FREE FALLING

My writer's path has been both logical and clear cut - from a blog named after an obscure Ukrainian to to Craig Sager fiction to Forum Blue and Gold links and finally, a novel about a kidnapped movie dog with diabetes. I have been rewarded with great riches for my efforts, having sold a grand total of ten eBooks to date. I am convinced now more than ever that I have found the true golden thread.

The history of electronic books goes way back to 1930 when Bob Brown predicted a machine that would evolve the art of reading, even considering a future in which the written word could be recorded 'directly upon the palpitating ether'. Various inventions ensued over the coming decades but the words didn't really hit the fan until the introduction of the Sony Reader in 2006 and the Amazon Kindle in 2007. Electronic devices are now the preferred mode of consumption - Amazon alone recorded over $61 billion for all media revenue in 2012. Is it so wrong to salivate over a slice of cyber-pie?

Friends have been mostly circumspect about my new venture, neither encouraging or discouraging. It's a wise move - the path of least resistance when somebody you know writes 300 pages about an advertising executive, three wannabe young white gangstas and a half-baked crime. I'm not complaining though. I'm meeting new friends who churn out boatloads of literary marvels about steely-eyed assassins and passionate widow women heading along the dusty trail to a life of loneliness way out west. I have been told the proper way to market one's work is by tweeting it every five minutes rather than every few days. I'm trying to imagine how that would fly alongside discussions of Kobe's pop heard 'round the world.

But where's the free stuff? For those unable to contain their want, look to the right hand margin. See the large Coma Dog widget that looks like a reader with a little blue arrow at the lower left corner? That's the mother lode. Don't be alarmed by the initial jumble of words on the title page – simply choose your font and line spacing and click “apply”. The typeset will crystallize and carry you away to 58 pages of unabashed joy.

I know that some may find the first chapters a bit slow. Not to worry, it's a thrill ride from page 60 on. Of course, that will cost you $2.99 which is two bucks more than when I first wrote this post. Bummer. If you're a clever person you can read it for free at Goodreads but I'm not telling you how. Regardless, don't you want to know if Peppy lives or dies? Don't you want to know whose blood pools on the dirty floor of the Fabulous Forum?

Harry Debec was a child of the sixties, born between two worlds. He came into advertising at a time when the old ways were still the stuff of legends, as technology was just beginning its virulent explosion. It was the corridor between martini lunches and coffee bars, a time when print advertising still meant something, when there were still three networks and then four and soon hundreds more. Computers and video changed everything, illustrators went out of business, keypads took over the earth, the internet devoured conscious hours like a flesh-eating disease, new media existed in ever shortening cycles, louder, faster and cheaper trumping almost every known aspect of marketing.

The stories about Lindsay Lohan and Michael Phelps never did lead to a job with Rolling Stone and ESPN has yet to offer their Page 2 slot. I may yet write novellas about nubile zombie girls and I may not. Words can be addictive though in all their many forms and fashion. Is Peppy the diabetic dog so far removed from the Jim Kjelgaard books I cherished as a kid? Then again, the Big Red stories didn't feature junkie directors or a Pilates babe. Conquering the literary world, ninety-nine cents at a time. All the vampires, are walkin' through the valley...

PROLOGUE

I became enamored of the idea of writing a book some years back. Ultimately, does it matter why? One inconsequential problem, I had no story to tell. Fortunately, the hands of divine intervention appeared, sparing me the necessity of creative thinking. A buddy gave me a book for Christmas – a simple field guide to Birds of North America. I didn't have much interest in the subject but the dryly laid-out text began to interest me with its repetitive minutiae.

It wasn't enough but again, happenstance. I was in the Pasadena Library, standing in front of rows of musty books and closed my eyes, let my hands trail and randomly stopped on A Unit of Time, A Unit of Water: Joel White's Last Boat. It was a beautifully written accounting of the last days of a legendary boat builder, dying of cancer. It was not only about Joel's life and his boats, but his relationship with his father – none other than E.B. White, author of marvelous children's literature and scholarly essays and my favorite writer growing up. Now I was intrigued.

I needed more though and after a considerable struggle, came up the idea of writing about a guy who doesn't know what comes next. I had my book! I would write about Harold, a middle-aged advertising executive who sails his boat up along the Atlantic seaboard, following the migratory path of birds. I even came up with a brilliant title – Birds, Boats and Middle Age.

I wrote at a snails pace, day in, day out. Slowly amassed details, lots and lots of details. This was important stuff. The Birds of North American Guide was not enough – I purchased the definitive work on the subject – the Sibley Guide to Birds. There would be nothing left out. And books about boats. Lots of books about boats. About a year went by. I now had 300 pages with lots of marshes and birds and plant life and sailing and a guy named Harry who's kind of a dick.

The next logical step was to dump the manuscript off on a good friend who was also a very good writer. I needed affirmation. My friend found it to be boring and repetitive with an unlikable main character. He had enjoyed one random section however, in which Harry flies out to Hollywood to meet with studio types about running the ad campaign for a hopelessly snake-bitten sequel to a talking dog movie.

The scrapping of all but 40 pages didn't come easily. But it came, along with other characters and story devices and drafts that topped out at 450 pages and were again stripped down. And years of stops and starts and crashing computers and lost files and lost interest and eventually a found memory stick with an old draft and more revisions and at the end, an unstable mess as a result of different software systems and who knows what.

Perhaps the best thing about the process is just that – the process. The story about an ad exec and a dog with diabetes, a trio of entitled white wannabe gangstas and a Hungarian junkie director won't win any awards but it will exist in cyberspace as a drawn-out exercise that hopefully helped me become a better writer.

One final circle of hell presented itself – an abomination called e-formatting. I basically gave up on that battle – Coma Dog is on Smashwords, Nook and Kindle for 0.99 cents and there's free chapter samples available. The Smashwords reader is the larger widget to the right and there's about 58 free pages - click the arrow at the lower left corner, choose your fonts and spacing and you're all set. 

BOOKMARK

There are just seven games left in the Los Angeles Lakers' regular season. I am painfully aware that this blog has received little attention lately, especially from me. This has been my first entry this year. Many excuses, from work to other sites to real life – and all are only that, excuses. The Lakers have had a difficult and often perplexing year. In the past I would have chronicled the missteps with nearly as much enthusiasm as the victories – this team has been nothing if not story-worthy in many ways. Yet, I have procrastinated.

I'm surprised sometimes to see that traffic still filters through here. Lately, some of it has been not dissimilar to the tiny scrabbling feet you might hear between the walls late at night. It began with a few cleverly worded comments left on old posts, complimenting them and adding tidy little links. Soon the trickle became more than a trickle, I would log in an find a dozen or so comments. Fantastic post, I wonder why other experts in this sector don't notice this? Or, this recent gem, unquestionably consider that you stated your favorite reason seemed to be at the internet the easiest thing to have in mind to you. And always with ever-helpful links to sites at the end, from garden tools to kitchen appliances. I changed my security settings but the comments come in ever faster, now piling up in a spam folder. My assumption is that the various “Anonymous-es” don't actually bother checking to see if their comments appear.

What's next for Searching for Slava? I have no clue. I somehow doubt that a rash of inspiration will take hold as the Lakers begin a glorious resurgence, coming from eighth place in the west to resume their rightful place among the halls of great comeback stories. If they do somehow make a run at it though, I may memorialize it here. And if not, I'll certainly cover it during my twice-weekly reports for ForumBlue and Gold.

A few years back I spent too much time penning a manuscript for a full-length novel that never saw the light of day except for a brief excerpt I used as filler during the dog days of the NBA lockout. The laptop housing it crashed and I thought it was lost forever and didn't much care. I recently found a draft on an old memory stick and have been toying with edits. I may decide to release it into the cyberverse before I come to my senses. If nothing else, this particular bookmark will serve as an additional repository for rapt readers who like to leave comments about their own moneymaking schemes – those however will continue to be deleted.  

A VERY SAGER CHRISTMAS

Life had been good lately. Or, had at least been stable. As stable as a life spent largely on the road enduring universal disdain could ever be. If the sparkle had somehow left Sager's eyes, it was replaced by grim acceptance. And, there were the weekends at home in Scottsdale as well. If you were to happen by the floor-to-ceiling windows of a stucco McMansion off the 18^th green, you might observe domestic bliss. Or something.

The afternoon had been spent at Santa's Village. The penultimate Colorado Blue Spruce had been delivered by truck and wheeled into the living room. Craig was pleased. It was a living tree with its root ball encased in damp burlap and would be a proud addition to his back lawn after the holidays – he had just the spot picked out. Anne however was less than thrilled. She had been holding out for something made of metal, and was now swirling ice in a tumbler. Chipper meanwhile was plucking living needles and sticking them in his sister's angora sweater. Bunny Bear proceeded to wail and Craig exited to the patio and the comfort of his Adirondack, as the sun went resolutely down.

He thought about firing up the grill but a toothache was coming on. Inside, the sound of rending angora and a fresh anguished wail. Bunny Bear shared his reverence for natural fibers. An angry yell from Anne, the sound of Chipper's stomping feet as he headed upstairs to his wireless weather station kit. Craig found himself wondering how Betty the library assistant was. She didn't judge.

It was dark outside. A cold front was moving in. And still he sat. He imagined the smell of pine, a yellow moon and dream comfort memory. The familial pull wouldn't leave. And he knew it wasn't right, that toys by themselves weren't enough.

***

The early light revealed passing fields, now barren and cold. Faded barns and swayed ridge beams. He'd taken the old highways up through Utah and now into Wyoming. The RAV4 was doing yeoman's work. There was no shortage of food wrappers, seven hours out now and eyes burning. His cell had rung incessantly, until it hadn't. Anne would be making coffee, the children would be up soon. And questions and tears.

A long sweeping bend. A motorcycle by the side. An older gentleman with a leather bomber jacket. Sitting patiently by his backpack. Watching nothing in particular, facing away from the road. Sager pulled in and turned off the motor. The pings and ticking sounds. A warm engine and cold air. The man turned slowly, and also smiled slowly.

Big birds flying across the sky.

The man climbed in, slowly. The long pain that is simply accepted now. The backpack went into the back seat. Some strange stringed instrument stuck out through the top flap. It looked like a harpsichord. But it wasn't.

“Sager.” Just a statement. As if it was the most normal thing in the world.

“Phil. Problems with the Road King?”

Phil Jackson is a man who is careful with his answers. “Where are you headed my friend?”

“Saskatchewan. And you?”

Phil turned his attention to the passing barren fields. “I'm to host the kids at Deer Lodge for the holidays. Saskatchewan's nice this time of year though.”

Sager shrugged. He was already into Wyoming. He had not yet crossed across any borders.

Phil eyed the photos on the dashboard curiously. “Deer Lodge can wait.”

***

Night had turned to day and had turned to night once again. Craig Sager had tried to hide the smile but he felt like someone with a brother from another mother, you take it where you get it and sometimes you have to hide a grin. Like when you have a chance gelato spill and stop at a thrift store catering to the cabaret crowd. And then your whole life changes. 

Walter and Doris stood blinking at the door, bathed in the ambient glow of a single strand of holiday lights, zig-zagging across the clapboards.

Walter squinted, and then his countenance lit up. “Well, Phil Jackson, how are you sir? Come on in out of that cold night air!”

Doris beamed happily as well. She and Walter didn't know Phil personally but they certainly watched television, and while their son's parade of pastels and plaids had long worn thin, there was something different about a brush with eleven rings.

Phil stepped aside and motioned for the son to enter first. He followed behind, as Walter and Doris murmured anxiously about “the peat moss.” A moment later Doris did an about face and led him back out to the dining table.

“You just sit a spell and let the boys do what they have to do. No reason to trouble yourself. Would you like a glass of sherry?”

Phil pondered the question and sat slowly. “Is there anything else?”

“We have limeade.”

“I guess I wouldn't mind a small glass of sherry.” And then watched a curious spectacle as America's sideline reporter and his father made a series of hallway trips, carrying large bags of garden fertilizer over their shoulders out into the cold night air. He looked to Doris and raised his eyebrows. She just smiled sweetly. In due time, the procession ended and there was the sound of extended vacuuming. Craig finally stepped into the living room with a red, sweaty face.

“You'll be bunking with me. I got twins. But I have to take a shower first.”

***

It was late now. The faint smell of an apple-scented candle wafted from down the hallway. Phil was sitting at the dining table with Walter and Doris, playing canasta. Craig watched from the recliner, scowling and checking his cell messages now and then. “We could listen to music in my room if you want.”

Phil waved off the suggestion. “It's your draw, Walter.”

The gray dawn arrived and Craig was awoken by the strange sound of oddly-chiming strings. It sounded like flowing high-mountain water to him. He wiped the sleepy-bugs from his eyes and sat up, wrapping his blanked around him. “Where did you learn to play like that?'

Phil was sitting cross-legged on his twin bed, cradling his zither and plucking the strings. “It's my version of 'Rolling in the Deep' by Adele."

Sager nodded. “Do you know any Leonard Cohen songs?”

Phil shook his head slowly as if bemused by the man-child's questions, then looked back levelly. “No. But I can play this.” And began a languid version of Soundgarden's 'Black Hole Sun', speaking the words as he plucked the zither's strings.

Sager watched and listened, wide-eyed.

***

Days came and days passed. Craig and Phil took to visiting Rosthern's Main Street. They browsed the racks at Pogo's Bargain Center, sat on the park bench. Some nights they would stop at Bumpy's Bar. If a game was on, Phil would share his wisdom with the regulars. Craig attempted to join the conversations but his old pals simply slapped him on the back as if they were in on some familiar joke. He finally stopped trying.

At home, Phil helped make salads and watch the local weather reports with Walter and Doris. Christmas was just days away. At night by the glow of the twinkling bulbs, songs would be sung – joyous renditions of Burl Ives and Frankie Lane classics. Doris would accompany on the piano and Phil would strum his zither. Craig sang along at first but didn't feel appreciated, and eventually went to his room and listened to his own music, trying to drown the grownups' revelry. It just didn't seem right. He yelled out in the general vicinity of the living room. “Mom! Do we have any more pudding cups?”

Phil's bemused voice drifted back. “Sorry sport. I had the last one.”

It was a cold, clear day. The sun was shining through the windows. Phil was sitting on the couch, lost in thought. Craig wasn't sure what was wrong. He only knew that the legendary coach has been on the phone earlier, having a “private conversation” with someone. And now he looked sad and lonely.

Craig spoke up. “D'you want to go for a walk in the woods? That's what I do if I'm feeling troubled about anything. I bring my cassette recorder with me and sit on my favorite rock.”

Phil thought about this and shrugged. “Okay”.

***

They sat there by the stream, Craig perched on one rock eating goldfish crackers from a baggie. Phil sat on an adjoining rock, looking toward the water. The beavers could be seen, poking their heads their heads up briefly now and then from their pile of sticks and logs in the water.

“Those are my friends, Chipper and Mrs. Sleek.” Craig held out the baggie of goldfish crackers. Phil accepted them companionably. Sager continued. “You seemed sad in there. Is it because of the Lakers?”

Phil shook his head and smiled. “No, my friend. If you love something you have to let it go. If it comes back to you it is yours forever, if it doesn't, then it was never meant to be.”

Craig cocked his head, seemed about to say something, then closed his mouth and wrinkled his brow. He seemed to be working this out in his head.

Phil spoke again. “Well, it is about one Laker actually. Jeanie. That's who I was talking to on the phone earlier. She arrived in Deer Lodge. Tomorrow is Christmas Eve. She and my kids are wanting to see me. And I want to see them. This has been a fine past few days though. And I thank you.”

Sager's shoulders slumped. “It seems like we didn't even hang out that much. You just wanted to play cards with my parents.”

Phil Jackson stroked his white beard. “Why are you here, Sager? You have your own kids, you have a wife. It's Christmas time for crying out loud. Your bedroom isn't all that cool. It kind of smells in there to be honest.”

Sager thought hard on this. “Lately, the black dog has been with me. I'm questioning everything. I have an annoying ringing in my ears that won't go away. I don't know why I keep coming back here. I don't even think Walter and Delores are my real parents. They just tolerate me. I'm supposed to be from Batavia, Illinois. That's what Anne keeps telling me. And I don't think she's my real wife. Which means Chipper and Bunny Bear wouldn't be my real kids. What am I supposed to do?”

Phil tossed a couple goldfish crackers to the beavers. “Of course you're from here, sport. Nobody pretends to be from Rosthern, Saskatchewan. All your changes were here. But it is Christmas. And those kids deserve to have their dad with them, black dog or not. You could get a Santa suit.”

Craig considered this. “Not just any Santa suit.”

***

Craig Bartholomew Sager arrived at his own front door sometime after dark on Christmas Eve. It had been a long, bone-weary drive. He'd dropped Phil Jackson off in Wyoming, and they had thanked each other for the company. Now he stood at the threshold, and rang the doorbell.

Anne opened the door and put her hands on her hips. “Santa. Nice of you to stop by.”

Craig was wearing a glorious red leisure suit trimmed with faux ermine around the cuffs and collar, and a red velvet pimp hat. And a giant black patent leather belt. And a fake beard. “Ho ho ho!”

The kids came running out and hurled themselves against his legs. Their daddy was home. Anne shook her head. “You'd might as well come in then.” And she turned and walked inside. Sager grinned.

***

Christmas day had been splendid. The children opened an obscene amount of presents by the glorious living Spruce, and a wonderful meal from Whole Foods was consumed. And candy and treats and snack trays galore. Anne had appreciated the David Yurman jewelry and had polished off a goodly amount of Veuve Clicquot. And now the sun was going down. Again.

Craig had retreated to the patio and was parked in his Adirondack. Shadows crept across the golf greens below until the darkness consumed him. Anne had thoughtfully plugged in a strip of Christmas lights that crept across the patio fence. The tiny twinkling bulbs tried burning their way through the thickening black syrup of night. His cell phone vibrated silently. He looked at it and then spoke cautiously. “Yes?”

The voice sounded far away. “Hi Craig. It's me, Betty. From the library.”

Craig answered. “Yes, I know.”

A long pause. “Are you with your wife and children?”

“Yes, I am.”

“That's nice. Everyone should be with family on Christmas. So, have you been thinking about me at all?”

“Well, yes. Sometimes.”

“I bought a new dress. It's blue with a snowflake pattern. I think you'd like it.”

Sager sighed heavily. The tinnitus in his ears began again. Inside, he could hear the sound of the children. They were beginning to quarrel and the sound mixed with the ringing in his ears. Anne's voice was raising in timber but he could not make out the words. The voices seemed to ebb and flow in some strange rhythm that he hadn't yet figured out.

“Craig? Are you still there?”

Sager clicked the phone off and reached into a paper bag that was by the side of his chair. Inside was the old cassette recorder, it had come back from Saskatchewan with him. He pulled a wrapped chocolate from his pocket and put it in his mouth. And pressed play. The comforting rasp of a singer from his past.

Everybody knows that the dice are loaded, everybody rolls with their fingers crossed.  

THE SHOTGUN SINGS THE SONG

I felt resentful of Mike Brown from the beginning. It didn’t have that much to do with him really. It was more about the way the season had ended, the way the players had given up on Phil Jackson during his well-publicized last run. It had to do with the way management cleaned house and the way Brian Shaw was treated like a pariah. It felt toxic. And the new boss came along, smiling and affable and filled with reasonable plans. And the summer became a bitter lockout.

He had been to the finals, had been a coach of the year. He had dealt with an outsized ego in LeBron James. He preached defense. I for one, made fun - he wasn’t my choice. As if I had a right. And the lockout-shortened season began and he was thrown into it with a blockbuster trade that was vetoed and a jerry-rigged amalgamation of aging stars and average journeymen. The season didn’t go so well and we weren’t that surprised.

Coach Brown seemed like a nice guy. He had an easy laugh and a love of work. He held long practices and his players seemed to accept it because the intentions seemed good and sincere. And he seemed reasoned when he explained his cockeyed rotations and pedestrian offense. Because they were figuring this thing out, y’know? It took time. And the season ended with another second round exit and there was the usual talk about what he was and what he wasn’t and another summer rolled along and then the lid blew off in the form of Steve Nash & Dwight Howard. Rock Stars! Salvation! Bring on the rings, encrusted with jewels, for surely they are ours to lose.

There was a small matter - the team needed direction and a system. And low and behold the Princeton Offense was brought forth and this seemed good because there were familiar principles involved. It had a lofty name and it was about ball movement and off-ball movement and wasn’t it kind of like the triangle, kind of? And a new crop of assistant coaches were summoned and a smattering of new role players and the table was set. Signed, sealed, delivered.

There were a few minor wrinkles. Dwight Howard was coming off back surgery. The team was somewhat geriatric. This danged Princeton thing seemed awful tough to figure out. Kobe hurt his foot and Nash fractured a shin and Jordan Hill did the same thing to his back that Dwight Howard had done but that was okay because he’d just rest it a little and besides, Dwight himself was coming back after many months of inactivity. No worries.

It was easy to blame Mike Brown and yet it was also reasonable to blame injuries and unfamiliarity and a host of other events on the ground. And Mike still had his smile and his work ethic and his screwy rotations. The team lost three in a row to start the season and finally beat the lowly Detroit Pistons and with five minutes left in the game and a 25-point lead, Mike Brown stood on the sidelines with his hands on his hips, shouting out directions as Kobe and Dwight and Pau huffed and puffed down the floor.

And yes, there was something about this that didn’t quite seem right. Just like there was something lost in translation when Brown explained why he played Pau for such heavy minutes during the preseason. He said he knew Gasol had played a ton of ball during the course of the previous year so he would play him more now because it would be uncomfortable in the moment but wouldn’t seem uncomfortable later.

And then came the fateful fifth game of this almighty season and the Lakers were blown out in Utah. And the needle swiped across the vinyl with an ugly squawk and everything stopped. And Mike Brown talked his talk and the players said it would take some time and Jim Buss said he had every confidence in his guy. And pulled the trigger.

It was a surprise but it shouldn’t have been a surprise. Jim Buss is a numbers guy. He looks at percentages, at returns, at stats and data. And he has no aversion to dropping the hammer. He has been handed the keys to a kingdom that’s about winning, about major media market deals and signing superstars and great expectations. There's also talk that the grand patriarch himself wanted Brown gone. To be honest, it's remarkable that he lasted as long as he did.

Mitch Kupchak gave a presser and spoke thoughtfully and pragmatically. They’ll make some calls and sort through the candidates. They’ll probably talk to their superstar veterans about it, he said. Not for validation but just for information – who they know and that kind of thing. The team will take many things into careful consideration and won’t be rushed. I don’t buy it. I think Buss has been running the numbers for weeks. And the winner is.....

Meet the new boss. Same as the old boss.


(*update: I wrote the above hours after Mike Brown was let go. I felt as so many did, that Phil Jackson would return for one more go-round. It was a wonderfully sweet and toxic 48hr ride until management took a sharp and sudden turn. Mike D'Antoni is nothing like the old boss but he should be just as entertaining.)

NOT FADE AWAY

Searching for Slava isn’t consistent and it has no particular rhyme or reason. It will never be part of a network and it will never be invited to be part of a network. The top rated Slava post ever? Not Kobe, not Lamar, certainly not Craig Sager. As much as I like writing about woodland creatures and synthetic fibers, those posts are like the last kid who straggles across the finish line. Adam Morrison and a post called Shooting Star brought in the most traffic I’ve ever had, by far.

Ammo was waived by the Portland Trailblazers on Friday. He’d managed a training camp invite after lighting it up for the Clippers in summer league. He didn’t get the call from the Clippers. He played in Vegas after playing for the Brooklyn Nets in their summer league. That after playing for Besiktas in Turkey and KK Red Star Belgrade. Morrison was fired up in Serbia, he said he would have run through a wall the night of the viral ejection. He was fired up for the Clippers, averaging 20 ppg in six games. The Clippers should have signed him. He’s their kind of player. They didn't, but Portland gave him a shot.

Ammo’s not particularly consistent and he has no rhyme or reason except he loves the game. When he’s firing he’s amazing, transcendent. And when he’s not he’s like a stone-faced pedestrian. I have no illusions about why my hit counter's still running ten months later. I understand what 'Google images' means. I get that people click on a picture of a meteorite streaking across a nighttime sky. I also remember that when I first wrote it, the connection wasn’t about a photograph. Adam Morrison said he’d retire if Portland let him go. He’s got a couple young daughters in Seattle. Time doesn’t wait forever.

Was there ever a player who showed more emotion than Morrison with Gonzaga? Maybe. He has no more of a lock on passion than a million other ballers. Was there another player who shot himself up with insulin on the sideline? I have no idea. Was there another player who blew out his knee and failed to live up to lottery expectations? Sadly, too many. Morrison spoke to the geeky kids who lit joints on deserted playgrounds and let fly from obscure asphalt cracks that served as markers. And he never cared about that. He cared about the loss to UCLA in the sweet sixteen. If you didn’t see it you don’t know and it was only six years ago. It seems like a lifetime.

Ammo turned 28 this past summer. He will finish school at some point and he will live a life. And do something to earn a living because the expenses don’t stop. And at some point many years from now with his daughters grown and water under the bridge, he may track down old friends and look at photographs. You can blow off the sentiment in the moment but it will catch you in time. It always does. And you know that he was a shooting star. And the world will love you, just as long as you are a shooting star.

BLUE WINDOWS

The schedule had long been set. He had been told to buy new clothes if he must, that it would be an important season. Ernie said he wanted no more shenanigans. It hadn’t stopped the sections in his life from colliding. He smiled when the network suits spoke to him, and felt like he was still falling to earth.

The Scottsdale patio was quiet. Dying embers in the grill. Voices and laughter drifted up from the greens below. A young couple had managed to sneak on after dark, counting fireflies. Craig sat in his Adirondack, feeling as if time had passed him by. Anne spoke from the shadows by the slider. She had been watching his silhouette.

“You’re leaving again, aren’t you?”

Sager didn’t answer. A glass came out of nowhere, splintered against the leg of the grill, a million tiny pieces flying.

“Fuck you, Craig!” She turned and went back inside. Sager smiled grimly. Beware the dancer.

***

Three days driving, crumbled farms and outlet malls. He’d taken the RAV4 out of mothballs, taped favorite photos and clippings to the dash. Sunflower seeds in the ashtray and songs inside his head. He crossed the border, Saskatchewan was calling.

Walter and Doris stood in the doorway, blinking. “You’re back.”

Sages pushed his way past, a duffel slung over his shoulder. He was damned tired and sweaty. “Yes, mother. Your powers of observation are undiminished.” The overpowering stench as he opened his door. “Dammit! What is always with the fucking peat moss!?”

Doris’s voice drifted and wavered. “We needed your room for the peat moss.”

Craig tossed his duffel into a free corner, turned and stalked back up the hallway with its warped wood paneling. And stared evenly at his father. 

The father sighed and followed the son. And they each put 40lb bags on their shoulders and walked single file into the crisp night air and after they deposited each bag they turned and retraced a timeworn trail, and the ritual took place over and again and they said not a word. And after, Craig opened his windows and vacuumed the floor and borrowed candles from the mother, scented of apple. And took a shower and was clean again.

It was late. Sager was wearing sweats and eating crackers. He pulled sagging cardboard boxes from the closet and looked through them. He put the cassette of ‘Suzanne’ on the portable tape player. There was a wooden cigar box with cards and curios and he rocked from side to side with the music and called out now and then, “Mom! Is there any pudding?”

He revisited the old haunts but it felt like the last time he was here and he was conscious of the stares and whispers. He thought he remembered school and his parents and his friends and the way the fake fur felt on his skin when he was Willie the Wildcat. He followed an old girl friend to the park and watched as she pushed her son on the swing. And she turned and hissed at him, “I told you last time, I never really liked you. I’m married now!”

And he looked and asked her, “Was I ever really here before?”

And she took her son and hustled him away. She didn’t need this crap.

Craig sat at the dining room table with Walter and Doris. “This is good meatloaf, mom. You always made a good meatloaf.”

Walter viewed the world in terms of essential goods, needs and services. “Isn’t basketball season beginning soon?”

Sager nodded carefully as he chewed, wondered if there was desert, knew better than to ask.

Walter pondered. There was not enough room in the shed for the bags of peat moss. Some of them were sitting outside, in the damp night air. “Nobody ever gave me nothing, boy. Worked at the coat factory for long hours to put food on the table. The bits of fiber stick in your lungs and fester. They don’t tell you that when you start.”

Craig narrowed his eyes, swallowed the last bite. He would come back to the kitchen later for more to eat. After the parents were asleep. “Well, thank you for that. I need to go to my room and make some business calls now. The season will be starting soon, you know.” He pushed his bulk from the table and made his exit.

Doris patted her husband’s arm. “That went well, I think.”

Walter nodded. He hoped so. The boy had never been quite right. The music and clothes and questions about interpersonal relationships. The fact that he named his children after woodland creatures.

Inside his room, Craig rewound the cassette to his favorite spot. He opened the wooden box and arranged things inside it. All his memories were there.

***

Craig was sitting on his rock by the stream, filled with wonderment. Chipper or a beaver that certainly looked like Chipper, was carefully constructing a dam. Could it really be the same beloved animal from so many years ago? Could he return to a place in time?

“Hey Chip, hey buddy. Remember me?”

The beaver continued to work methodically, churning up mud with his front paws. Another beaver floated nearby, watching.

“Is that Mrs. Sleek? Oh my gosh. That is really something.”

“Why are you talking to those animals?”

Sager whipped his head around, instinctively put his hand over a baggie of graham crackers. They were his. A young boy was standing not far away, his head cocked to one side. Sager relaxed a little, smiled toothily.

“Hey sport. These are woodland friends of mine. We go back a long ways.”

“The kid’s eyes narrowed. “You’re Craig Sager.”

Sager smiled. “Yes, I am.”

“Why aren’t you stateside? The season’s starting soon.”

“I am finding solace from mother nature. Have you ever listened to Leonard Cohen?”

“No, I don’t know what that is. Are you any good with advanced metrics?”

Craig summoned his patience. Where had the simple beauty gone? “No. I don’t do that. I’m a sideline reporter. I communicate with people. That’s what I do.”

The kid was not impressed. “You wear ugly clothing, that’s what you do. So awkward. If I can’t see it in the stats I don’t give a rat’s ass.”

Sager frowned. “I don’t think I like your tone young man. What are you, ten?”

“Hey fuck you! Shots fired! You’re just a stupid old dinosaur. Fourteen or fight!”

There comes a time in a man’s life when the old ways return. Preservation of the species is tantamount. Craig bent down and found a good-sized rock and whipped it at straight at the little ass-mouth. It bounced off the kid’s shin.

“Hey what the fuck, asshole!”

Craig picked up another rock and took careful aim. This time it hit the boy-creature right on his flawless young forehead. A bloody welt formed immediately and the boy began to cry, and ran away. “Go back to Batavia, creep!”

Craig threw another rock at the kid’s back, just to be sure. He took a deep cleansing breath and turned back to his animal friends, who had been watching curiously. Chip resumed his building efforts. The rain and strong currents would be coming soon. Craig sat back down and took a graham cracker out of the baggie. He had his primitive cassette recorder with him, and rocked back and forth with the music.

It was nighttime when Sager returned to his parents’ house. He could see flashing lights and stayed in the shadows. Two Royal Canadian Mounties were taking notes. Sager couldn’t tell if his parents were covering for him, or simply mystified by what they were hearing. The mounties finally nodded and left, after extracting personal pledges of responsibility.

Long after the mounties had left and the house had gone dark, Sager crept back in and assembled his clothing and a few personal belongings. He climbed into the RAV4 and drove away. Nighttime miles melted away, dark clouds drifting overhead. He practiced lines that he would use on the sidelines and listened to the iconic warbles of a countryman. “Blue, blue windows behind the stars, yellow moon on the rise.”

***

The elevator dinged softly. Sages got out, polished white loafers on the plush carpet. He walked confidently into Ernie Johnson’s office. Johnson looked up over his rimless glasses.

“I hear there was a spot of trouble in the old familial provinces?”

Sager shook his head, “Nope, no problems at all.”

“You didn’t give some kid six stitches in the head?”

“No my friend. Been working on my golf game in Scottsdale.”

Ernie stared owlishly. “And if I were to say that he’s one of our's?”

Craig’s mouth set. “Webworks sector? I would say my mail runs ten to one better than anyone else here and my contract’s coming up.”

Ernie Johnson sighed heavily. He never got the easy ones. “Okay then. Got your itinerary?”

Sager patted his pocket. “I always have my itinerary.”

The two men stared, twenty feet of carpet and countless years between them. They didn’t blink as a body fell past the window. Sages finally separated and turned toward the door.

Ernie called after him, a peace offering. “How’s Anne and the kids?”

Sager didn’t look back. “They’re super. Anne’s been working out like a maniac.”

Craig Bartholomew Sager walked on down the hall, shoulders straight and proud. The elevators waited, the quiet broken by the occasional soft chime. A figure stepped out from around a corner, watching. There was a bandage on the boy’s forehead and his eyes were clear and pale. His time would come. Sager entered an elevator, pressed the button. The doors closed silently.

Big birds flying across the sky. Throwing shadows on our eyes.

THE BROKE MONEY

The further you go, the further the road stretches, playgrounds, youth leagues and endless summer camps. They were standouts in school, celebrated by peers and coaches, boosters and  sycophants. Some went undrafted, some have been knocking around forever and some have had more than a taste of glory. Each summer they make their way back from all corners of the basketball globe like lemmings. They hang around gyms, minimize their injuries and fill dance cards set by agents. What binds them together is a love of the game and a snowball’s chance of sticking around once the regular season arrives. Altogether, NBA teams hand out around 100 of these tickets each fall and they’re not easy to come by.

Heading into training camp, the Lakers are carrying an 18-man roster, four of whom are non-guaranteed rookies. There may be more added between now and then. It's unlikely the team will carry a 15th contract into the regular season as they prefer to keep a spot open for flexibility. Nonetheless, the tryouts aren't vanity deals. The chosen few will be practice bodies, specialists, role players and hopefuls and when all is said and done, they'll become files for future reference. And every now and then, one becomes part of the lexicon for all the others. 

On the night of June 28, 2012, the Lakers paid a cool half-million to Dallas for the 55^th overall pick. In doing so, they acquired Darius Earvin Johnson-Odom, the man with the awesome name. The 6-2 shooting guard out of Marquette blew away the combine this past spring with a 41.5” vertical leap. He's got a defensive mindset and a sweet lefty jumper. The obvious obstacle is being a small guard on a roster with seven other guards, two of whom are named Bryant and Nash. Regardless, it would not be unheard of for the Lakers to hold onto the kid as a future prospect, especially given the need for affordable pieces within the new collective bargaining agreement.

I wasn’t thrilled when the Lakers took Robert Sacre in the dead last slot, passing on point guard Scott Machado who was somehow still on the board. Machado has since signed a three-year deal with the Rockets. Nonetheless, Sacre, a seven-foot banger out of Gonzaga, was solid in Summer League play for the Lakers, leading the team in minutes and showing signs of relevancy. He was born in Louisiana and moved to Canada at age seven. He is beloved by former teammates and sports an ocean of ink, including two dogs, a lion, rapper DMX and one that simply reads, "water the bamboo." The Lakers don’t have a lot of front court size in reserve and Sacre has an insurance policy shot, especially if Dwight Howard’s back isn't ready.

Reeves Nelson is the prototypical cautionary tale, a former projected lottery pick who got kicked off the UCLA squad for disciplinary reasons in his sophomore year. An undersized center and power forward, nobody ever accused Nelson of not being willing to mix it up. There’s a difference however, between being willing to fight and willing to play when your team’s down. There’s plenty of conflicting stories, as well as a ten million dollar lawsuit against Sports Illustrated. The story took an unexpected turn when the Lakers invited Nelson to work out before the draft. They subsequently brought him to Vegas for Summer League and left him on the bench for the first two games to test his character. They liked what they saw both on and off the court and offered him a training camp contract. There is plenty of potential and always has been, just as there has been for countless other players who chase the dream.

Greg Somogyi was never a projected lottery pick or anywhere near it. At 7-3, his center of balance lies somewhere between a rickety stepladder and an origami figure in a stiff wind. A native of Hungary, Somogyi averaged 3.5 ppg during his four undistinguished years at UC Santa Barbara. He can’t shoot, can’t rebound, can block a little, and is otherwise fully able to stand under the basket and get dunked on. Somogyi is the least likely of these four to make the Lakers or any NBA team for that matter. Still, he is very, very tall. And, will likely find work if he wants it in Europe along with a whole lot of other really tall eastern bloc guys.

There’s stories on every team, from those just beginning their NBA quest and from those nearing the end. It’s the same for every sport and for dreams unrelated to sports. It’s the story of the holy grail and that which remains tantalizingly out of our grasp. Johnson-Odom, Sacre, Reeves and Somogyi all met in Las Vegas and probably got to know each other a little bit. At the Lakers’ El Segundo training facility, they will compete for one improbable chance.

There’s a term in Vegas for gamblers who lose everything – broke money is what’s given by casinos for a one-way ticket out of town and away from temptation. The itch never quits though. Training camps will begin and they will end and the hopefuls will drift away. They’ll have a bit more than broke money in their pockets and they’ll head back on their serpentine journeys, endless and elusive, with no direction home. 

EVERY PICTURE TELLS A STORY

I walked outside this morning to a cooling wind. Change comes slowly here in Austin but it comes. There will still be sweltering days as basketball rolls around but fewer and further between. This will be my third season logging entries into something more akin to a journal than NBA binary code. And I wondered why I felt this way and it was my inner clock telling me something - it has been a year since the last time I felt this way.

Otis is still of the world. I took him for his morning shuffle and was fiddling with my phone and looked and my heart jumped. The old dog was lying in the grass. Back when he spent so much time outdoors it wouldn’t have seemed unusual. But he hasn’t done it here, not on his walks. And I went over and was able to coax him up. He is unsteady on his back legs now and walks in sections. In Atwater Village in California when he was a young dog, he was a fearless hunter of skunks. 

It was pitch black in the back yard. We had returned from a run in the neighborhood. Otis went scrambling after something and I thought it was a cat and I ran and bent down and grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, just as the skunk sprayed. It was so close that it wasn’t even a smell but an overwhelming taste, as if a battery had exploded in my mouth. Otis was perfectly happy about the whole thing. It was the skunk’s last act on earth.

Did Thomas Wolfe essentially have it right? Can we not go home again? Can we return to a building or a place, but not a place in time? It is never quite as we remember and we ourselves are not the same. I am better at tracking old friends through the wonders of the digital age than I am at maintaining relationships in the moment. I have been going through boxes, photos and letters, remembering places and canyons and cars. I listened to an old song while I was typing.

Otis was fast asleep from tonight’s adventure, the nightly walk straight into the mosquitoes no-fly zone. Every evening I return with welting bites on the insides of my wrists and arms, and take Bendryl to relieve the maddening itch. I watched him while he was sleeping. I click links and scroll walls and look at the things from the box.

I’ve had recurring dreams, hanging out with my older brother in the present although he died long ago. Searching for someone or something from my past, visiting an apartment I once lived in. It’s mostly empty but I know it can’t be right, I feel that someone belongs here, that they will return soon. Down in the lobby are the old metal mail cubbies that took an entire wall. I still have a key and the box is overflowing but I know it is not the same, that I can’t return to this place in time. There was a tree outside the window, and traffic from Franklin Avenue.

I believe Thomas Wolfe and I don’t believe Thomas Wolfe. There are tiny cloud icons with lightning bolts on my cell screen, arriving later in the week. You can return to changing seasons of course, and all that comes with them. There is a sound that is missing outside and I realize the cicadas have left and gone away. I go upstairs, feeling my way through boxes in the dark. This is not just for you but it is for you. I looked at your picture while I was typing.