Page 11 of Loving the Legend
It’s been months since the NBA draft. I’ve heard crazy stories about rookie initiation duties in the NBA. The real thing isn’t as bad as I imagined, at least on the Knights. Like any family or team, a culture exists. As a new member, you’re expected to observe and learn about the team’s culture without being too disruptive. I’ve learned in the locker room to talk less and let the vets dominate the conversation. Never be the first to leave the gym to show that you’re willing to put in the work. Be careful to avoid any demonstrations of entitlement, or it'll be impossible to break that perception. Never be the first one in the shower. Locker rooms are small, so cleaning up after yourself is essential for everyone’s sanity. On the road, we’re expected to bring everyone snacks for the plane ride and post-game towels for the veteran players.
Our team is young this season. To help guide us, we have vets—Tevin, center and power forward, and Idris, shooting guard. They’ve been more big bros than anything. I overheard Idris pull aside a fellow rookie who had a hygiene issue. He explained no one wanted to hang around or guard a player that stinks, so he needed to shower and wear deodorant from now on. I was grateful. The other dude’s odor made me sick. Tevin sent a fellowrookie back to the locker room to change his socks right before tonight’s game. The rookie was wearing the signature brand of a competing player. I’m not sure what he was thinking.
I made my NBA debut tonight against the Los Angeles Royals, finishing with eleven points, and we secured a victory. Technically, it isn’t my first debut since being drafted. I represented the Knights in the Las Vegas NBA Summer League this past summer, where thirty NBA teams, comprised of sophomores, rookies, and G League players, competed over nine days. We beat Milwaukee, and I posted fifteen points.
Tonight’s win hits differently. I’ve been a fan of the Royals franchise since I was a kid, so it’s surreal to be playing against the team in my debut. The Knights and the Royals share the same arena for home games. We may play for the same city, but we still compete ferociously.
Before I can escape the court, an interviewer from a local news channel approaches me. I know this is part of the gig, but I loathe it.
“Ty, Tim Bryant here,LA Times. How did it feel to play in your first NBA game?”
I repeat what I rehearsed on the way in this morning. “It’s a chance of a lifetime to play with some of the best players in the league. I plan to keep learning, support my teammates, and work hard to enhance my game.”
Looking at him, I remember the young kids at home who dream of being in the league one day, and I shift my gaze to the camera. I use the towel around my neck to soak up some of the sweat on my face.
“And we all can’t wait to see the leaps that you’ll make. It’s known that you lost your parents tragically a few years ago. What would your parents say to you today if they were still alive?” Tim points the microphone back in my direction.
Being asked this question in almost every interview I’ve been a part of used to choke me up, but I learned to have a canned response prepared to avoid thinking about the answer.
“I think they would be proud of me. They loved and supported me. Every shot that I make is in honor of them and their sacrifices.”
“They sound like they were amazing and caring parents, Ty! Okay, last question. Earlier today, Sid “The Wonder Kid” King was asked if he was worried you’d beat his record by tallying at least twenty-seven points and nine rebounds before your tenth game as a rookie, here’s his response.” Tim’s assistant passes him the clip already queued on a phone, then hits play.
A sweat-glistened, courtside Sid—who has just banked a win by the score displayed on the bottom of the screen—has his head dipped forward to hear the interviewer’s question. His eyes light up. I take a deep breath to slow down my heartbeat. It isn’t lost on me that there’s a camera pointed at my face, and one bad reaction would spread like wildfire across the internet. Sid seems to think about the question before answering. Unlike me, he always seems comfortable in front of the camera, even when asked provocative questions.
“I have a response, but it’s more advice. Yo, Ty, if you’re out there watching, drown out the noise, man, and go hard in the paint this year. I remember the pressure of rookie year, having also been the first pick in the draft. You feel you have to elevate the team by yourself. Stay locked in, and stick to the basics of doing what you love. You’ve already come so far after facing a terrible loss. There are bright times ahead.” He’s slapped on the back by a teammate and turns to dap him. The clip ends.
Well damn, I wasn’t sure what response to expect, bravado maybe. More seasoned players discourage comparison. They’d laugh in the face of a question like that on camera. I didn’t expectthoughtful and solid advice. Also, he knows about my parents’ accident?
Whaaat?
I’m a rookie out of college. It’s expected that I know everything public about him since he’s one of the best players in the league, but not vice versa. I think back to my game in college and how I wondered if I imagined seeing him, but now I’m not sure. I recall searching Google and social media platforms to confirm his whereabouts that night, but my search yielded zilch.
I formulate a response as Tim points the mic back to me.
“Wow, sound advice from one of the greatest players alive.” I clear my throat. “I’m, uh, humbled and grateful.”
Tim nods for me to continue.
“Uh, I plan to do just that—play the best ball and leave it all on the floor every night. Thanks, Tim. I gotta run.”
“Appreciate it, Ty! Good game tonight.” Tim turns to the camera to close out the segment.
I head to the locker room, grinning but also stunned. Sid knows of me.Wild.
CHAPTER FOUR
Afew weeks later, I beat Sid’s record in my ninth game. To commemorate the record break, ESPN arranged an interview between us. We’re both allowed to ask each other whatever we want. It’s supposed to come off as an organic and relaxed conversation between professionals. I spent the last week writing and rewriting questions I wanted to ask him, but then I finally gave up and decided to wing it. We’re both flown into ESPN’s office near Lincoln Center in New York City on a brisk day in early December.
First to arrive, I spend a few minutes thawing my bones. I change into an outfit curated for me—a cashmere, forest green sweater with gold speckles, and dark blue, slim-fitting slacks. The studio’s bumping hip-hop throwbacks, and I’m humming along between sips of lemon honey tea when Sid walks in. I hear his hearty laugh and rich voice before I see him. It’s uncanny how familiar his voice is, though we’ve never met. Being a famous person is wild that way. I expect an entourage, but it appears he’s arrived alone. He’s rocking a burnt orange bubble coat, black beanie, gold-ish corduroys, and a black sweater. Wireless headphones hang from his neck along with a sleek gold chain.
Our gazes lock, and that lethal half-smile, half-smirk splits across his face.
All heads turn in his direction, and I’m grateful it isn’t just me experiencing his magnetism.
I thought I’d feel small next to his towering presence, but I'm taller somehow.
Rare.
