Updated: Dec. 2, 2005, 6:09 PM ET
Journal No. 7: Giving thanks for no holiday hoops
By Paul Shirley
It is difficult, if not impossible, to convince people to pity athletes. It seems we have the world wrapped around our collective finger. The activities at which we work are games that many people play for the sheer fun of participation. We are in good shape, and members of the fairer sex find us disproportionately attractive. If we excel at our job, we are eventually handsomely rewarded.
Sometimes, though, there are drawbacks.
Since I am not a gainfully-employed basketball player, I was home for Thanksgiving. It was the second out of the last three years that I have made, but prior to that it had been seven years since I had been with any member of my family for the day.
I have learned over the years to steel myself against the approach of the two big holidays. It does not pay to get caught up in the Thanksgiving or Christmas spirit only to realize too late that the day will be spent in airports trying to shuttle back in time for practice. Anticipation leads only to frustration and inner turmoil. Because of my own defense mechanism, I always forget how seriously everyone treats Thanksgiving. It turns out that people really get into it. I had no idea.
As I was sitting around my grandmother's house, I found myself watching some athletic contest or another. It seems benign enough, I suppose, that games are played on holidays like Thanksgiving. Who cares if a professional athlete can be home for the day -- he makes enough to buy an entire turkey farm if he wants, right? The concept as a whole did make me think and took me back to a couple of rough Thanksgivings from my own past.
I mentioned above that even I have a hard time mustering too much sympathy for an NBA player who misses a major holiday. It is simply part of the deal. On the other hand, enjoying one's Thanksgiving at an Indian casino just outside of Yakima, Wash., so that one's team can sandwich a couple of poorly-attended games around the holiday seems a bit ludicrous.
At the time, I was a member of the CBA's Yakima Sun Kings and that has proved to be my second-worst Thanksgiving ever.
The food was bad, the surroundings were cheap and tawdry, and because I am easily depressed by the sight of unsavory characters eating Thanksgiving dinner in a gambling parlor, my mood was somber, at best. (The irony level was high, though. I could be wrong, but the concept of the owners of an Indian casino celebrating Thanksgiving seems to be on par with the idea of a herd of buffalo celebrating the invention of the rifle.)
My first such experience at Iowa State was further marred by the fact that the dorms closed for the break, meaning those of us left behind by our friends were forced to relocate to a hotel for the week. I did not have a car at the time; few of my compatriots did. Consequently, we were completely at the mercy of the coaches' schedules and the 15-passenger van that came to pick us up twice a day.
Our ever-benevolent coach at the time, Tim Floyd, gave us Thanksgiving morning off, but we were required to be back at the gym in time for an evening workout that promised to be nothing if not filled with running. I had been invited to Thanksgiving dinner by a football-playing friend of mine. After a fine meal, I wanted nothing more than to sit warmly in front of the television and doze off to the sound of the football game in front of me. My reverie lasted about 30 minutes before I was shuttled back to Ames and the torture that awaited me. The trouble was that the warmth I had noted earlier was starting to feel suspiciously like a fever. Meanwhile, I was beginning to feel like the whole concept of college basketball was a poor one.
I arrived at practice in a sorry state. As I mentioned, I was a freshman, so I had less-than-no clout. Because I was fighting for my basketball life on a daily basis, I didn't think begging out of a practice because of a little temperature was going to be a good plan. So, I doggedly put on my uniform and marched out to the court.
Up to that point, I thought that Coach Floyd was a complete tyrant. My judgment turned out to be shaky, but at the time it seemed quite accurate. Games were scarce and our practices were interminable and seemingly constructed only to test the limits of our sanity. I was scared of the man and his methods. But, he surprised me that evening. He took one look at my sheet-white visage, turned to a trainer and said, "Shirley is sick. Check his temperature." (I wear my illnesses like my emotions -- for all to see.) I had never heard sweeter words. When it was determined that I was, indeed, entirely too ill to practice, I was taken back to the hotel and put to bed, where I sweated my way through a delirious Thanksgiving night and regretted ever having become a basketball player.
So, although few will feel sorry for the professional athlete who has to play a game on a holiday, it should be remembered that there is a little more there than meets the eye. That same guy probably went through his own personal toil and despair to get to that stage. (Unless he skipped college. Then he's a lucky S.O.B.)
Paul Shirley has played for 11 pro basketball teams, including three NBA teams -- the Chicago Bulls, the Atlanta Hawks and the Phoenix Suns. His journal will appear regularly at ESPN.com. To e-mail Paul, click here.
You must be registered for see images
Journal No. 7: Giving thanks for no holiday hoops
By Paul Shirley
It is difficult, if not impossible, to convince people to pity athletes. It seems we have the world wrapped around our collective finger. The activities at which we work are games that many people play for the sheer fun of participation. We are in good shape, and members of the fairer sex find us disproportionately attractive. If we excel at our job, we are eventually handsomely rewarded.
Sometimes, though, there are drawbacks.
Since I am not a gainfully-employed basketball player, I was home for Thanksgiving. It was the second out of the last three years that I have made, but prior to that it had been seven years since I had been with any member of my family for the day.
I have learned over the years to steel myself against the approach of the two big holidays. It does not pay to get caught up in the Thanksgiving or Christmas spirit only to realize too late that the day will be spent in airports trying to shuttle back in time for practice. Anticipation leads only to frustration and inner turmoil. Because of my own defense mechanism, I always forget how seriously everyone treats Thanksgiving. It turns out that people really get into it. I had no idea.
As I was sitting around my grandmother's house, I found myself watching some athletic contest or another. It seems benign enough, I suppose, that games are played on holidays like Thanksgiving. Who cares if a professional athlete can be home for the day -- he makes enough to buy an entire turkey farm if he wants, right? The concept as a whole did make me think and took me back to a couple of rough Thanksgivings from my own past.
I mentioned above that even I have a hard time mustering too much sympathy for an NBA player who misses a major holiday. It is simply part of the deal. On the other hand, enjoying one's Thanksgiving at an Indian casino just outside of Yakima, Wash., so that one's team can sandwich a couple of poorly-attended games around the holiday seems a bit ludicrous.
At the time, I was a member of the CBA's Yakima Sun Kings and that has proved to be my second-worst Thanksgiving ever.
The food was bad, the surroundings were cheap and tawdry, and because I am easily depressed by the sight of unsavory characters eating Thanksgiving dinner in a gambling parlor, my mood was somber, at best. (The irony level was high, though. I could be wrong, but the concept of the owners of an Indian casino celebrating Thanksgiving seems to be on par with the idea of a herd of buffalo celebrating the invention of the rifle.)
My first such experience at Iowa State was further marred by the fact that the dorms closed for the break, meaning those of us left behind by our friends were forced to relocate to a hotel for the week. I did not have a car at the time; few of my compatriots did. Consequently, we were completely at the mercy of the coaches' schedules and the 15-passenger van that came to pick us up twice a day.
Our ever-benevolent coach at the time, Tim Floyd, gave us Thanksgiving morning off, but we were required to be back at the gym in time for an evening workout that promised to be nothing if not filled with running. I had been invited to Thanksgiving dinner by a football-playing friend of mine. After a fine meal, I wanted nothing more than to sit warmly in front of the television and doze off to the sound of the football game in front of me. My reverie lasted about 30 minutes before I was shuttled back to Ames and the torture that awaited me. The trouble was that the warmth I had noted earlier was starting to feel suspiciously like a fever. Meanwhile, I was beginning to feel like the whole concept of college basketball was a poor one.
I arrived at practice in a sorry state. As I mentioned, I was a freshman, so I had less-than-no clout. Because I was fighting for my basketball life on a daily basis, I didn't think begging out of a practice because of a little temperature was going to be a good plan. So, I doggedly put on my uniform and marched out to the court.
Up to that point, I thought that Coach Floyd was a complete tyrant. My judgment turned out to be shaky, but at the time it seemed quite accurate. Games were scarce and our practices were interminable and seemingly constructed only to test the limits of our sanity. I was scared of the man and his methods. But, he surprised me that evening. He took one look at my sheet-white visage, turned to a trainer and said, "Shirley is sick. Check his temperature." (I wear my illnesses like my emotions -- for all to see.) I had never heard sweeter words. When it was determined that I was, indeed, entirely too ill to practice, I was taken back to the hotel and put to bed, where I sweated my way through a delirious Thanksgiving night and regretted ever having become a basketball player.
So, although few will feel sorry for the professional athlete who has to play a game on a holiday, it should be remembered that there is a little more there than meets the eye. That same guy probably went through his own personal toil and despair to get to that stage. (Unless he skipped college. Then he's a lucky S.O.B.)
Paul Shirley has played for 11 pro basketball teams, including three NBA teams -- the Chicago Bulls, the Atlanta Hawks and the Phoenix Suns. His journal will appear regularly at ESPN.com. To e-mail Paul, click here.
