J.J. Redick sat patiently in front of Doc Rivers’ desk, waiting for his coach to say something. Doc seemed distressed about something. Finally, he spoke.
“DeAndre’s free throws aren’t improving.”
J.J. wondered why Doc was telling him this obvious fact. Moreover, if Doc was concerned with DeAndre Jordan’s free throws, why wouldn’t Doc meet with DeAndre instead?
J.J.’s confusion must have been clear, because Doc continued, “You gotta help him out. Our staff isn’t getting through to him. Perhaps the tutelage of a teammate and friend will break him out of his mental block.”
J.J. raised his eyebrows. He didn’t know the first thing about teaching another person how to shoot free throws. He wasn’t sure if he could even describe his own shooting form to another person. All he did was shoot it. That was it. “I don’t know, coach. I’m not really qualified…”
“You’re our only hope, J.J.,” Doc pleaded. “You want to win, right? Well, we’re never going to win much of anything if that big oaf doesn’t learn how to sink the freebies.”
Doc had pulled out his trump card. The “championship contention” card. J.J. could feel this tactic of persuasion working inside his mind. “What’s in it for me?” he asked.
“You would definitely be compensated with…payments…were DeAndre to see a marked increase in his free throw percentages,” Doc replied quickly.
“Like, cash payments?”
“Yes,” Doc clarified. “Big ones. But don’t go yelling about it on your podcast or whatever. Payments outside the contract structure of the CBA are obviously verboten.”
J.J. rolled his eyes at this statement of the obvious. “I’ll do it. But I want some up front.”
Doc looked from side to side as if to make sure his office hadn’t been bugged with surveillance cameras. Then, he hurriedly retrieved his wallet and withdrew a small stack of hundred-dollar bills. “Here. Take it. But no more until DeAndre actually starts hitting shots.”
J.J. grinned as he pocketed the money. “I’ll give it my best.”
—
DeAndre was roused from his sleep by the sound of an airhorn blasting. “Whuuuh…huh?” he moaned.
J.J. clambered on top of DeAndre’s bed and stood astride the big man’s outstretched legs. The whistle perched in his mouth received a few short blasts, causing DeAndre to wince. “TODAY IS DAY ONE OF FREE THROW BOOT CAMP!” J.J. bellowed. “GET UP! GET UP! GET UP!” Each of these commands was punctuated by another blast from the airhorn.
DeAndre looked at his bedside clock, which read 3:59, then moaned again. “It’s so early, man. Can’t you come back in, like, four hours?”
J.J. began to kick his teammate in the thigh. “FREE THROW BOOT CAMP DEMANDS DISCIPLINE AND SACRIFICE!” he roared. “NOT HIDING UNDER THE COVERS LIKE A SCARED LITTLE GIRL!” He blew the whistle a few more times for emphasis.
“Jeez, okay, I’m getting up,” DeAndre said with annoyance, kicking his legs and forcing his teammate to hop off the bed. “Stop blowing that damn whistle in my face.”
“Clippers practice facility. Twenty minutes,” J.J. said sternly. “If you’re late I’m going to kick your ass even harder than I’m already going to.” He sprinted from DeAndre’s bedroom holding his airhorn on continuous blast and tooting into his whistle with every step.
—
As soon as DeAndre groggily ambled into the practice gym, J.J. again began to blow on his whistle. “Private Jordan! Fifty pushups! Now! NOW! NOW!” he commanded. Startled, DeAndre could do nothing but obey, and he completed the fifty pushups with J.J.’s whistle blowing right in his face.
“Very good, Private Jordan! Perhaps you are not as much of a bitch as I imagined!” J.J. yelled. “Now, twenty laps around the perimeter of the gym, and if I see you slowing down, make it thirty! Have I made myself clear, Private Jordan?”
DeAndre got into his running stance before pausing and looking at his teammate with a confused expression. “Wait, why do I gotta listen to you? I should just go home right now and go back to bed.”
“THIS IS FREE THROW BOOT CAMP!” J.J. shouted. “THERE IS NO ‘HOME’ HERE! THERE IS ONLY FREE THROWS! NOW START RUNNING!”
Shaking his head, DeAndre took off at a mild pace. However, by the end of the twenty laps, he was exhausted and sweaty.
“Okay, now we have approximated an in-game free throw-shooting situation,” J.J. said. “Take this ball and stand at the line!” DeAndre tiredly jogged to the free-throw line and awaited further instructions. A bellowed “Shoot the damn ball, you big dumb oaf!” gave him all the instructions he needed, and he shot. And missed. And shot. And missed again.
In all, DeAndre made six out of twenty-five attempts. After the final miss, J.J. took the ball in both hands and stood chest-to-chest with his teammate. He had to look up to make eye contact. “It’s confirmed, Private Jordan. You still SUCK at FREE THROWS!” The whistle was blown several more times. “SUCK! SUCK! SUCK! But we’ll fix that.”