The Commish
youknowhatimsayin?
Posted by Paul Shirley, June 10, 2005
I was talking with someone tonight about how suddenly our season ended. The fact that the end came so distinctly was not new; every year of basketball in which I have ever participated was over before I could really grasp the concept. But this year seemed especially shocking. Ever since I rejoined the team, I was struck with the fact that everyone in, around, or peripherally related to the Suns organization was simply planning on the season lasting until late June. When the final horn sounded after Game 5 with San Antonio, and there were no more sporting contests for my purple and white clad teammates to flail at, everyone in Phoenix found themselves in a state of disbelief. I know I did.
With the end of any season comes questions about the next. Will the Suns be able to re-sign Joe Johnson? Will the team be able to live up to the expectations that will surely be set forth before next year? What the hell are they going to name the arena now that America West is becoming part of US Airways or Braniff or whatever it is? As I have stated many times, neither I nor anyone I have ever met—not even Stephen A. Smith—can tell the future, so these questions are hardly worth the precious keystrokes it would take to engage in mindless conjecture regarding their answers. Right now, I am worried about only about my next step—getting home.
I write on my last night in Phoenix. The only things left in my apartment are the awful rental furniture I have endured for three months, the computer on which I currently type, and some leftover cereal boxes. I don’t know what is in store for me, but I do know that it is unlikely that I will be playing basketball for the Phoenix Suns next year. When I signed with the team in late January, my contract included a clause that gave the team an ‘option’ on my services for next season. Said option would have to be exercised by June 15 of this year. On June 16, there will be a line under the ‘Transactions’ section of many a local sports page that says, “Phoenix Suns decline option on F Paul Shirley”. (The ‘F’ means ‘Forward, for the basketball disinclined.) In my post-season meeting with the powers-that-be, phrases like ‘contract flexibility’ were bandied about and I was, in essence, fired. I have been in such meetings way too many times for someone as young as me; because of that, I know that the real meaning of those words is, “We do not think enough of your basketball skills to pay you the minimum salary required by the NBA, so find a different job.”
The above paragraph probably paints my mood regarding the Suns as a bitter one, but that is not really the case. I would be lying if I wrote that I am happy that I will soon be a candidate for unemployment benefits, but I certainly hold no ill will towards the team. When I joined the Suns, I was as fed up with basketball as I have ever been after a long two months in Russia, and the positive attitude here was truly, as clichéd as it may sound, a breath of fresh air. In the end, this was my longest stay in the NBA and it was with by far the best team of my young professional career.
That being said, no one likes rejection. But, I think I am as well-equipped as anyone to handle it. This is really what I do. People tell me ‘no’, I pick myself up, and I move on. I’m a nomad, albeit an oft-kicked-to-the-curb one. I don’t know what it says about me that, since college, the longest I have been in any once place is seven months, but I am getting used to the life. (Note to self: sign one of those 7-year, $100 million contracts soon—it will make for fewer gray hairs when all is said and done.) I think maybe I should be nicer to people or learn how to play basketball a little better. Or perhaps I should avoid massive internal injuries and/or angering foreign general managers. Obviously something needs to change.
Surprisingly, I am a little excited about the next thing, whatever it is. I just finished a poor effort at packing my car with the clothes and few possessions I have. (Unfortunately, I was blessed with neither my mother’s organizational acumen nor my father’s car-packing prowess, so the whole process was an absolute debacle. I did manage to keep the blind spot clear, which should make my dad happy, if I do in fact survive the 8 million mile drive back to Kansas.) I know approximately what is going to happen in the next two weeks of my life. Tomorrow I am going to get up early, randomly strew some remaining items about the interior of my car, bid a, er, fond farewell to Phoenix and then set off to the east. When I get back to Kansas City, I am going to delay unpacking for as long as humanly possible, probably play a couple of poker games with a few friends, and then go to Los Angeles for a week. After that, there is no telling. And, I mean I have no idea.
As I have been saying my good-byes to the people I have gotten to know while here, I have been asked several times how I deal with this level of ignorance regarding my own future. I don’t really have an answer, except to say that I am getting used to it. If I had three kids and a wife, it would be tough; I can’t imagine saying, “Okay, darlin’, load up Rusty, Darryl, and ‘lil Bobbie Sue. We’s a-fixin’ to get on back to KAN-zass.” (That would be assuming I grown up in Dodge City, I suppose.) At any rate, it would be a lot more difficult to live this life if I had anyone depending on me. Thankfully, I avoid both commitment and responsibility like it’s my job, so the life I lead works. For now.
It promises to be an interesting summer. I suppose there is a chance the Suns could come to their senses within the next five days, or anytime before next season, and realize how much they would miss my bright-eyed, enthusiastic presence. (Wait, that’s someone else. Sorry.) I am not going to hold my breath, though, because that would just be too easy. And, I would completely obliterate my streak and actually be in one city for a whole year. I’d have to put decorations on my walls…and re-learn Spanish…and date girls for longer than two months at a time. I cannot be expected to live such a normal life. Instead, I will ride off into the sunset, wait, sunrise and wonder what is next.
After I hammer out this next two weeks of certainty, I will ease the pain of not knowing what the hell is next, thanks to my own apparent undesirability and the looming possibility of a lock-out, by working on my book. And I am serious. Thanks to the exposure this nonsense received and the fact that I have had the strangest life of anyone I know, I recently agreed to a book deal with Random House, which is apparently a fairly well-known publishing house. The work I undertake will be a collection of all the ups and downs that have been my journey through professional basketball—overseas, the minor leagues, the NBA, maybe the occasional rock concert reference. I hope to make a decent effort at it; short of that, I will half-ass it and hope they don’t come to my house and kill me.
At any rate, this whole writing experience has been, well, interesting. Thanks to Jeramie McPeek (that is supposed to be an ‘a’—always remember not to drink and fill out a birth certificate at the same time) and Steve Koek for doing whatever it is people do when they take this Word document and put it on the internet. Thanks also to Bill Simmons for his support and Tom Arnold for the, uh, mentoring. I would thank my teammates but most of them never realized I was writing this in the first place, so it would be wasted name-dropping. Most of all, though, thanks for reading. I hope I get the chance to do this again somewhere down the line. (I swear, though, we’re putting some pop-ups in and someone is going to squeeze some revenue out of this. Maybe the Bulls would like that idea. Hmm…)
Thanks for the entertaining articles Paul "Don't Call Me" Shirley. At least you got a book deal out of all this, which I am sure all of us will purchase. Good luck next year and I hope there is another NBA team that will give you a shot.
I was talking with someone tonight about how suddenly our season ended. The fact that the end came so distinctly was not new; every year of basketball in which I have ever participated was over before I could really grasp the concept. But this year seemed especially shocking. Ever since I rejoined the team, I was struck with the fact that everyone in, around, or peripherally related to the Suns organization was simply planning on the season lasting until late June. When the final horn sounded after Game 5 with San Antonio, and there were no more sporting contests for my purple and white clad teammates to flail at, everyone in Phoenix found themselves in a state of disbelief. I know I did.
With the end of any season comes questions about the next. Will the Suns be able to re-sign Joe Johnson? Will the team be able to live up to the expectations that will surely be set forth before next year? What the hell are they going to name the arena now that America West is becoming part of US Airways or Braniff or whatever it is? As I have stated many times, neither I nor anyone I have ever met—not even Stephen A. Smith—can tell the future, so these questions are hardly worth the precious keystrokes it would take to engage in mindless conjecture regarding their answers. Right now, I am worried about only about my next step—getting home.
I write on my last night in Phoenix. The only things left in my apartment are the awful rental furniture I have endured for three months, the computer on which I currently type, and some leftover cereal boxes. I don’t know what is in store for me, but I do know that it is unlikely that I will be playing basketball for the Phoenix Suns next year. When I signed with the team in late January, my contract included a clause that gave the team an ‘option’ on my services for next season. Said option would have to be exercised by June 15 of this year. On June 16, there will be a line under the ‘Transactions’ section of many a local sports page that says, “Phoenix Suns decline option on F Paul Shirley”. (The ‘F’ means ‘Forward, for the basketball disinclined.) In my post-season meeting with the powers-that-be, phrases like ‘contract flexibility’ were bandied about and I was, in essence, fired. I have been in such meetings way too many times for someone as young as me; because of that, I know that the real meaning of those words is, “We do not think enough of your basketball skills to pay you the minimum salary required by the NBA, so find a different job.”
The above paragraph probably paints my mood regarding the Suns as a bitter one, but that is not really the case. I would be lying if I wrote that I am happy that I will soon be a candidate for unemployment benefits, but I certainly hold no ill will towards the team. When I joined the Suns, I was as fed up with basketball as I have ever been after a long two months in Russia, and the positive attitude here was truly, as clichéd as it may sound, a breath of fresh air. In the end, this was my longest stay in the NBA and it was with by far the best team of my young professional career.
That being said, no one likes rejection. But, I think I am as well-equipped as anyone to handle it. This is really what I do. People tell me ‘no’, I pick myself up, and I move on. I’m a nomad, albeit an oft-kicked-to-the-curb one. I don’t know what it says about me that, since college, the longest I have been in any once place is seven months, but I am getting used to the life. (Note to self: sign one of those 7-year, $100 million contracts soon—it will make for fewer gray hairs when all is said and done.) I think maybe I should be nicer to people or learn how to play basketball a little better. Or perhaps I should avoid massive internal injuries and/or angering foreign general managers. Obviously something needs to change.
Surprisingly, I am a little excited about the next thing, whatever it is. I just finished a poor effort at packing my car with the clothes and few possessions I have. (Unfortunately, I was blessed with neither my mother’s organizational acumen nor my father’s car-packing prowess, so the whole process was an absolute debacle. I did manage to keep the blind spot clear, which should make my dad happy, if I do in fact survive the 8 million mile drive back to Kansas.) I know approximately what is going to happen in the next two weeks of my life. Tomorrow I am going to get up early, randomly strew some remaining items about the interior of my car, bid a, er, fond farewell to Phoenix and then set off to the east. When I get back to Kansas City, I am going to delay unpacking for as long as humanly possible, probably play a couple of poker games with a few friends, and then go to Los Angeles for a week. After that, there is no telling. And, I mean I have no idea.
As I have been saying my good-byes to the people I have gotten to know while here, I have been asked several times how I deal with this level of ignorance regarding my own future. I don’t really have an answer, except to say that I am getting used to it. If I had three kids and a wife, it would be tough; I can’t imagine saying, “Okay, darlin’, load up Rusty, Darryl, and ‘lil Bobbie Sue. We’s a-fixin’ to get on back to KAN-zass.” (That would be assuming I grown up in Dodge City, I suppose.) At any rate, it would be a lot more difficult to live this life if I had anyone depending on me. Thankfully, I avoid both commitment and responsibility like it’s my job, so the life I lead works. For now.
It promises to be an interesting summer. I suppose there is a chance the Suns could come to their senses within the next five days, or anytime before next season, and realize how much they would miss my bright-eyed, enthusiastic presence. (Wait, that’s someone else. Sorry.) I am not going to hold my breath, though, because that would just be too easy. And, I would completely obliterate my streak and actually be in one city for a whole year. I’d have to put decorations on my walls…and re-learn Spanish…and date girls for longer than two months at a time. I cannot be expected to live such a normal life. Instead, I will ride off into the sunset, wait, sunrise and wonder what is next.
After I hammer out this next two weeks of certainty, I will ease the pain of not knowing what the hell is next, thanks to my own apparent undesirability and the looming possibility of a lock-out, by working on my book. And I am serious. Thanks to the exposure this nonsense received and the fact that I have had the strangest life of anyone I know, I recently agreed to a book deal with Random House, which is apparently a fairly well-known publishing house. The work I undertake will be a collection of all the ups and downs that have been my journey through professional basketball—overseas, the minor leagues, the NBA, maybe the occasional rock concert reference. I hope to make a decent effort at it; short of that, I will half-ass it and hope they don’t come to my house and kill me.
At any rate, this whole writing experience has been, well, interesting. Thanks to Jeramie McPeek (that is supposed to be an ‘a’—always remember not to drink and fill out a birth certificate at the same time) and Steve Koek for doing whatever it is people do when they take this Word document and put it on the internet. Thanks also to Bill Simmons for his support and Tom Arnold for the, uh, mentoring. I would thank my teammates but most of them never realized I was writing this in the first place, so it would be wasted name-dropping. Most of all, though, thanks for reading. I hope I get the chance to do this again somewhere down the line. (I swear, though, we’re putting some pop-ups in and someone is going to squeeze some revenue out of this. Maybe the Bulls would like that idea. Hmm…)
Thanks for the entertaining articles Paul "Don't Call Me" Shirley. At least you got a book deal out of all this, which I am sure all of us will purchase. Good luck next year and I hope there is another NBA team that will give you a shot.
