Jonathan Lethem - The Wall of the Sky, the Wall of the Eye

“You were pretty into Michael Jordan growing up, weren’t you?” I asked. Elwood grew up in a Chicago slum.

“You got that,” he said. His eyes were fixed on the screen.

“He won’t get it,” I said. “There’s three other teams.” What I meant, though I didn’t say it, was that there were three other black guys still in the draw. I had a funny feeling Elwood didn’t want our rookie to pick up the Jordan moves. I could think of a couple of different reasons for that.

The Karl Malone skills went to the kid from the I. G. Farben 76ers. Down to three. Then they took a break for commercials. Elwood was suddenly pacing the room. I called the desk and had them bring us up a couple of beers, out of mercy.

The Nuggets’ second man picked up Adrian Dantley, leaving it down to two rookies, for two teams: us and the Beatrice Jazz. I was suddenly caught up in the excitement, my contempt for the media circus put aside for the moment.

We watched the commissioner punch up the number on his terminal, look up, and sigh. His mouth hung open and the crowd fell silent, so that for a second I thought the sound on the hotel television had died.

“Jazz, second pick.”

That was it. Alan Gornan, and the Knicks, had the rights to the Jordan skills. The poor kid from the Jazz, who looked like a panther, had just landed the skills of Chris Mullin, undeniably a great shooter, a top-rank star, but just as undeniably slow, flat-footed, and white. It was a silly twist, but hey — it’s a silly game.

The media swarmed around Gornan and his parents. Martin Fishall, the Knicks GM, thrust himself between the rookie and the newsmen and began answering questions, a huge grin on his face. I thought to look over at Elwood. He hated Fishall. Elwood had his head tossed back, chugging his beer.

The camera closed in on a headshot of Alan Gorman. He looked pretty self-possessed. He wore a little diamond earring and his eyes already knew how to find the camera and play to it.

They shoved a microphone in his face. “Got anything you want to say, kid?”

“Yeah.” He grinned, and brushed the hair out of his eyes. Charisma.

“Go ahead. You’re live.”

“Look out, New York,” said Alan Gorman. “Clear the runway. Vanilla Dunk is due for takeoff.” The line started out a little underplayed, almost shy, but by the time he had the whole thing out he had a sneer on his face that reminded me of nothing, I swear, so much as pictures I’ve seen of the young Elvis Presley.

“Vanilla Dunk?” I said aloud, involuntarily.

“Turn that shit off,” said Elwood, and I did.

That was the last of Alan Gorman for the moment. The new players weren’t eligible until next season. All bravado aside, it would take Gorman a few months of working with the Knicks’ programming experts to get control of the Jordan skills. In the meantime, we were knocked out of the playoffs in the semifinal round by the Hyundai Celtics. It should have been a great series — and we should have won it, I think — but Otis Pettingale, our star guard, who carried Nate Archibald’s skills, twisted his ankle in the first game and had to sit, and the series was just a bummer.

I spent that off-season mostly brooding, as I remember. Ringing my ex-wife’s answering machine, watching TV, fun stuff like that, mostly. Plus practicing my jumpshot. Silly me. If I’d only been six inches shorter I could have been a big star… that’s a joke, son.

Training camp was a media zoo. Was Otis Pettingale too old to carry the load for another season? What about the Sal Pharaoh trade rumors? And how were they going to fit Alan Gorman in, anyway? Who would sit to make room for the kid with the Jordan skills — Michael Front, who played with Kevin McHale’s skills, or Elwood Fossett, who played with Maurice Lucas’s? The reporters circled the camp like hungry wolves, putting everyone in a bad mood. They kept trying to bait us into second-guessing Coach Van on the makeup of the starting five, kept wanting to know what we thought of Gorman, who we’d barely even met.

And they all wanted a piece of Gornan. Martin Fishall and Coach Van kept him insulated at first, but it became clear pretty fast that he knew how to handle himself, and that he actually liked talking to the press. He had a knack for playing the bad boy, and with no effort at all he had them eating his “Vanilla Dunk” bullshit for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

At practices he more or less behaved himself. The Jordan skills were pretty dynamic, and Gornan was smart enough to know how to work them into the style of the rest of the team. It was a little scary, actually, seeing how fast something new and different was coming into being. The Snicks’ core had been solid for a couple of years — but of course the Jordan skills weren’t going to sit on the bench.

Gornan was initially polite with me, which was fine. But nothing more developed, and by the third week of camp what had passed for politeness was seeming a little more like arrogance. I got the feeling it was the same way with Otis and McFront. He seemed to have won a friend in Sal Pharaoh, though, for no apparent reason. We played a lot of split-squad games, which meant I got to start at center for the B team. As such it was my job to clog up the middle and keep Gorman from driving, and I got a quick taste of what the other teams were going to be facing this year, with Pharaoh playing the muscle, setting picks, clearing the lanes for the kid’s drives. It was a bruising experience, to put it mildly.

One afternoon after one of those split-squad events I found myself in the dressing room with Pharaoh and Elwood.

“You like protecting that motherfucker,” said Elwood. “Why don’t you let him take his licks?”

Pharaoh smirked. He and Elwood were the two intimidators on our team, and when they went head to head neither had any edge. “It’s not about that, Elwood,” he said.

“He thinks he’s fucking Michael Jordan,” said Elwood.

“As far as the team’s concerned, he is Michael Jordan,” said Pharaoh. “Just like I’m Moses Malone, and your stupid ass is Maurice Lucas.”

“That white boy’s gonna ruin this team, Sal.”

Pharaoh shook his head. “Different team now, man. Figure it out, Elwood. Stop looking back.” He wadded up his sweaty shorts and tossed them into the bottom of a locker, then headed for the showers.

“What was that shit?” Elwood snapped at me the minute Pharaoh was out of earshot. “ ‘Figure it out.’ Is he trying to tell me I’m not making the cut?”

“Don’t be stupid,” I said. “You’re in. McFront’ll sit.”

“White boys don’t sit. ’Less they suck as bad as you.”

“I think you’re wrong. Don’t you see? With Gorman they’ve got their token white starter. You’re a better player than McFront.” What I was saying, of course, was that the Maurice Lucas skills were more valuable than the Kevin McHale skills. Which was true, but it didn’t take team chemistry into account.

“Two white forwards,” he said. “They won’t be able to fucking resist.”

“Wrong. You and Pharaoh both in there to protect Gornan. All that muscle to surround the Jordan skills. That’s what they won’t be able to resist.”

“Huh.” He considered my logic. “Shit, Lassner.”

“What?”

“Shit,” he said. “I smell shit around here.”

At the start of the season Coach Van played Gorman very conservatively, off the bench. He was a rookie, and we were a very solid team, so it was justifiable. But not for long. When he got in he was averaging more points per minute than Elwood or McFront, and they were points that counted, that won games. He was a little shaky on defense, but the offensive impact of the Jordan subroutines was astonishing, and Gorman was meshing well with Sal Pharaoh, just like in the practices. Otis Pettingale’s offense at guard was fading a bit, but we had plenty of other weapons. Our other guard was Derrick Flash, who with Maurice Cheeks’s skills was just coming into his own. We reeled off six wins in a row at the start of the season before taking a loss, to the Hyundai Celtics, on a night where Gorman didn’t see many minutes. That was the night the chanting started, midway through the third quarter: “Vanilla Dunk! Vanilla Dunk! Vanilla Dunk…”