DeAndre Jordan relaxed on his sofa, wondering idly if his other Clippers teammates had started their off-season training regimens yet. Mindlessly spooning Golden Grahams into his mouth, DeAndre decided they probably hadn’t. Except for Chris Paul.
His doorbell rang. Not expecting any visitors, he looked down to make sure he had put on pants this morning. He had. No shirt, though. Reluctantly unfolding himself from his comfortable position on his couch, he ambled to the front door and opened it, thinking that if it was a mistaken food delivery, he could definitely supplement his breakfast with some pizza.
In a flash, a slightly chubby man rushed into the entryway and grabbed DeAndre around the waist. “Got you now!” The man tugged DeAndre towards the open door as if trying to abduct him, but did not succeed in moving the seven-footer even an inch. “You’re not getting away this time!” Realizing that he was not making any progress, the man stomped his feet in frustration and redoubled his efforts, which only resulted in him becoming out of breath.
DeAndre rolled his eyes at the man’s antics. “Can you let go of me? I already told you last summer, I’m staying in LA and nothing’s changing my mind.”
Mark Cuban looked up at DeAndre defiantly. “No, I am not letting go. You promised. You promised to play in Dallas. And then you broke your promise.”
Sighing, DeAndre wished more than anything that he could go back to eating breakfast cereal on the couch. Those had been simpler times. “The Clippers made me an offer I couldn’t refuse,” he explained.
Still clutching onto DeAndre’s waist, Mark swung his arms violently as if trying to shake DeAndre. Again, this had no effect other than causing a bemused DeAndre to stare up at the ceiling. “Do you know what I did, DeAndre? I drove all over Houston, ALL OVER, trying to find your house so that I could make a new pitch. I was calling everybody I knew, your friends, my friends, Dirk’s friends, trying to find the location of your secret pow-wow with the Clippers, and-”
“It was just at my house,” DeAndre interrupted. “You know, where we’re standing right now.”
Mark seemed to ignore this information. “But it didn’t work, nobody would tell me anything, so we had to go into the season starting Zaza friggin’ Pachulia at center! Do you know how bad that guy sucks?”
“He’s not very good,” DeAndre conceded.
Now Mark had pressed his face against DeAndre’s stomach as if trying to block out some unpleasant images. “By the time the playoffs came around, he couldn’t even run any more. All he could do was get his pimple grease all over anybody stupid enough to think he was worth defending.” After this outburst, there was a period of silence. Then, DeAndre felt a wetness on his bare stomach, and looked down to see the top of Mark’s head shuddering.
“Oh no man, don’t cry, come on man…” DeAndre said. “I’m sorry, alright?” He resisted the urge to consolingly pat the smaller man’s head as the cries got louder.
“You’re coming with me to Dallas,” repeated Mark through his tears, feebly pulling on DeAndre again.
“No I’m not,” DeAndre said, prying Mark’s hands off of his waist.
Mark looked sullenly at the floor for a moment, then began to rummage in his pockets for something. Finally, he brought out a crumpled tissue. “Do you know what this is, DeAndre?” he asked angrily, still leaking tears out of his eyes.
DeAndre was unsure if he was supposed to see more than he was seeing. “A tissue?”
“This is the tissue that Dirk cried into when I had to tell him that his new friend DeAndre wasn’t going to be playing on the Mavericks this year,” Mark said, holding the tissue in two hands and staring at it as if it were a sacred relic.
“I don’t believe that.”
A sob caught in Mark’s throat. “He was devastated. Devastated. He asked me in this tiny voice, ‘but Cubes, who am I going to throw lobs to?’ And you know what I told him?”
DeAndre sighed. “What did you tell him?”
“I told him that he was going to have to throw lobs to Dwight Powell from now on.” Mark let that statement hang in the air as if it had some powerful significance. “He cried and cried after that.”
Unaffected by this likely-fabricated disclosure, Deandre gently took Mark by the shoulders and steered him around towards the front door. Mark, seeming to know it was a lost cause, did not resist. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave now,” DeAndre said firmly.
“Okay,” replied Mark meekly. “If you ever change your mind…” he said before sniffling and wiping his nose. “You know where to find me.”
“Goodbye,” DeAndre said, finally closing the door. For a few seconds, he watched Mark trudge sadly down the driveway; then, he turned away from the window and returned to his neglected bowl of cereal, glad to have confirmation that he had made the correct decision.