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 18th green, you might observe domestic bliss. Or something in that ballpark.

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 and smiled.

Big birds flying across the sky.

He 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 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 woke to the 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 watched 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 RAYON THAT EXPLODED

I have always been enthralled with words. Growing up in a small town, I would actually pull a wagon to the library, check out my allotment of books and arrange them on my bed. When I was eight, I penned my own offering. It was a slim collection of stories and drawings, mostly poems about hamsters or how potatoes grow. There were a couple features as well though, like ‘Stubs Makes Halfback." Even then, the brilliance abounded - witness a sampling:

At the table, he told his father and his mother of his good luck. His mother said “It’s good luck you haven’t got your arm broken or your teeth knocked out.”

My literary tastes then, tended toward the Hardy Boys or Jim Kjelggard novels about Irish Setters and beaver dams. See how far I have come.

Global polymorphic giants hire the cyberverse and the criers cooked their bindles again for a couple cents a word. The technology and convenience that allows us to share, but the thin tubes were more constricted now. And the little birds would not open their mouths, to reach out in immediate and efficient ways so much. And the pasty tar dribbled out like they did last summer, requires that we accept less and less for our efforts, and no longer accepted the inserts, in 160 characters or less.

Craig Sager was sitting at the bar, staring down at the dregs of a Peach Bunny. He had tried several syrupy concoctions so far. His head was splitting. Insect guitar sounds leaked from somewhere around the edge.

“The word is more of a parasite than I ever thought it was. And I thought it was a parasite.” The voice seemed to come from inside some large can, deadpan and gravelly.

Sager turned slightly, peered at a black and white apparition of an old man in a baggy suit. His face was impossibly gaunt and sunken in on itself. The image flickered slightly, like bad reception.

William S. Burroughs continued morosely. “A thought is a seed planted under the skin. It will stay and fester there for years, its dark thread will travel like a virus.”

American’s sideline reporter was halfway bombed and didn’t give a shit about dark viral things. His whole fucking life was a dark viral thing. He missed his fictional parents in Saskatchewan. He looked blearily up toward a cute bartender in a crisp white shirt. “What kind of drinks use butterscotch schnapps?”

A hand spun him around on his bar stool, the old man was up in his face, smelling like tainted cheese. “Who are you?”

Sager wasn’t so bottomed out that he couldn’t appreciate a gag. “Just a man in a pink suit.”

William’s bony knuckles hooked into his abdomen, Sager crumpling in pain. He would have slid off his stool if the old man hadn’t held him up. The waitress watched, impassively. Sager sucked air, “why?” A soft binging sound came from his pocket. The black and white man disappeared. Sager pulled his electronic device out and stared at it. A soft monochromatic woman’s voice.

“Your word count is 673. Please deposit $13.46.”

Sager just stared. “I don’t.... what am I supposed to do?”

“Your word count is 688. Please deposit $13.76.”

Sager howled in anguish, “you’re my fucking phone for God’s sake!”

He fumbled for a credit card, wiped it helplessly across the phone in random, useless patterns. A set of bony knuckles crashed into the side of his head. A brief second of hot white static pixelated to black. The distant sound of keypad clackings, echoing and mixing with the incessant insect chorus, the cicadas were back.

***

A 1965 Ford Futura yawed back and forth across the undulating black tar highway. The man in the passenger seat had a death grip on the dashboard. The pain in his head was almost unbearable, tiny white sparks firing randomly in his field of vision and drifting outside. The scenery seemed to float past backwards. He looked slowly to his left. William was talking to himself, a monotone recitation. Sager looked down at the skin on his hand. It was shades of black and white, only his clothing was in color, the fuchsia rayon shirt in improbably saturated relief.

“Are we going back in time?” Sager’s voice seemed calm. It could get no worse than this.

“Only a few days.” That voice, as if the inflections were randomly generated and sorted.

“It seems so much more than that.”

“Writers, like elephants, have long, vicious memories. There are things I wish I could forget.”

Sager shook his head, watched the outside go by. A boy was pulling a wagon, reading a book. He stopped, startled, eyes wide open as the Futura drifted past, wheels squealing rubber protest. The kid went back to his book.

Flag lay beside the pool. He opened great liquid eyes and turned them on the boy with a glazed look of wonder. Jody pressed the muzzle of the gun barrel at the back of the smooth neck and pulled the trigger. Flag quivered a moment and then lay still.

Jody threw the gun aside and dropped flat on his stomach. He retched and vomited and retched again. He clawed into the earth with his finger-nails. He beat it with his fists. The sink-hole rocked around him. A far roaring became a thin humming. He sank into blackness as into a dark pool. 

* The Yearling, Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings, 1938

Burroughs limped along the sidewalk, it was scorching hot in the late afternoon. An old hooker held his arm at the elbow’s crook. Her makeup was thick and her hair was blond. In another life she had been a teacher. Sager walked behind them, almost an afterthought. His skin had returned to its normal, ruddy color.

A group of young men with blurred, ecstatic faces tumbled from the casino in an abstract wash of color. They were shouting and free, they had come for summer games and refused to leave. They looked at the strange trio and laughed and snickered and whispered among themselves. And brushed past on the sidewalk, jarring the old man’s shoulder.

One of them yelled in surprise. “What the fuck! He cut me!”

The others gathered around. “He didn’t cut you. That’s no cut, man, it’s barely bleeding. It looks like something got under your skin.”

William smiled, old teeth like dried corn kernels. And turned and limped away with his companion. Craig wasn’t told to follow and had fleeting thoughts of escape. He looked back and forth, a widening gulf between the two small groups. And hastened after William.

“Look, just make it stop for a little while. I’m down with Tawny Kitaen and Saskatchewan. I like retro textiles. I am interested in interpersonal relationships. The season’s months away, just put me on the shelf? Please?”

The old prostitute stood and listened. She turned empathetic eyes toward the old junkie, nodding her head. William pushed his fedora off his forehead and contemplated the plea.

“I will think about it.”

Craig nodded. “Good, that’s all I ask. Think about it.”

William made a fist with his old rheumatoid knuckles. Craig grimaced and closed his eyes, waiting for the pain. Nothing. Finally, he opened his eyes again. He was sitting on the patio in Scottsdale with Anne, evening floating up off the 14th green. Mixed grill meats were sizzling inside the Broil Master. He closed his eyes against the pain. Why wouldn’t it stop?

Anne swirled the ice cubes in her glass and smiled. “It’s not so bad, is it? The children have been caught up in the ungodly pageantry all evening. They'll be wanting to play.”

He could hear their voices from inside, mixed with sound of television. The noise of a crowd, and strains of music. Something far off stirred, he was conscious of the hairs on the back of his creased neck.

“Daddy, daddy, they’re marching now!”

He hoisted his rayon bulk out of the Adirondack chair, and made his way inside. The big screen television showed a serpentine parade, the athletes of many nations. The children stood, transfixed by something that was new to them but somehow ingrained. Chipper’s face was glowing as he watched. His sister turned from the television, young and hopeful. She looked at her father. “Do you think Grammy and Grampy are watching?”

A smile finally came over Craig’s face, warm, simple, and genuine. “I bet they are, Bunny Bear. I bet they are.” The music morphed as his people came into view, a wash of red jackets. He stood taller, and placed his hand over his heart. “O Canada!”

Anne had walked in from outside, her ex-dancer’s walk. “Batavia, Craig. You’re from Batavia, Illinois for God’s sake.”

He closed his eyes, and his mouth set once again, the crevices deepening.

***

The wagon bumped along, the first dandelions scratching up through buckled sidewalk. Salt air, cut green grass. The boy bent down and picked some of the bright yellow flowers. His mother would like them. Something stuck him and he instinctively put his hurt finger into his mouth. At home in the kitchen, he showed it to her. She was tall and willowy then, and clear of mind.

“It looks like something tiny under your skin. You must have pinched a nettle. I can get it out for you. It’ll only hurt for just a moment.”

He shook his head vigorously. His mother smiled at him.

“It’ll just have to fester and work its way out then. Unless it’s a seed and it grows into something big! Like a beanstalk!”

His eyes widened. His mother hugged him, to show that she was joking.

“I’m going to get started on dinner, Daddy will be home soon. Are you going to your room to read?”

The boy nodded, and turned, and walked toward the stairs.

BEND IT LIKE NASH

The path began a gradual ascent, sloping canyon walls reflecting the late afternoon sun. A thousand dimpled footprints, hawks drifting on thermal banks. Steve Nash had done the radio shows, had said all the right things, had absorbed the moment. On some basic level, he needed to get clear. He paused and regarded his surroundings. His friends in Los Angeles wouldn’t shut up about the canyons. Magical places, they said. Places to heal. He saw discarded soda cans and water bottles, bleached from the sun. Dried dog feces and flies. He pushed his sweaty hair off his forehead, began his solitary journey again and was forced to stop short. Standing in his path were two men - a vaguely familiar tall white guy with rosy cheeks, and Craig Sager, resplendent in a lime polo shirt, white shorts and a tinfoil hat with horns.

Nash wasn’t sure where to begin. “What’s with the hat?”

Sager smiled tentatively. “It helps to block the frequencies. I’ve been getting a lot of headaches lately.”

Nash processed this, squinted up at the tall one. "Weren't you that Russian guy from the Lakers?”

Slava grimaced slightly. “Ukrainian.”

Nash nodded agreeably, checked his watch. “Well, this has been super, guys. I’ve got to keep moving. They say there’s a nice view of the smog bank on top.” He tried edging around them. Medvedenko shuffled sideways for the block. Nash sighed heavily.

***

There’s a place where truth meets fiction meets truth. Stephen John Nash was born in Johannesburg, South Africa. His father was a journeyman soccer player who hailed from England. His mother had played netball at the national level. The family moved to Canada when Steve was a toddler - Regina, Saskatchewan, to be accurate. That’s where his brother Martin was born. The family didn’t remain there long, moving to Vancouver, and then Victoria, British Columbia. Craig Sager’s own journey was deeply rooted in Saskatchewan, or so he was convinced. In truth, their paths were serpentine and elusive. Not so Medvedenko, his heart was always in the Ukraine. He stood on the path uncomfortably. He disliked the heat.

Basketball has not been kind to Steve Nash’s nose. In 2007, during a heated second round series between the Suns and the Spurs, Nash collided with Tony Parker and the blood took on an epic life of its own. The nose was a monstrosity, and the Spurs prevailed. In 2010, Derek Fisher of the Los Angeles Lakers head-butted Nash's nose, resulting in an on-court self adjustment. "You play against them so many times in the playoffs." He was talking about the Lakers of course, not simply the west. The most obvious way home meshes naturally with Canada, but that doesn’t really tell the story.

Steve Nash played sports endlessly as a kid; lacrosse, rugby, hockey and soccer.  His brother Martin went on to a 15-year pro career with nine different soccer clubs. His travels made Steve’s look linear. Their younger sister Joann was a standout soccer player in college. The way home isn’t always about geography. Sometimes it’s about life and relationships and a place in time. And as you get older you have your own children and they begin their own journey, with their own familial roots.

Nash found basketball somewhere around the 8^th grade, and got real good, scary fast. He averaged, 21.3 points, 9.1 rebounds, and 11.2 assists in his senior year of high school. His coach sent letters by the dozen to major college programs, to no avail. The head coach from tiny Santa Clara College in California was impressed though, and visited the BC senior boys AAA championship. He called Nash the worst defender he’d ever seen and offered him a full ride scholarship. Four years at a school whose previous NBA success story was Kurt Rambis. The rest becomes a familiar fairytale story of Santa Clara’s improbable rise to contention in the NCAA tournaments.

***

It didn’t take much to get past Slava, just a half-ass spin move and Nash was scampering up the trail. The Ukrainian sighed heavily as he turned and began slowly trudging up, along with Sager, whose sandals skidded on every loose pebble.

Up ahead, standing by a cactus patch, was a tall blonde vision, back-lit by the sun and laughing. “Hair Canada, what took you so long?”

Nash grinned, “I got delayed by the welcome wagon.”

Nowitzki looked past his little buddy to the two men struggling up the trail. “Sager! Nice shirt! Slava?! Is that you? My god, man!”

Medvedenko finally allowed himself a smile. “Dirk”.

The God-creature’s laughter echoed off the canyon walls. “So we have a fantasy adventure today?”

Nash shrugged. “Whatever. They can tag along if they want.” He continued up the path and the others followed.

Steve Nash’s NBA career is well-documented - drafted at #15 by the Phoenix Suns and traded to Dallas a couple years later. He became friends with the kid from Germany, eventually returned to Phoenix when Mark Cuban wouldn’t match offers. All the years of playoff battles, reaching the Western Conference finals thrice. And the Suns’ long slide down as Coach D’Antoni left, and then Amare, Barbosa, and others. Nash remained loyal throughout, always returning, always trying. And marrying and fathering twin girls, and the birth of a son that coincided with the end of a marriage.

The trade to the Los Angeles Lakers took everybody by surprise for a myriad of reasons, not the least being a deal that was cobbled together from pieces of scrap. There were feelings of abandonment and anger. It would have been one thing to sign with the Raptors. That’s an understandable narrative, that’s going home. Even New York where he lived off season, all the way on the other side of the country. But Los Angeles was the unkindest cut of all. The years of not getting past them in the playoffs, the fights and hard feelings. Small market versus major market and the convenient belief that a Hollywood team simply buys their way to entitlement, year after year.

There are trajectories that lie outside the lines. Separated parenthood can be difficult to explain to those who haven’t lived it. Time moves faster with each advancing year. Feelings of loss can play into our decisions in deliberate and tangible ways, and in abstract, even ignored ways. In the end it was the simplest of decisions. Nash said that he wanted to be close to his children. That plus $27 million.

***

The four men had reached the top and were sitting on the edge of a ridge, overlooking the sprawling city below. Around them were sagebrush and golden yarrow, dusty fissures in the ground. The sun was starting to set, glinting off Sager’s tinfoil horns. He reached into the pockets of his shorts, pulled out a baggie of sunflower seeds and offered them around. There were no takers.

The newest Laker squinted toward America’s sideline reporter. “I know why I’m here. Why are you here?”

Craig wasn’t sure now, how to put it in words. “Los Angeles is a different place. We wanted to prepare you.”

Steve shrugged. “It’s not that different. I’ve spent the better part of twenty years in the west. And what’s all this business about Saskatchewan? You’re from Illinois.”

Sager chewed harder on his sunflower seeds. Nash wasn’t done. “And what about this Chipper and Bunny Bear nonsense. Those aren’t your kids.”

Craig’s frown lines grew ever deeper. He hadn’t left a perfectly workable scenario in Scottsdale just to have his storylines butchered. Dirk laughed, reached around and knocked the tinfoil hat off. A gust of wind took it spiraling away. Slava watched the proceedings implacably.

Sager hoisted himself up from his sitting position and stood, towering over Nash.

“I didn’t come here to be insulted.”

Dirk laughed, “Oh c’mon Sager, sit down. We’re just messing with you.”

Nash looked up and grinned. “Yeah, sit back down, gimme some of those sunflower seeds.”

Sager sat down warily, handed over the baggie.

Nash continued, “I know you’re a real dad. Chill.” He looked over toward the big Ukrainian. “How about you Slava, got any kids yet?”

Medvedenko frowned, “Yes, seven years old now.” His chin jutted out a little as he stared morosely off into the distance.

The others glanced at each other, shrugged, The moment passed as the sun dipped below the horizon. Steve Nash turned his attention back to the vista below, bands of burnt orange and purple, diffused by chemical particulate. You say you know but you don't know. 

CHIPPER AND BUNNY BEAR

Craig Sager felt out of sorts, the frequencies just weren’t the same lately. He was sitting at a small desk in a small studio apartment. He opened a drawer and organized a box of paperclips and a complimentary pad of Radisson Hotel notepaper, acquired during the western conference playoffs. That was when a player who shall remain nameless compared him to a popsicle with teeth. The player with the stupid plastic frames. No, the other player with the stupid plastic frames. No, the other one. Craig had died just a little bit more inside. He shut the drawer, stood and opened the blinds a crack with his index finger. It was raining outside. Wet streets, yellow swipes of light.

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed. Only the sound of intermittent rain drops. It sounded as if they were landing inside somewhere but he couldn’t find them. He entered the kitchenette and took a half a ham and cheese on pumpernickel from the refrigerator. It was wrapped in a paper towel. He sat and picked at it. Tawny Kitaen was no longer in his life. Recently, somebody had questioned his status as a native of Rosthern, Saskatchewan. A woman had called, and claimed to be his wife. She said the children missed him, she asked where the love had gone.

Craig knew a few things. That he had rented this apartment recently. That there were no more games for him to report on this season. He walked over to his bed and laid on top of the covers. He pulled a blue velvet shrug from under the pillow, and placed it carefully under his head. He turned on the TV. The American Airlines Arena sounded like Dresden when the bombs were falling. The faces in the stands were twisted and yelling. Craig imagined himself standing on the sidelines, wearing a frozen grin. His head was pounding. He fell asleep.

“Knights in white satin, never reaching the end... “ The music burbled and the image rippled slightly around the edges. Like the peaceful babbling brook. The boy sat on a rock, watching patiently. He had a nice thick head of hair, and some books with him. And a canteen and a paper sack lunch. Chip the beaver was adding twigs to his creation, working carefully, yet quickly – the rain was coming. Mrs. Sleek watched him work. The kits swam nearby, gamboling in the stream. The boy whispered, “”Hey Chip! Hey, you’re doing a good job!” Chip kept working, The boy tried making a couple chirping noises. “Hey Mrs. Sleek! Chip is sure doing a good job!” Mrs. Sleek tilted her head and looked at him. The scene burned to white.

Sager had traveled to Austin, and was sitting outside a burrito place. The creator sat across from him. He was tall and thin and listened patiently. “You’re gonna be okay. Your wife’s name is... Anne. You have two children. It’s okay to visit them. No, Tawny doesn’t love you anymore. You have to get past that now. You have a good job. You love blended synthetics. You’re from Saskatchewan if I say you’re from Saskatchewan." 

The flights were all jacked up. Overhead monitors scrolled and sputtered with symbols that made no sense. It smelled like every other shitty airport terminal he had ever been in. He stopped at a newspaper and t-shirt store. A song filtered through tinny overhead speakers. “Knights in White Satin...” He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to make the music stop. Why wouldn’t the music stop? The thin man had smiled patiently at his questions. “You have to trust me, Craig."

Craig was sitting at a table in a library. It was an old library, with high ceilings and many old books. The library was near the small apartment he had rented. He never went to libraries but had decided to come to this one. He sat at the table with his hands folded in front of him. A woman approached him and smiled pleasantly. She had a name badge that read: “Betty, library assistant”. Craig couldn’t really tell how old she was. She may have been 30, or she may have been 40. She wore glasses and had her hair in a loose bun.

“You’re not reading anything.” Her voice was soft and gentle.

Craig looked at the empty table in front of him. “No, I guess not.”

Betty thought for a moment. “Would you like to read something?”

Craig pondered. “Do you have any of the Big Red books? I used to like those.”

Betty pursed her lips for a moment as she thought. “Jim Kjelgaard? Boys and their dogs?”

Craig nodded. “Yes. Big Red was an Irish Setter. A really good one.”

Betty nodded as well. “Yes, those are very old books. We don't get a lot of requests for them anymore. Would you care to follow me?”

Craig got up from his chair. He followed and could not help but notice her hourglass figure, under a modest navy colored dress with an appealing floral pattern.

Craig picked out three books by Kjelgaard, each old and worn - Big Red, Son of Big Red, and Chip the Dam Builder. The latter had been a particular favorite of his. Betty led him back to a nice leather couch in the periodicals reading room. Craig sat and held his books in his lap. He was feeling a little bit sleepy.

“You can put your head here if you want.” Betty indicated her bosom area. Craig nestled against her and drifted off. An older gentleman looked up from his newspaper, and then went back to his article. Betty smiled sweetly at him.

He woke up, it was four in the morning, his head was pounding, he was not in his own bed. The woman from the library was facing away from him, sleeping. Light filtered through the blinds. He looked around the room. They had been at some out of the way dive bar. He was sure that he had talked a lot. His mouth tasted like metal. He didn’t want to be here.

Betty stirred, took hold of his hand and fell back asleep. Craig pulled his hand away, got out of bed quietly. He nearly blacked out from the rush of pain to his head. He walked quietly to the closet. His clothes were hanging neatly. He couldn’t help but notice a yellow cashmere sweater, just sitting there on a shelf. He touched it, so soft and so nice. He looked over at Betty, sleeping quietly.

***

Craig pulled into the driveway of an upscale stucco monstrosity in Scottsdale, Arizona, adjacent a golf course. Two blond-headed children came running and threw themselves against him, making children noises. Chipper asked if he’d brought back any autographed jerseys or game balls this time. Craig smiled, and said no.

Craig’s daughter spied the yellow cashmere sweater in a bag. “I want that.”

Craig considered the situation for a moment. “Yes, that’s for you, bunny bear.”

His daughter held it up in front of her. It looked like a sweater dress. Craig’s wife approached and appraised the scene. “I’ll take you to Dress Barn later.”

Bunny bear frowned. “I want this one.”

Sager’s wife shrugged and walked away. She had an ex-dancer’s walk.

The sun was starting to sink, casting golden fingers over the perfect golf greens. Craig and Anne were sitting on the patio at a wrought iron table. The Broil Master was nearby, a selection of mixed grill meats sizzling nicely. Craig looked out over the 14^th hole, golfers in brightly colored polos. The children were playing inside, their voices rising and falling in some cadence. It may have been the beginnings of a quarrel.

Anne sipped her iced tea and looked at him. “Kenny called earlier. They’re having a barbecue on Saturday.”

Craig nodded, his eyes still on the golfers.

“Kenny said to tell you, that if you wanted to talk about anything, it would be a good time.”

Craig nodded again. “I’ve been thinking about visiting Walter and Delores in Saskatchewan this summer.”

Annie’s mouth set. “Batavia. Illinois.”

Craig turned and looked at her. “Saskatchewan”.

Inside, the sudden rending of cashmere, and an anguished wail. “My sweater!”

Anne swirled her ice cubes and looked out over the perfect golf greens. Her garden of wildflowers was coming in nicely. “The children don’t do well when you’re away for such long periods.”

The small pieces of mixed grill were beginning to smoke. Craig closed his eyes. Let them burn.

Episode one   Episode two   Episode three   Episode four 

THE SEERSUCKER SEASON

The up and down season had coalesced in a dizzying drift of final games without the Lakers' superstar. A convincing win against the San Antonio Spurs, deep in enemy territory, followed by an equally satisfying home stand against the Dallas Mavericks – a regular season sweep against the world champions that didn’t nearly erase the stink of the previous year’s playoff ruination.

“Yada, yada, yada. What a wad of drek.” America's sideline reporter slammed his laptop shut. 

A man sitting across the aisle peered owlishly. “I hope we can trust you without a chaperone on this trip, Craig. No more androids or electric sheep?”

Sager looked sideways and grinned. “It’ll be fine, Ernie. We’ve gone too far for shenanigans. It’s home stretch time.” He called up the aisle. “Can I get some more peanuts back here?” A red-haired attendant with an hourglass figure sighed and looked in her cart. Craig closed his eyes and sat back. The lines in his chin seemed etched ever deeper these days. The 747 banked down over endless squares of earth tones and stucco.

The hospitality suite at Staples Center boasted a buffet table laden with shrimp, roast beef and cute little cups filled with gourmet candy. Craig was in heaven. Resplendent in seersucker, he alternately feasted and wrapped parcels of food in napkins, and stashed them for later.

“Your pockets are invitations for serpents and reprimand.” The speaker had white hair and used a cane.

“Gah!” Craig jumped back a foot. “Oh, hey there Phil... Mr. Jackson. You scared me. What are you doing here? And where’s that guy with the robe and funny incense pots from the last post?"

“Oh, you mean Zorad? He’s around somewhere.” Phil smiled disarmingly. “Right there behind you.”

Craig’s head swiveled. “Gah!!” He jumped back in a wholly different direction. The man in the white robe had milky eyes and held up his hand in some serene devil manner. Sager screwed his own eyes shut. When he opened them, everything had become normal-like again.

Zorad smiled pleasantly. He had a kind face and was wearing an organic cotton shirt with a Nehru collar. “I’m sorry if I alarmed you. That’s an interesting suit you’re wearing. In Hindustani we call it ‘shir o shekar’, meaning milk and sugar.”

Craig smiled tightly. “That’s fine.” He grabbed a handful of butter mints and shoved them in his pocket before edging away. He was about to leave when he noticed a thin black wire with a tiny bulb shape at the end, hidden beneath a platter of salmon.

“That’s a computer jack, Craig. We provide them as a courtesy for our friends in the media.” Jeanie Buss smiled sweetly, moving over to Phil and Zorad.

Craig put the wire back where he found it. “That doesn’t look like any computer jack I’ve ever seen. I wear mics, I know about this stuff.”

“Of course you do, Craig. Are you still with TNT?” Jeanie nestled hear head against Phil’s chest. Sager scowled and left the room.

The sideline seersucker found his way down to courtside. Kobe Bryant was sitting completely alone on the bench, wearing a nice Italian suit, watching a couple players in warmups, tossing up baskets.

“Hey Kobester, mind if I sit a spell?”

Kobe shrugged, gestured benignly. Sager settled in. Kobe was at least a head higher than him. “Is that Phil’s old throne you’re on?”

“Nope.”

“Heh. It makes you look like you’re taller than the coaches.”

“I am taller than the coaches.”

“Oh. I’m pretty tall.”

“You’re not that tall.”

They sat in companionable silence for a while. “So, big game. You’re not playing tonight?”

Kobe shrugged. “They're figuring it out upstairs. I don't  think so.”

Sager reached into his pocket and pulled out a napkin-wrapped parcel. He opened it up and held it toward Bryant. “Want some?”

Kobe peered over. “What is that thing? Part of a cheeseburger?”

“Yup, it’s from the hospitality suite.”

“I might have just a little piece.” Kobe tore off a chunk and chewed. “It’s pretty nasty.”

A very tall player in a Spurs uniform came of the tunnel and looked around. He approached the seated men. “You’re not really sitting out again, are you Bryant? Seriously?”

Kobe laughed shortly. “Like you don’t take nights off, Tim. Don't worry about it.”

Duncan continued to stare. “There’s no need to get huffy. We’re just having a conversation.”

Kobe waved him off. “How are those supermarket commercials working out for you?’

Tim Duncan turned is attention to Craig’s suit for a long moment, then stalked away. Sager looked over at Bryant. “Wow. That was kind of awkward.”

Kobe shrugged. “Not for me it wasn’t.”

The control room was filled with screens, computers, dials. Two technicians in white shirts choreographed the scene. One was middle-aged, sardonic with a receding hairline. The other was a bit older, glasses, craggy face. Graphics scrolled down one screen, test patterns on another. A camera zoomed in on Sager and Kobe. The younger technician frowned. “He’s supposed to play. It’s in the script.”

The older tech spun a dial. “Oh, he’ll play. Cue the testosterone.” A slight mist appeared under Kobe’s chair.

The blogger entered and cleared his throat. “Excuse me. This is still my basketball confessional. Thanks.” He walked over to a screen and twisted a large, retro-looking dial. A new image flickered to life – an old dog with thick black fur hobbling though a field, sniffing the ground and stopping to squat awkwardly.

The younger tech looked at his partner and grimaced. “Oh geez, are you kidding me?”

Pixilate to black.

From a season that might have been lost, to uncertain first steps and new faces, this didn’t look to be a championship team. Many doubted it would be a good team. Looking around, it’s hard to see a prohibitive favorite. Miami and Chicago have each had missteps – strong but not unbeatable. The champion Mavericks have had their tribulations. OKC just got stomped by the surging Clippers and then there's the Spurs, riding a streak of nine and two.

And so they meet for the second of three games, all within an extraordinarily compressed period. The Lakers weren’t expected to win in San Antonio without Kobe but, they did – Andrew Bynum’s 30 rebound night was undeniably memorable. A team found itself and came together, and its superstar is enjoying a much needed respite. And even without him, we’re propelling through transcendent stretches once again, the celebration of basketball and visceral joy.

The page lurched and froze, and burned to white. The glare of the screen began to fill with saturated color - lush green fields undulated, and creatures of every kind jumped through painted portals. Pinwheels and beautiful cloud formations, a thousand guitars echoing in unison, as finger cymbals chimed. The soundtrack flanged like a jet engine, and flocks of shorebirds flew northward in a giant crescent shape, across the rainbow sky. And Sager, resplendent in top hat, tails and cane, went dancing down the sideboard. Kobe stood and watched, and clapped, filled with a child’s wonder that had so long eluded him.

The scene ended with a loud ugly scratch, the sound of a needle scratching across vinyl.

CUT TO control room. The older technician smiled smugly and keyed his mic, speaking in a mellifluous voice. “Mr. Bryant, it’s time to come back now. We’re clearing you to play.”

A lovely girl in a lab coat and clipboard, frowned. “Dave’s not going to like this.”

The younger tech leaned back in his swivel chair, locking his hands behind his head. “Dave goes along with whatever brings the traffic.”

The older tech nodded sagely.  And the girl looked as if she was about to cry. “That’s soooo sad, I love his writing.”

The psychedelic sounds bled through the speakers and a voice drew their attention to the screen, Craig Sager was grinning his biggest toothy grin, and soft shoe shuffling for all he was worth. “I’m ready for my closeup now!”

The red phone on the wall rang. The techs turned and stared. “Oh, shit.” The younger one trudged over and picked up the line. And listened. And the girl in the lab coat smiled and watched, as the tall basketball player stepped back through the portal, and joined the man in the top hat and tails.

You're 2000 light years from home.

DOES JIM BUSS DREAM OF ELECTRIC SHEEP?

Lying in waiting, locusts and epic mountain tales, slow-motion highway drifts. The season had threatened to derail yet somehow, events kept sinking back into the primordial stew. Magic Johnson called out Jim Buss but a week later, questions and articles were erased, as if in a cyberpunk novella.

All-Star weekend had come and gone. Craig Sager was in his hotel room, picking the best parts out of a complimentary fruitcake. His rack of network-approved synthetic blends stood there silently. America’s sideline reporter peered at his cell. There were no text messages, no emails. There was a line of ants approaching the fruitcake from the left flank of the bed. There comes a tipping point in one’s life. Sager called the airline and changed his reservation.

An endless patchwork of ugly earth tones and smog unfurled as the 747 banked down. Sager looked out the window dispassionately. He had his headphones on. ‘Cause she knows that, it’d be tragic... if those evil robots win. Forty minutes later he successfully negotiated rental terms and marched through rippling heat waves toward a blue Chevrolet Aveo.

Nobody at the team’s headquarters in El Segundo had any idea where Jim Buss might be. It was true that he had an office here at the Toyota Center, supposedly. There didn’t seem to be a lot of people working today. Craig Sager sat in a waiting lounge and checked his messages. He was supposed to be in Atlanta. The girl’s voice sounded harried. He purchased a soda from the vending machine and carefully unfolded a piece of paper towel. The fruit cake was still pretty good. He had all the time in the world.

Hours passed. Sager wandered around the hallways. A couple young office workers hurried past, carrying cardboard file boxes stuffed with papers. Inside a copy room, a paper shredder had jammed. A security guard approached, put a gentle hand on Craig’s shoulder. “You really shouldn’t be here, Mr. Sager.” The man looked around carefully, then slipped a small piece of paper into Sager’s hands. “We never met.”

Sager cranked up the AC and began backing out. He noticed an older gentleman exiting a Mercedes S-Class, painfully. The man began walking, if you could call it that - his torso seemed to be advancing a foot or two in front of his legs. A blonde woman was accompanying him, along with a figure in a white robe, swinging an incense pot and looking skyward now and then. Craig shrugged off an uneasy feeling and drove away.

The strip club sported a facade with neon palm trees, currently experiencing electrical problems. Craig’s eyes adjusted to the gloom inside, the place smelled of stale smoke and room deodorizer. A girl squirmed halfheartedly on a small stage ringed by low chrome bars. A guy in familiar baseball cap was resting his head on his forearms at a table. Sager approached. “Is your name Jim?”

The head twisted up at him and the tiniest, most imperceptible spark might have winked from the corner of a bloodshot eye. He rolled his forehead back and mumbled into the table. “All I ever wanted was to please my father. We should party.” Sager shook his head slowly, something didn’t feel right. “No, we should get out of here.”

Jim said he wanted to go hiking. Craig just nodded as he piloted the Aveo through traffic. Any connection with reality had been left in Saskatchewan, a long time ago. He pulled into a 7-11 and purchased some terriyaki jerky and a slushy. Jim got a Mountain Dew Big Gulp, without ice.

The path began a gradual ascent, sloping canyon walls on either side. Loose pebbles and the dimples of a thousand footprints, plastic water bottles and soda cans, dented and bleached in the sun. Craig’s white leather loafers slipped and skidded and everywhere there seemed to be golden weed and sagebrush, low-lying clumps of prickly pear cactus. A red-tailed hawk circled high overhead, drifting in the late afternoon haze.

They had reached the top and were sitting. The city of angels stretched out forever below them, or until it disappeared into the smog. The sun was going down. Sager took a bite of his jerky. “You’re not really him, are you?”  Jim shrugged, “who are we really?”  He pulled out a wrinkled SAG card. “I never really worked a lot. Casting directors said I looked too much like Clint Howard. They gave me season tickets and then they said I couldn’t come around anymore. I don’t know what happened to the real Jim.”

Sager handed the card back. “You haven’t touched your Mountain Dew.” The actor looked sideways at him and smiled. Then turned his attention back to the smog belt. Layers of red and purple.

***

Ernie Johnson looked up from his notes and frowned. “What is it this time, Craig?” Sager smiled toothily, savoring the moment. “Okay, so the whole damned thing with Kobe and Jim Buss, right?  Have I got a story.”  Ernie stared. The tiniest spark might have flickered across his eyeball, behind the bifocals. Craig took an uncertain step backward, reached into his pocket for his android. His stubby fingers danced across the touch screen, pages scrolled. Jim Buss had never existed. Only broken noses and trade rumors.

A girl entered the room. "They’ve been waiting for you down in wardrobe, Mr. Sager. There’s a new chiffon sports jacket they’d like you to try.”

Sager’s eyes rolled wildly between Ernie Johnson and the girl. He tried screwing his courage to the sticking place. “Right. I just have to use the restroom first. Diet soda.” He shrugged, helplessly. Ernie frowned. “What were you saying before?”

Craig Bartholomew Sager shook his head. “Ah, haha. Nothing Ernie. Excited to try the jacket.”

The girl looked toward Ernie who nodded. She headed out the door. “We’ll be down in wardrobe, Mr. Sager.” She wagged a finger and attempted a playful tone. “Don’t you keep us waiting this time.”

Sager turned on the faucet, splashed his face. He straightened up, pulled a paper towel from the dispenser, folded it neatly and blotted his face. He considered saving the towel but it was starting to come apart at the folds. He examined his reflection from several different angles. He tried smiling at himself but only his mouth moved.

High tracking shot of a RAV4, heading north past the Canadian border. Intercut the slip of paper, now folded into a tiny Origami unicorn, perched by the washroom sink. Inside the car, Craig Sager had his eyes on the the road ahead. Jim was looking out the window at scenery floating by.

Sager’s V.O. “The security guard said the first Jim was special, no termination date. I didn’t know how long we’d have. No one does.”

And when it gets dark, we go home. 


Part 1
Part 2
Spinoff

BLUE VELVET

Part two of a continuing series.

Craig Bartholomew Sager had been despondent lately. The game didn’t seem the same, he felt mired in some odd auto-control. America’s sideline reporter was as apt to be sucking down a cup of watery beer in a concourse hallway, as getting actual face time on camera. The crushed velvet lapels and synthetic blends were getting a little threadbare, and players tempered their usual barbs with awkward pauses. He sighed and popped a couple pastel butter mints into his chalky mouth. He had a pocketful of them, sans wrappers.

Ernie Johnson looked up from his carefully organized notes. Sager had wandered into the room. The pregame production meetings were open to anyone marginally involved with the broadcast, but still. Charles and Kenny were busy debating some arcanum. Shaquille was being fitted for a voluminous samurai gown for a halftime skit. Craig might have felt some sartorial kinship. “Hey, nice tent, Shaq.” The behemoth smiled patronizingly and whispered in the ear of a makeup girl attending him. She giggled, looked over at Craig and wrinkled her cute little nose, as if finding his odor objectionable. Sager’s shoulders slumped as he exited the room.

The road ahead was dark and icy. Sager had left it all behind. His chartreuse suit was now living in a dumpster by an outlet mall. He was nearly unrecognizable in flannel and work boots. The cab of a newly purchased 2003 Toyota RAV4 smelled of toxic air freshener and sunflower seeds. He had taped a polaroid of Tawny Kitaen to the dashboard. Dust in the Wind warbled from the speakers. Eyes burning, driving north, well past the Canadian border now, shuttered factories and crumbling barns. The man in pink was going home.

Walter and Doris looked at him with blinking eyes. “We’ve been storing peat moss in your room. There’s not really any place to lay down.” Craig stared back, It had been a long drive. “Thanks mom, thanks dad. You still getting my checks okay?” Doris sighed, made a half move to hug her son. Craig shouldered past, stalked down the hallway with its warped wood paneling. The stench of the peat moss inside his room was overpowering, 40 lb bags stacked everywhere. He shifted a few off his bed and curled up in a fetal ball in the available resting place.

Whoever said you can’t go home again was damned fucking right. Craig had looked up a few old friends in Rosthern, Saskatchewan. The bonhomie seemed false, he soon tired of answering questions about the halftime crew. He spent afternoons drinking White Russians at Bumpy’s Bar. He noticed an old girlfriend, carrying a bag of consignment goods into Pogo’s Bargain Center. He followed her to a park, watched her sit. It became a routine until she put a halt to it. “You need to stop following me. I never really liked you anyway.”

The Spring thaw had arrived, but still grimy patches of ice and snow. Craig had moved some of the bags of peat moss to the shed. His mother grew weary of his appetite for oatmeal crisp cereal. She said no, he could not have a pet. Sager found himself lingering outside Pogo’s and finally entered. There were no customers, only a pale girl behind the counter. He browsed through the secondhand racks, kept returning to a blue velvet shrug that was only slightly stained. The girl behind the counter put it in a bag for him. She didn’t judge.

Craig was lying on his bed, his cheek resting on the shrug. His mother would not stop vacuuming outside his door. He had recently located his old cassette recorder. He walked into the woods behind the house. Sat on a large rock that once listened patiently to his childhood troubles. He pressed play. Suzanne takes you down, to her place by the river. His cell phone vibrated to life. There was a text from Kenny “The Jet” Smith. Hey Sparky, where you been? A hot salty tear made its solitary way down a deep fissure. It had been a strange year.

Highway 11 headed south, only one lane in each direction at times, the occasional logging truck approaching and thundering past. Craig Bartholomew Sager found himself smiling. A distant siren mingled with the song coming through his dashboard. Warm light sifted through the windows, softer than satin. It was hard to keep his eyes open. Just a perfect day, problems all left alone.

MAN IN A PINK SUIT

Craig Bartholomew Sager was born in Rosthern, Saskatchewan in 1949, to Walter, a sales rep for the Regina Coat Factory and Doris, a homemaker.  A somewhat lonely child, Sager nonetheless enjoyed the usual pursuits of a boy in an agrarian society; hiking, curling and taxidermy.  In his teen years, he became obsessed with the writings of fellow Canadian Leonard Cohen and developed a deep interest in matters of religion, isolation, sexuality and interpersonal relationships. When Cohen turned to music, Sager followed, reportedly shutting himself off from friends and family, spending long hours rocking quietly from side to side as he listened to "Suzanne" on the family’s hi-fi.

Sager increasingly displayed a duality that would both serve him well and ultimately lead to the precipice of disaster.  Introspective pursuits coexisted with the joy of sports; a growth spurt topped out at a robust six-four and he lettered in both basketball and football.  He donned fur as the school mascot; Willie the Wildcat.  Never one to rest on his laurels, Sager also penned a regular column, "A Boy’s Life", for the school paper.

College years were spent majoring in journalism at the Saskatchewan School of Agriculture.  Upon graduating, Sager headed stateside to pursue a career in the media.   He reported for KMBC in Kansas and was the sports director for WINK TV in Fort Meyers, Florida.  Desiring a larger platform, Sager began working as a stringer for CNN.  He was headed to a pivotal live remote when an unfortunate gelato spill necessitated a wardrobe change.  With time running out, Sager stopped at a thrift store that catered to the local cabaret community.  His choices fatefully defined by constraint, Sager settled on a chartreuse ensemble previously owned by bandleader Carl "Doc" Severinsen. The resulting expression on Don Shula’s face caught Ted Turner’s attention and a star was born.

Sager’s tenure at CNN was marked both by newfound sartorial splendor and dark despair - America’s Sideline Reporter privately worried that he was fast losing his hard-won street cred. A series of pitched battles began with the bombastic Ted Turner.   Around the same time, Sager began a tumultuous relationship with film and video star Tawny Kitaen - ugly rumors surfaced about dungeons and dragons role play, fueled by a joint appearance at Comic-con in Las Vegas.  Perhaps the nadir of this period occurred outside Madison Square Garden when Sager was tackled and viciously pummeled by a Knicks fan who screamed, "what’s the frequency, asshole?!"

When Sager was offered a new contract at TNT, he sensed an opportunity to escape his servitude to fashion.  Screwing his courage to the sticking-place,  Sager approached Turner and demanded to dress "normal-like".  In retrospect, Turner's response should have been predictable.   "Brother, I need you when I got Barkley?"  Sager was as crushed as the velvet on his lapels.  When presented with endless pages of boilerplate studded with injunctions forbidding him to ever stray from paisely, suede and approved synthetics, he did what you or I, fellow mortals, would have done.  He signed.

Sager soldiered on, occasionally exploring avenues to freedom - hired William Kunstler but the case went nowhere, attracted supporters who fell away in droves, Jimmy Carter tried talking to Turner over sweet tea in Georgia and came away with an endowment for a new library.  Sager eventually tired of rebelling, donned a famous blue raincoat one night, pointing out to Steve Kerr, "See, it’s torn at the shoulder".  But only drowning men could see him and he finally and resolutely settled into a never-ending parade of salmon and seersucker; prowling the sidelines like a sacred cow, wearing the secret smile of an unpopular kid, ignoring unfunny jokes from NBA superstars, gamely pretending that his probing questions still held relevance.  And when the long season ends, our misunderstood iconoclast returns to his house in the desert where Lady Kitaen awaits for a little funtime, six-inch Blahniks at the ready.  Poor Craig, just a man in a pink suit.