them...M.C.'s Hush Puppies...with the Nike Swoooosh...look real smart, you know... and...there goes Rasheed, running off, another of his five minute bathroom breaks..."

Jim lurches up, and hits his forehead with the heel of his hand.  Then laughs.  "The Hell?"   He watches, confused, as Jason Kidd slowly pushes out onto the court in a...walker?  Kidd tries to dribble, but it's stolen, Jerry Stackhouse of the Nets, who slam dunks for an easy, real easy, two for Brooklyn.

"...Wait...now what...oh boy.  Kurt Thomas...It didn't look like anything happened...he just fell...and...what's this?...He can't get up?  Maybe because he's...how should I say it...beyond his years? There's two cheerleaders out there...lifting him by both arms..and pulling him over to the bench.  He seems out of it.  Real groggy..."

Jeff from the kitchen, "And the other cheerleader has an oxygen mask on him...and there's one on Camby.  They must really be out of breath.  Man, what a game." 

He stares through the oven window at his P's in B's.  They sizzle.  "Yes," and pulls them out.

Jim downs his drink. Number four.  "Thiz iz crazzzy."

All set, Jeff enters, holding the platter of P's in B's.  Along with a large jar of peanut butter, he sets it down on the coffee table in front of Jim, who lies there mouth open, eyes closed.  Figuring the amount of 80 proof Brandy in him, Jeff smiles, knowing the Pigs are all his.
  
And we hear the horn.

"...And that's it.  Game over..."

Oh boy," Jeff says."

Then he smells his P's in B's.

"OH BOY, " he says.

They have that old, godawful, greenish meat odor.  But because he's spent an hour screwing around with them, he figures enough peanut butter will kill the taste. Hard to make stuff that old taste good again. 

  "...Brooklyn Nets 109, New York Knicks 70.   It was a tough game to watch.  The Knicks have problems way beyond shooting and defense.  Just being able to stay on the court...they have to really work on that.  They simply ran out of steam about half way through the first quarter..."

As the Knicks depart, the camera follows them into the parking lot.  Still in their uniforms, they hobble onto the team bus. The one that has, 'Sunset Retirement Community,  Home of  Your New York Knicks.'  painted on the side.

And as the doors begin to close, the entire TV audience overhears Rasheed Wallace groan,  "Man, do I need a nap.  I'm sure glad tonight's Bingo night."
......................

HELP COMES FROM:
fannation.com/truth_and_rumors/view/340997-knicks-age-already-a-factor/
nydailynews.com/sports/basketball/knicks/knicks-feeling-aches-age-article-1.1183601/
slumz.boxden.com/f16/boston-celtics-happy-new-york-knicks-now-oldest-team-1829676/
readabilityformulas.com/  Google Images/ 

BAD BLOOD BETWEEN COMMISSIONER STERN AND STAN VAN GUNDY

Come to find out that they raised the price of my tall glass of buttermilk.  It's now $2.95, up from $2.65.  Something about increase delivery cost due to higher gas prices.  Why am I surprised?

So, when gas prices go back to 'normal,' the price of my tall buttermilk will go back down? Right?  Like beer, worldwide hops shortage, prices rises.  Now that hops are plentiful again, I'm waiting for the price to drop.  But it never seems to ever get back to that original price.

While I bemoan this price increase automatically being passed on to the customer, I look up. Is that David Stern, Commission of the NBA, walking through the front door? Along with two husky guys in dark glasses?  

What is he doing in here at the Montana Galley, and who exactly are his two friends?

This has to be the most famous person in here since Al Pacino came in to see his agent, a week or so ago.*

I should introduce myself.  This would make an interesting Post for my Blog.  But as I move to get up, he turns toward me, and walks back.  He stops at my booth for a second, taps the table, then slides in next to me.  His friends, still wearing their shades, also slide in.  There are no smiles.

A bit befuddled, I push back in the seat.  "Hello, guys,"  I say.

This is a mistake. He wants to meet me?  Maybe he reads my Sports Blog?  He wants my autograph?  But...This is David Stern?

"Mr Belair.  How are you today?"  He puts out his hand.  "Commissioner Stern."

I look at his two companions, but they are silent.  They simply stare at me.  (X and Y)?

I look at each. "Okay," I say.  And how are you Mr. Stern."  I'm shocked he even knows my name.  I hold my buttermilk with both hands.   "This is certainly a surprise.  What brings you here?"

"Well," says Stern.  "I got this thing out in Burbank, doing the Leno Show, and thought I'd just drop in here and see you."

"You know where I..."

"We know where you are most of the time.  We read your Blog.  You're usually sitting in this restaurant, just to be close to the blond in the kitchen, Helena.  I saw her.  Not bad.  Keep trying, scout.  One day, maybe you two'll be an item." He laughs.  X nods his head and continue to eyeballs me. 

"She heard you talking like that..."

A waitress comes over, but Stern waves her off. "We won't be here long."

He adjusts his jacket.  "Reason I came by.  You've probably read about cry baby Stan Van Gundy saying I screwed him over at ESPN.  That I told them not to hire him for ESPN’s 'NBA Countdown.'  Because I don't like him. Guy's a fool. He compares me to Gadhafi.  Says I'm  a dictator.  What'd he expect? That kind of guy does not belong on ESPN, I don't care who it is."

"Yeah, I think I did read something..."

"ESPN is partners with the NBA," he says.  "$930 million contract.  So any significant hires have to be cleared through me...you know, the NBA."

Stern  waves his hand in the air.  "We figured he was just too mouthy about me to be good on the air."

"But," I say. "isn't that really what ESPN needs.  Exciting, mouthy guys.  You want ratings, right?  Wouldn't he be more exciting than Shaq?  Someone should build a fire under Shaq, you know."

I get the 'We'll grind you into the ground' stare from X and Y.  Guess you don't interrupt the Commissioner.
 
"Mouthy and smart, that's okay," says Stern. "Anyway, here's the reason we dropped by."

He folds his hands, looks at both associates, (the word Gorillas comes to mind), then at me.  "We want only...how should I say it...good writing from you in your Blog."

"Only good writing?  You mean only Responsible Writing?"

"Yeah, you know, " he says.  "Do I have to spell it out?  Look, Belair, you want to go the way of Van Gundy?   Good writing means good posts about me, the NBA, and ESPN.  Believe it or not, people actually read your stuff."

"But what if...?"

X and Y clench their fists.  Oops, again an interruption.

"I remember reading a Post about one of my cab rides from LAX.  Your friend, Diego Garcia, guy who owns the Fresh Air Taxi Company.  I thought he was a stand up guy.  But my conversation mysteriously ends up in your Blog.  I don't remember any call from you, asking me if it was all right?"

"So if you say something that I think is Sports worthy..."

"I command a presence.  It's not going to be tarnished by the likes of some blogger.  Better yet, Mr. Belair.  I don't want you writing anything about me or the NBA."

X and Y lean over toward me, breathing heavily through their noses.

There are flashes of men sitting in dark corners waiting for me when I get home, baseball bats in cornfields, horse heads in beds.  This could get out of hand.

"You sure I'm the guy you want?  I hate to say it, but I really don't have the worldwide audience you seem to think."

Again I spoke. Not good.   X shows his teeth,  pushes his glasses up on his forehead, and glares at me.  Then he looks down and opens his coat.  I'm shown a gun in his waistband.  He had that, 'Your a dead man if you mess with us,' look in his black eyes. 

"Van Gundy claiming I was some sort of tyrant, cost him his job. I'm in charge and it you don't like it, find some other place to go."

My face is hot.  Was there something in the Buttermilk?  This is a bad episode of Gangland, Vito Corleone, Tony Soprano, the ghost of George Raft.

Then The Commissioner smiles, sticks out his hand.  "Gotta go.  Been real, Belair.  You're a smart guy.  So.  Write about Cricket, or Soccer, Riding Bicycles.  Something other than basketball.  Be a lot healthier."

The three rise together, turn and head for the door.  As X holds the door for Stern, he look back at me, lowers his head, and pats his pocket.

I get it, you're tough guys. 

And they're gone.

What the hell just happened?  Commissioner David Stern sits down, and demands happy thoughts about ESPN, the NBA, and about himself.  Or else?   What?  I'm going to start a fire storm against the NBA?  With StiffLeftJab?

The romantic notion of the 'responsible journalist'' taking a bullet for his reader, I get it, but, those guns look really real.  I'm not dealing here with the manager of the Studio City Little Dribblers.  Bullets hurt, hurt bad, you know.

I lean over the table, my head on my fist. I rub my forehead, never imagining this day would ever come.  I sip my buttermilk, but I know I'll need to buy something a lot stronger on my way home.  I have to learn all I can now about Cricket.  Damn.

..........................
HELP COMESFROM:

thebiglead.com/index.php/2012/10/10/did-david-stern-put-the-kibosh-on-stan-van-gundy/
orlandosentinel.com/sports/os-mike-bianchi-stan-van-gundy-espn-1012-20121011,0,5261071.column/
larrybrownsports.com/basketball/stan-van-gundy-david-stern-preventing-espn/157876/
readabilityformulas.com,  Google/Images, 
* WILL PACINO PLAY PATERNO IN THE MOVIE? StiffLeftJab.com.

ISIAH THOMAS LOOKING FOR WORK WITH ESPN

Isiah Thomas sits and waits at a large conference table.  He's ready.  Armani, Florsheim, and a Gucci power  tie.   People, heads down, pass by the glass windows.  They text, pour over scripts, squint at incomprehensible pay stubs. 

A young lady enters.

 "Hello...sir.  Sara Walsh." 

They shake hands.

"So," says Sara. "You're hear for...?"

"It's me, Isiah Thomas.  I'm looking for a position as an on the air commentator." 

Sara giggles.  "Okay, Mr. Thomas.  Those kind of jobs are...well...You have to be a real somebody in sports."

She stares at Isiah.  A blank stare. "  Do you have a resume?" she says.  "Something, you know, I could follow along...while we talk about this.  But, I'll be honest, we have a pretty full roster of on air talent right now."

"But...I'm Isiah Thomas.  Here's the reason I'm here.  I was out at LAX last week, getting my bags.  Guy points at me, and snaps his fingers.  You know what he says to me?  Hey, I know you. You're Jerome Bettis, the Bus.  I felt about this high."  He puts his hand not too high in the air.  "He thinks I'm some old football player.  I need to get back in front of the public, so they know who I am again."

"Well, " says Sara. "You didn't bring a resume...so..."  She opens her lap top, and types in Isiah Thomas/Wikipedia.  She stares into the monitor.  "Oh, yes.  Here you are.  Mr. Isiah Thomas, NBA Basketball player.  Okay.  We'll just use this as your resume."

She turns the monitor screen so they can both see it.

"Your last employment..?"

"You don't know me, do you?  Everyone calls me Zeke.  Lady, I'm in the Basket Ball Hall of Fame, come on."

"Yes," she says.  "I see it here."  She points at the screen.  "Okay, lets go backwards, the way we do interviews here.  Probably won't need any references...Hall of Fame and all...so.  You're last employment was...?"

"Maybe it'd be better if I get interviewed by some guy who knows me.  You think?"

"Mr. Thomas.   We're crazy busy around here. This is how it works.  I do the first interview.  If you're able to get past me,  I'm sure you'll get someone who knows who you are."

She pulls her lap top back, toward her, and leans in, closer to the screen.  "Now, your last employment?"
  
Isiah clenches his fists under the table.  A deep breath, "Last three years I've been the basketball coach for the Florida International University, 2009 to 2012."

"And how did that go?" 

"Well, young lady...Sara...you got it right in front of you.  FIU had five losing season, so I wanted to help them out.  But, at the same time I took a consulting job with the New York Knicks. Holding both jobs violated NBA by-laws. So..."

 "So...you got fired..?  The University went 26–65 in those three seasons."

Isiah blinks.  His jaw tightens.  "Look, I was stretched real thin, so I had a problem focusing on the University."

"Could not focus...Okay?"  Sara makes a note on a note pad. Then stares at the screen. "Says here, you had a problem with Michael Jordan?  Now, there's a name I know.  He's around here a lot.  If there's a problem with Mr. Jordan...I don't think we can hire..."

"No problem, never was," says Isiah.  He laughs.  "He says we froze him out of an All Star Game once when he was a young player.  But it's all good now."  His voice rises.  "There never really was a problem, whatever he says."  He rubs the side of his face.

"What...is...this?  Oh boy."  She looks Isiah in the eye.  "I see here a law suit.  Sexual Harassment?  This is not good.  Not good at all."

"Oh that," says Isiah.  He waves his hand in the air.  "It never went to court.  Complete misunderstanding."  Again his voice rises.  "Nothing to it."

"But...Sexual Harassment is a very..."

"Okay, we made a deal...we paid her."

"Says here $11.5 million dollars?"

"She had no case.  To get her to go away, we simply paid her off." 

Sweat forms on his forehead. He gets up and begins to pace, flexing his fingers.

"And, there's an attempted overdose?"  She looks up at him, and shakes her head.  "This just gets better and better.  Drugs are pretty much a deal breaker here, Mr. Thompson."

"Thomas.  Isiah Thomas."  His voice is very loud.  "Damn,  girl.  It's Thomas.  It was Lunestta, a sleeping pill.  Back in 2008, come on.  I was tired and took too many, okay?"

"Not necessary to raise you voice, sir.  And wow, you bought the CBA...ten million dollars?"

He paces.  "I was an NBA All Star, so why not buy a B-Ball League?  So I did, the CBA.

"But the League collapsed?  Bankruptcy?"

"I gotta explain all this?  I was also the head coach of the Indiana Pacers at the same time...so the CBA didn't do so well."

"Lack of focus again, Mr. Thomas?  Being able to focus is very big around here..."

Sara looks up.  A lady waves, and comes into the room.  A pretty lady in a tight blue skirt, and a wiley smile.

"Well, hello. It's Hannah."  Sara leans in close to Isiah, and whispers,  "It's Hannah Storm."

"Thanks Sara. I'll show Isiah around.  I've been listening in."

"Listening in?" says Isiah.

"Well, it's important we get a good idea..."

"That's not right," say Isiah.  "You treat everybody comes in here like this?"

Hannah takes Isiah to a small cubicle down a long aisle.


"If you get a position here, this is where you'll be working.  Just put your stuff on the table there.  Fix it up anyway you like.  You get your own computer."

Isiah takes a deep breath.  "This is it?  But...I was thinking more like...my own office.  I used to have a huge office...with a window looking out over Detroit...a view of Belle Isle..."

"Your own office?" says Hannah.  "Please.  I have an office, sure, but, you'll be starting with graveyard shift stuff...if you're hired..and well..."

Isiah freezes at the sight of the cubicle.  No windows, no views, no freedom, "No, no way.  This isn't going to work.  A small, thin, sticky notes on the wall, cubicle.  Not for me.  No.  I'm the one in charge.  I do the telling."

"Well, as a matter of fact, I'd be your handler here. Your marching orders, you know, would come from me, until you're ready to go on the air."

"No, this isn't going to work out.  Nobody's going to put me in a little box...and working for a woman? I'm sorry."

"I don't like your tone, Mr Thomas.  You came to us, remember?"

He turns and strides toward the front door.  "No body knows who I am anymore."  As he pushes out the door, the lobby elevators open and two older ladies walk out. 

In his haste, Isiah throws an elbow as he passes them.  (A holdover from his playing days?)

"What the hell, ladies," he says.  "I'm walking here."

The ladies look at each other, grab Thomas by the back of his coat, each taking a leg.  They carry him outside, flip up a manhole cover, and drop him in.  They smile and punch fists at his agonizing screams.

"Some kind of old football player?"

"Beats the hell out of me."

......................

HELP COMES FROM:

probasketballtalk.nbcsports.com/2012/09/28/report-espn-considering-isiah-thomas-as-studio-analyst/
Isiah Thomas/WikiPedia,  gogomag.com/talkingheads/misc_espn_f.php,
deadspin.com/5948234/this-makes-too-much-terrible-sense-isiah-thomas-is-up-for-a-studio-gig-at-espn,
readabilityformulas.com, Google/Images,  thesaurus.com/