DeAndre Jordan awoke to a typically balmy summer day for Houston, Texas. He rolled out of bed, stretched, went to the kitchen, and opened up the freezer, pondering what to make for the best breakfast.
His eyes landed on his prize. “Waffles!” He exclaimed, pulling out the frozen treats. For some reason this seemed like the ideal way to break his fast on this morning. No foreshadowing here. Nope.
15 minutes later, as Jordan sat enjoying his meal, the phone suddenly rang. Because honestly, that’s how they always ring.
“’Lo” Jordan grumbled through a mouth full syrup-laden deliciousness.
“D.J. It’s me, Chris! What’s this I hear about you choosing the Mavericks?”
“Yeah, I’m in Dallas, now,” Jordan replied uncomfortably, thoughts drifting to what he was going to do when he got off the phone.
“We’re (expletive) coming for you, man! Don’t you (expletive expletive) go any (expletive) where the (expletive).
Jordan hung up the phone, uncertain of what the heck just happened, much less what to do.
“Chandler will know,” he thought, “Chandler always knows.”
Jordan scrolled through his contacts to “R” summoned “RECRUITGOD” and hit dial.
“Hey, Chandler…” Jordan began, but before another word came out, Chandler interrupted.
“I’m on it, D.J., don’t go anywhere.
Three hours later, the “converging” happened . A half-dozen cars screeched to a stop simultaneously in front of Jordan’s house.
Griffin hopped out of his brand new Kia. And before he could do anything, Paul screamed out of his window, “Griffin!!! What the (expletive) are you wearing? Seriously, what the (expletive) is that?
“My gladiator outfit,” Griffin murmured in reply, “We were doing a shoot. You said, come now.”
“What the (expletive) were you thinking? We’re on a serious recruiting mission here. Do you wanna play center, Blake? I’ve seen you play center, and it’s not (expletive) pretty. I don’t want you as my center, Blake.”
J.J. Redick, was the last one to get out of his car. Paul mutters something under his breath about Redick always being to (expletive) slow but no one is quite able to make anything out.
The entire group, Doc Rivers, Redick, Paul Pierce and Chris Paul rang the bell and waited for the answer. Griffin took his helmet off, trying to not look silly. And frankly, when you’re the only one wearing the gladiator outfit, it’s hard to not look silly.
As they waited a helicopter suddenly landed on the front lawn, and a ruddy-red Steve Ballmer climbed out.
“Did I miss anything?” He queried in an undeniably excited voice.
Before anyone could answer, Jordan opened the door, a cheery Chandler standing behind him holding a pair of tongs. “Come on in, we’re making Texas barbecue!” he invited in a “she’s with me now” voice that grated on every nerve in Chris’s body.
As they walked through the house, they passed Dirk Nowitzki and Raymond Felton in a game of ping pong. After a 10-minute point, Dirk delivered an overhand smash that crashed off the ceiling. Raymond frowned and took a bite of a donut as Dirk talked trash in German.
Eventually, things settled down, and everyone was ready to discuss D.J.’s future.
Well, almost everyone. Steve and Mark were still in the backyard arguing who had a bigger net worth. They weren’t really important anyway, so the talks commenced.
“Look, D.J., we just want you to know how important you are to the team,” Doc began. “I’m sorry if you felt unappreciated. We need you to know that’s not how we feel.”
There was a long, awkward pause, as D.J. folded himself back into his chair, pulling his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms around them.
“I don’t get no high-fives,” he grumbled.
Then Paul erupted with a fury that man had not known since the Clippers melted down against the Houston Rockets.
“HIGH-FIVES!!! IS THAT WHAT THIS (EXPLETIVE) IS ALL ABOUT?!?!? I (EXPLETIVE) ALREADY TOLD YOU, I’M FIVE-FOOT-(EXPLETIVE)-TEN!!!! D0 YOU KNOW HOW HARD IT IS TO GIVE A SEVEN-FOOTER HIGH FIVES? (EXPLETIVE, EXPLETIVE EXPLETIVE).”
Everyone looked at each other, then at the pulse bulging on Chris’s temple.
“YOU THINK HE’S GONNA GIVE YOU HIGH FIVES” Paul queried, furiously pointing at Raymond, who in turn, paused chewing on his third brisket sandwich as everyone turned their eyes on him. “HE CAN’T EVEN GET HIS FEET OFF THE GROUND! HOW IS HE GONNA HIGH-FIVE YOU?!?!?!”
“Now, now,” Chandler chimed in, “There’s no need for hostility. Let’s all try and remain calm.”
For a moment no one said anything, then Pierce crossed the room and casually asked Blake for the recliner. “It’s a knee thing,” claimed Pierce, “I need it for my knee.” Blake clamored from the chair and walked away.
“You forgot this!” barked Pierce, tossing Blake his helmet. The sullen Griffin took a seat in the bean bag chair. Why did he always get the bean bag chair, he wondered as he settled down, hugging his helmet.
And then, the emotionally charged Paul burst out into tears.
“I don’t want always to be known as Second-Round Chris!!! It’s my turn for an assist!!! Please don’t go, D.J.! Please don’t go!”
Dirk’s face goes blank as he reminisces when he finally got that ring. Oh, that ring. His precious.
“The ring!!!” He remembers. “One ring to rule them all!!!”
“Look,” Dirk yelled. “You can get one of these!!! I can help you win one of these!!!”
Pierce, though, called Dirk’s ring and raised him a Finals MVP.
But Dirk matched the Finals MVP and raised a regular-season MVP.
“No one cares about your regular-season MVP,” said Dallas’ other acquisition, Wesley Matthews. “You haven’t been that guy since then.”
Everyone agreed, including Dirk and they decided to call that a draw.
And so it proceeded, for over an hour, back and forth, like a ping pong match between Raymond and Dirk.
And then things took an unexpected turn.
Chandler, the RECRUITGOD Parsons, cranked the charm up another level. “Hey Chris, when does YOUR contract expire,” he asked a faint glimmer in his eye.
Blake dropped his helmet when Paul answered.
—To be continued—