Journal No. 3: A shot and a prayer

Updated: July 24, 2006, 1:20 AM ET

Email Print Share

By Paul Shirley
Special to ESPN.com
Archive

My workout schedule is odd, to say the least. It is usually dependent on others, as I have finally found some people to help keep me motivated here in Kansas City. (It happened just in time. I was getting rather tired of begging for places to work out or braving the meat market gyms and feeling obligated to converse with my fellow man.)

My daily shuttle usually consists of some time with my near-mentor Scott Wedman, a trip to one of two weight lifting joints run by a local company called ARC (that's Athletic Rehabilitation Center, not AIDS-Related Complex, in case there was some confusion), and the odd pickup game with the players at Rockhurst University, a local Division II program.

One of the benefits of my current arrangement is its inherent flexibility. Most of the people with whom I deal on a daily basis are laid-back souls and, because my only real job is to work out, we can usually come to an agreeable time for all involved. Further assisting my workout regimen is the fact that I actually have keys to one of the facilities that I go to develop my massive frame (where we keep the steroids) and to continue the progression of my basketball abilities (where the pigmentation-accentuation program occurs).

Larry JohnsonDoing their jobs: Paul shoots while a custodian cleans up.

Consequently, I can shoot or lift at any hour of the day, which is not a bad situation -- except that I can always feel guilty about the fact that I am not at that moment getting better at basketball. But other than that, it's great.

One late Sunday night, I decided that since I was accomplishing little that could be called constructive at that very moment, I should go get in a basketball workout. My original plan for the week had included some shooting on Monday, but not Sunday, so I thought I could cheat a little and knock out some on-court time early and be ahead of the curve.

(I suppose that shooting on my own BOTH days was a possibility, but since my Monday morning was going to be taken up with, A) sleeping, and B) waiting for the bathroom remodeling-guy to show up, that seemed like a ludicrous proposition at the time. Hey, it's a one-man operation. I'm doing the best I can.)

I set off for the gym confident that I would have some nice quality gym-rat time to myself and actually relished the idea. I would be making progress while everyone else was resting. I felt very Jimmy Chitwood/Jackie Stiles/Pete Maravich/insert stereotypical hard-working basketball player reference here.

When I arrived at my destination, I found a car parked out front and lights on inside the gym. The area containing the weight room and two basketball courts is attached to a place of normal human business, so I should not have been all that surprised to find that janitors were at work inside. I used my key to open the door, said hello to the quasi-elderly black man that was cleaning the entryway to the court area, and made my way to the hardwood.

I was somewhat surprised that he didn't inquire as to what exactly I was doing playing basketball at 10:30 on a Sunday night, but I suppose he probably did not care all that much. His look of apathy told me that, as long as I was not going to befoul the regions of the building he had previously cleaned, it didn't matter what I did.

I changed my shoes and set about becoming a better basketball player. As I worked out, I kept an eye on the janitorial staff, which seemed to consist solely of the man to whom I had briefly spoken, and a woman who appeared to be his wife. She was also black and about the same age as the man. Her motions spoke of a draining life.

While shooting, I thought about potential biographies for the two. My stories usually ended with the two of them sitting on a porch swing in Kansas City, sipping coffee after a long night's work. They would talk about their grandchildren and then go inside to fall asleep peacefully together. And then I usually vomited in my mouth. My two protagonists went about sweeping the floor under the sets of bleachers in silence, in the way that only people who have known each other for a very long time can do, and paid no attention to me.

About the time when I was starting to remember how to make a basket, I noticed that my two gymmates were beginning the process of lifting the small sets of bleachers scattered about the perimeter of the courts and propping them against the wall. Some would find it hard to believe, but in me there is some remnant of a decent person who has not been completely jaded by a rollercoaster-like journey through basketball.

That small part said, "Come on, Paul, go help the old people. If you don't, you're just going to end up calling an ambulance when one of them keels over -- and that will take more time than if you had simply lent a hand in the first place." (That last remark might have been the more jaded portion of my being coming to the forefront.)

Larry JohnsonHandchecking is not allowed in the NBA, but it was God's work during Paul's workout.

I jogged over to where the work was being done and offered to help. The woman protested mildly, in the way a person who is completely relieved by the offer does. I took over her side of the bleachers, and the man and I began working our way around the gym. We did so in silence, for which I was thankful.

(I had no real desire to explain my biography or get into where I would be playing for the year, especially since the answer to that question is unknown, even to me.)

When we were finished, I tried to meander back to the court on which I had been working. Before I could, the woman called out to me. She said, "Thank you so much. You're an angel without the halo."

(I should take this opportunity to remind the reader that I am really not that nice. My actions were no different than those that would be taken by even the most callous soul.)

She continued, saying, "I'm going to pray for you." I waved quickly and threw some thanks her way. Undaunted, she said, "No, I mean I'm going to pray for you right now. Come here."

I saw no way to make an escape from the brutally awkward situation I knew would be forthcoming, so I walked toward her. She grasped each of my hands in one of hers, bowed her head, and began a prayer. I am unclear as to the exact order of events, but I remember that there was a call for my "anointing," a brief spat of speaking in tongues, a prayer for my general success, the confirmation that I was indeed one hell of a guy (without the hell part, I suppose), and, lastly, the real kicker, a request for me to be "double anointed," which I gather must be better than the pedestrian solo anointing I had received earlier in the incantation.

She then slapped our hands together, touched the top of my head, and told me that all the success I ever desired would now be mine. I asked her to sign a contract to that effect and offered to put her on my permanent payroll, but she seemed uninterested, so I went back to my court and continued my workout.

I expected some immediate impact but, strangely, made about as many shots after my religious experience as I did before. When she comes to work for me full-time, I really am going to have to get that lady to pray harder. Apparently a double-anointing is not sufficient.

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.