The Spirit Girl

"I wish I was as confident as you that there IS a light bulb up there," she said ruefully, tapping her temple.

"Hey... I'll be around all semester. If you're having trouble with the stats, just find me. I've tutored people through stats before." Actually, that was a little white lie. I'd hired a tutor myself the first time through, but much as I described at some point it clicked, and I ended up helping my roommate study by the end. Not quite the same as tutoring, but...

"Are you serious?" she said with an excitement I didn't expect.

"Yeah, I'm serious. You know where my office is, right? In the back of the training room?" At this point the other girls were no longer interested in this conversation. The one to my left was nice enough to slip behind me and let me stand next to Samantha. We continued talking while they talked about something else.

"I can't go back there," she complained, "Most of the time we're there at the same time as the players, and we're not allowed in the team locker room when it's in use."

"I'm extension 437," I interjected, "but I suppose you'd need to use a house phone to dial it. I'll give you my cell if you want." To my surprise, she immediately reached for her phone. I gave her my number, and in the interests of etiquette she gave me hers. Cool! Not even ten minutes and I already had her number. It was for the wrong reason, but hey, a guy's gotta start somewhere. We kept talking for a good half-hour; we asked about where we went to school, and all that kind of stuff. I was getting to know her a little bit, and I wasn't picking up any psycho bitch vibes from talking to her. It felt like I was getting off to a promising start. That is, until the team arrived.

I didn't even know at first that they had arrived. All I knew is that one minute I was talking one-on-one with Samantha, and the next she was looking behind me and not hearing a word I said. I turned and found three of the players working their way through the bar, flirting with every skirt along the way. Leading the way and the center of attention was our star rookie guard Marshall Jacobs—and he was eating up all the attention. He stopped to chat to a girl with a round butt and a ridiculously short skirt. I heard the girl on my right call out "hey Jason!" Jason Newkirk, a backup center and the 12th guy on the bench, turned towards the sound; he didn't get recognized very often. He saw the girls and knew from their warm-up suits that they were girls from the Spirit Team, so he headed our way.Aha... so the warm-up suits were a way to make sure the guys from the team recognized them. Maybe the girls are prowling for the guys as much as the other way around, I thought. The third player, shooting guard Jamal Campbell, followed. A few minutes later Jacobs realized he'd lost his wing men, but since there aren't that many 7-footers he quickly spotted Jason. He excused himself and joined the group.

Each of the girls introduced themselves to the players with big friendly smiles--not quite the same reaction I'd gotten. Newkirk then looked at me, scrunching his forehead, trying to place me. "Do I know you?"

"I'm Dave. I'm the intern using the office at the back of the training room."

"Ah. I thought you looked familiar." He held out his hand to shake mine, trying to exert his dominance by crushing my hand in the process. From that point on, I might as well have been invisible. Although I was standing right next to her, the Samantha I had just been having this nice conversation with was all googly-eyed and flirting like crazy with Marshall Jacobs. He moved closer to her to hear better. I stepped back to get out of the way, but I was now pinned against the bar. Jacobs gave me a brief look, trying to suggest that I should step aside and let him do his magic, but I couldn't if I wanted to. So instead, Samantha took that opportunity to go to the bathroom with Jenna. I moved into the corner, looking every bit as left out as I felt. The girls came back out a few minutes later, and I swear the zippers on their sweatshirts were down three inches lower, making it very easy for a tall man to gaze down and admire their...talents... Samantha went right up to Marshall, standing so close they were almost touching, talking and making eyes at him. You had to be blind to not see where this was going.

I snuck out to go the bathroom, not because I needed to go but just to get out of there. When I came out, I returned to my earlier vantage point along the far wall. Samantha was sitting on a barstool now, and Marshall was standing right by her, engaged in animated conversation. His hand rested on her thigh, and she showed no inclination to request he remove it. I looked up at the TVs for a moment to check on the out-of-town scores. When I looked back ten minutes later, Marshall was bending over and sucking face with her. Wasn't too hard to figure out that someone was gonna score with Samantha tonight, and it wasn't gonna be me. I suppose I could have gone up and started talking to someone else, but Samantha's rejection stung my ego. With a sigh of resignation, I put down what was left of my beer and went home.

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Next day I was working in my office and I overheard the guys talking in the weight room. You can hear clear into the locker room if there's no one else around and the whirlpool isn't running. I overheard a voice I recognized as Marshall Jacobs talking to someone.

"Yo, you take that girl home last night?"

"OF course," Jacobs answered proudly. I couldn't make out what the other voice said next, but then I heard him say "that girl a FREAK man. Awesome."

"You gonna call her again?"

"You got that right. I gotta get me some MORE o'that."

"What about your girl in Mississippi?"

"What about her? They ain't gonna run into each other at the Walmart, right?"

"So you gonna play them both?"

"Hey-ll yeah..."

I stared at my screen without really looking at it. Not only was our star rookie was fucking the girl I wanted, but he was two-timing (or three, or four-timing) her on top of it. And what was I gonna do? Nothin', that's what. I tried to convince myself it was better this way, that I was on the rebound and might do something stupid. It was all sour grapes. And I REALLY wasn't in the mood to hear Marshall Jacobs brag about how great a lay Samantha was. I turned off my computer and headed upstairs so I wouldn't have to hear it anymore.

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When the team returned January 6, I was in the owner's box with my cousin Ricky. He was with a different girl, just as hot but slutty as the last one. Carmen was her name; brown-haired and Hispanic, she wore flared jeans skin tight on the ass, platform heels, and a zippered sweatshirt that ended four ribs short of her waist, providing unobstructed viewing of her pierced navel and tramp stamp. Grand-dad had gone back to Florida and my dad wasn't around, so it was just the three of us in the suite. I stared out the window watching the game—and Samantha. At one point Carmen went to the bathroom and to my surprise Ricky came up to talk to me. "Why so glum cuz?"

"I'm all right," I protested.

"All right? Just all right? You ought to be out there, tearing it up and taking no prisoners." Ricky took a sip of his beer.

I turned to look out the window at the arena floor again. "I don't have a nice car like you do, Rick, or cash to throw around. I can't play your game."

"Bull shit. You're gonna be the owner for the motherfuckin' TEAM, man. What hot-blooded chick wouldn't want a piece of THAT?"

I just shrugged. Just at the moment, the Spirit Girls started in on one of their routines. I didn't even realize I was watching Samantha so intently until I heard Ricky comment "aha, now Ricky sees what the real problem is. Which one is it?"

"Huh?" I was genuinely confused.

He was scanning the Jammer Spirit as they did their routine. "I see how you're looking at those dancers. You got the hots for one of 'em. Which one is it?"

I was astounded that Ricky had figured that out, but I didn't have any reason not to fess up. "Samantha... second row, way right," I said with defeat in my voice.

He checked her out. "Good taste, cuz. She's got some serious boot-ay."

"Yeah," I complained, "but she's givin' that boot-ay to Marshall Jacobs. He's constantly bragging about it in the locker room."

His answer surprised me: "so?"

"So? He's already a star, maybe rookie of the year," I argued "I'm just Dave."

"What the fuck is wrong wit' you, man," he cajoled. "You're not just Dave. You're the Dave that's gonna pay Marshall Jacobs' goddamn salary one of these days. If I was you, that's the first thing I'd say when introducing myself." I said nothing. He continued "have you talked to that dancer chick? Does she even know who you are?"

"She knows my name," I answered, "I talked with her for a while last week, over at the 5th Quarter."

"She knows your name? Did you say to her 'I'm Davis Rutherford III, and I own the motherfucking Jammers?'" My silence was answer enough. "Man, you ain't even tryin'! If she knew you were the man around here, she'd be wigglin' that tight ass of hers in your lap in no time."

I shook my head. "I guess it just doesn't come as easily for me as it does for you."

"You know what your problem is, cuz? You don't have enough CONFIDENCE. Looks and money are nice to have, but what really makes a girl respond is if you're sure of yourself. You come up to a girl with an attitude that says I've got something you want, and she's gonna want to find out what that is. If you come across like, please don't reject me... that's exactly what she's gonna do. You've lost before you even started." I looked up at him, shocked to be getting what seemed to be useful advice from my womanizing cousin. "And whatever you do, DON'T commit the cardinal sin, man."

"What's that?" I asked.

"Don't lock in one girl if she ain't buyin' what you're selling, man. That dumb-ass dancer would rather bone the point guard than team owner? Let her, cuz that's what she's gonna do anyway. Don't sit around gettin' all mad and jealous and shit. She ain't gonna end up marrying Marshall fucking Jacobs; he's playin' her. Maybe she's playin' him too. Either way it aint' gonna last, and one of these days she's gonna be lookin' around for other options. If you still like Tabitha or whatever her name is, stay cool, stay close by and keep your ears open, and be ready to pounce when opportunity knocks. In the meantime, there's a thousand other girls that would gladly put out for Mr. I Own a Motherfuckin' Basketball Team. Have yourself a BALL man!"

At that point Carmen came back from the bathroom, and put her arm around Ricky. He said to her "Carmen, did I introduce you to my cousin? He likes to go by Dave, but his real name is Davis. Davis Rutherford III. He's gonna inherit the team someday."

"Really?" Maybe it was the kind of chick that Ricky hung out with, but it really did feel like I had suddenly become a lot more attractive in her eyes. It felt like she checking me out, looking for things she could convince herself to like. That just strengthened my conviction that I was doing the right thing by NOT telling Samantha who I was.

"Yeah, he's a good sort. He likes to party... right Dave?"

There was something in the way he party said that pricked up my ears, like he was insinuating something. I don't know if he was thinking sharing her with me (something told me that it wouldn't have been Carmen's first three-way), but I wanted to cut that entire line of thinking off at the pass. "Yeah, but I don't know that I like to party the same way you guys do. You guys go ahead, do whatever you like. I'm gonna watch MY team try and win this game."

Ricky patted me on the back. "That's right, Dave, it's your motherfucking team. Just remember-- stay cool, and stay confident, and things will come around eventually." I nodded and watched the game. Ricky's advice really did seem to ring true--which astonished me to no end. Then he and Carmen went off and had sex in the bathroom.

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In a way, I followed Ricky's advice. Right after the game I went to the 5th Quarter, which I hadn't planned on doing beforehand. I didn't wait for the Spirit Girls to show, either, I just went and started talking to girls. There was a cute girl in a short flouncy dress I talked to for quite awhile, but her friends weren't having as much fun as she and were pushing her to go somewhere else. She asked me to come with them, but I begged off. I just vaguely said, "I work for the Jammers... I'm here after games pretty frequently." I told her when the next home game was, and promised I'd look for her. I bet she'd have given me her number if she asked—had I gone with them, I felt pretty confident that I could have taken her home eventually. That made me feel like less of a loser.

When I looked around, not only were the Spirit Girls already there, but a couple of the players were, too. I went up to them anyway, and it also made me feel better to be recognized right away this time and allowed "into the circle." I talked to all of the girls instead of focusing on Samantha, keeping it cool. When Marshall finally appeared, Samantha attached herself to him and they soon left together. Yes, it pained me to watch, but hangin' with three other hotties from the squad lessened the blow. And I was doing what Ricky suggested—stay close and keeping my ears open. I wanted to be the first to know when the Samantha-Marshall thing blew up.

From them on, I spent a lot of time at the 5th Quarter on weekends and game nights. I got pretty friendly with the clique of Spirit Girls that frequented the place. A few others came and went, but the regulars were Samantha and Jenna, Heather who I'd met with the Santa hat thing, and an Asian girl named Kim. When I learned that Jenna was Samantha's best friend and roommate, I made a point of sticking close to her. She made it clear right off the bat that she had a boyfriend in Texas had no interest in any extracurricular activities; with that out of the way, we became pretty friendly. In some ways, we were both being left behind when Samantha ran off after Marshall Jacobs--which was every night. Pretty soon he didn't even bother coming in to the bar for her anymore; she would get a text message and suddenly have to go without explanation—like we needed one. We started making jokes about it; "must be time for Jacobs to get his physical therapy." I did my best to do what Ricky suggested: biding my time, staying cool, and keeping my ears open.

I also kept hearing the talk in the locker room. Marshall Jacobs was a real kiss-and-tell kind of guy; he couldn't WAIT to tell you who he'd been boning. As a result I knew for certain he had been involved with at least seven other girls--and I probably didn't even hear about the conquests on the road. He had

Samantha wrapped around his little finger; he came right out and called her his booty call girl. But he also complained that she was getting suspicious of the times when he'd suddenly disappear. He complained that she was "high maintenance," which I think meant that she wasn't satisfied to sit waiting by the phone and then come running when he called. I had a difficult time imagining that Samantha viewed their relationship in quite the same way he did—but that wasn't my problem. I still didn't like to hear the talk, if only because someone I knew well enough was getting used, but it didn't keep me from doing my work anymore.

One night in about the second week of February, I got to the bar a little later than usual. To my surprise, Samantha had been looking for me. "Hey Dave... you know how you said once that you could help me in stats?"

"Of course."

"Did you mean it? I mean, would you be able to help me out? I'm having trouble already."

"Not a problem, just tell me when and where." I replied chivalrously. We talked a little bit more about it; I could tell she was serious because she didn't even go running out the door when her text summons came in. She waited until we had finished our conversation before taking her leave to go and service Marshall Jacobs.

I met her at a coffee shop on a Sunday afternoon. With hair in a ponytail, little makeup, and ordinary clothing that obscured some of her show-stopping physique, I didn't recognize her on my first scan through the place. I was used to see her with her hair big, full makeup, and figure-flattering attire. She still looked mighty fine, just not exactly like I was expecting. I came up to her table and sat down. She offered to buy me coffee for taking the time, but I'd already ordered one. I spent about two hours with her on stats. Samantha actually understood the stuff just fine, she just didn't FEEL like she did. What she needed more than anything was a shot of confidence—kind of ironic, since if Ricky was right, that was just the elixir it would take if I was to ever catch her eye. In some ways, it was good that our first one-on-one time was doing stats, because by now I KNOW that stuff and couldn't help but sound confident when talking about it. Truth is, I never got any feeling that Samantha disliked me. It was just pretty clear that she liked Marshall Jacobs more.

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Back in the office, the trade deadline was coming up, and dad was getting ready to trade Scott Henin to Chicago for Juvenis Igenko. Scott Henin was the most recognizable name on the team, a forward and once upon a time an all-star. But he had a big contract and his production had been declining precipitously; he had a year maybe two left in him at best. Igenko was a Russian 7-footer; no offensive skills but seemingly a decent rebounder and shot blocker. We hoped Igenko would strengthen our weak interior defense, but mostly we wanted to get out from under Henin's contract. It wasn't going to be a popular trade, however. Dad wouldn't pull the trigger unless we got another player from Chicago; he called me into the office and asked me my opinion on which of five players we should take. I asked him to give me afternoon to look into it and I'd get back to him. He gave me a 5:00 deadline, which would give him time to negotiate before the deadline. I went down and went to work.

If it was easy to mathematically predict player performance, someone would have done it a long time ago. But I did what I could, plugging the stats of the five guys on the list into the so-so models I'd come up with. Right away, it was clear that all of the models predicted that one of those players had much more upside than the others. I did a little background research, and the more I found, the more I liked. By 4:30 I was giving my report.

"Well Dad, as you know the models are far from perfect. But according to my research, there's one player who is far superior to the others: Stanley Jefferson."

"Stanley Jefferson?" my dad questioned. "I don't know anything about him. I was leaning toward Jason Stallings."

I nodded. "Jason Stallings is the seventh man in the Chicago rotation, so he gets more minutes than the others on the list, and he's put up some decent offensive numbers this year. But my models suggest that he's overachieving; he will not retain this level of performance in the long run. And I think he's a liability on defense. Opponents' points-scored-per-minute increased by 30% when he's on the floor. There's a reason Chicago is willing to let him go."

Dad raised his eyebrows at that one. "And what's the story on Jefferson?"

"Stanley Jefferson was projected to be a mid first-rounder going into his senior year, but he developed a bum ankle and his numbers fell off. Chicago took him in the late second round, but he's mostly languished on their bench since. But his physical skills and quickness suggest he's capable of good things. He's not a great stand-and-shoot player, so he's struggled in their half-court offense. Plus, Chicago is playing him out of position. He's tall, 6'9", so Chicago has been putting him at the four. But that's not his game--he's a slasher, and uses his quickness to get to the hole; he should be playing the three."