It’s an NBA World

It's been a rough week. I'm out of a job, my girlfriend left me, and my best friend won't talk to me anymore. And I still don't know what went wrong. I was just a fan trying to live the NBA life, because, well, I Love This Game.

I guess it started last Thursday when I'd finally had it up to here with my boss. There's nothing worse than knowing you're not appreciated, and is that ever the case at my office. I'm a advertising consultant, and a good one. I've been with the firm for six years, and I'm a guy that can get things done, but every time we'd get close to sealing a deal, my boss would call this other guy, Johnson, in to take over. It was ridiculous. It was crunch time and I was riding the pine.

The last couple months, Johnson's really been eating into my minutes, man. So I decided I wasn't gonna take it anymore. My boy Ruben Patterson wouldn't stand for this sort of "rookie" treatment, and neither will I. I walked right into my boss's office and told him what kind of a $*&#!^#&$ I thought he was. I told him if he didn't want my help, then he might as well just can me.

Apparently, we disagree on the meaning of the word "indispensable." I tried to demand a trade to the firm down the street, but he claimed that the market for my services was a bit "soft" at the moment. I told him that if I were used the right way — if the firm would just put the ball in my hands — I'd work wonders. So what if I don't "work well with others?" I'm the Antoine Walker of consulting — hand me the rock and get out of my way.

Suffice it to say, my desk was cleaned out in about 15 minutes.

Of course, that would have been the end of it if I hadn't run into Johnson on the way out of the building. That's when it got ugly. That little punk accused me of being soft, of not doing the dirty work to help the company succeed. Called me a "Nowitzki!" I'm a pretty thick-skinned guy, but that was too much. I won't go into details, but I went Artest on his sorry ass.

Sure, my co-workers had to pull me off him and I spent the night in jail, but I think I got my message across. And my attorney says I'm making a lot of progress in controlling my rage.

Needless to say, my girlfriend Jennie wasn't too happy to get my phone call asking her to come bail me out of jail. It was only after I told her that being behind bars felt like I was playing for the Clippers that she rushed over to pick me up.

When we got home, though, she laid into me. She was ranting and raving and carrying on so long I grabbed her by the shoulders and shouted at her to stop. That's when she used the trump card: "What, are you gonna pull a Jason Kidd now?" she asked. After that, I had to leave, clear my head a little bit.

I didn't know what was going on, so I called my buddy, Jimmy, and asked if I could come over and talk. He was really cool about everything, listened to me and said he was sorry to hear about my job. But then, as I kept talking, he just seemed to nod absentmindedly and say "yes!" every once in a while.

"Listen, Marv Albert," I told him, "are you going to listen to me or not?"

Then he got all offended and told me that it was I who wanted his help and I should be grateful for his kindness. At that point, all I could think was "What would Latrell Sprewell do in this situation?"

In retrospect, I don't think Spre was the ideal role model for that particular spot, but hindsight is always 20/20, you know? On the bright side, my prison is minimum security, and the basketball court is lit until 11 PM. I'll be out in 10 months, seven with good behavior.

In the meantime, I'm trying to get in good with the other inmates by coaching the Cell Block B Bombers, an intramural hoops team named for most of the players' day jobs when they were on the outside. Some of the guys whine that our offense is boring, but I keep trying to explain that defense wins championships.

They're already calling me "L.B."