Van and Herman were shooting baskets and waiting for them. Introductions were made and they seemed delighted to meet Sooley. Van was once an assistant with the Mavericks and Herman once scouted for the Magic. They were somewhere in Arnie’s orbit but their positions were not clear. Van took training seriously, and Arnie had asked him to guide Sooley through half an hour of stretching and slow movements, and to emphasize that the routine was now a part of his daily life. Once he was properly loosened, they began shooting drills. After days off, it felt great to bounce a ball again and take some shots.
During a break, they talked about the Combine. Van thought it was a good idea. Herman had reservations. Arnie had not yet decided whether Sooley should participate. About half of his clients did so, and he was known to be less than impressed with the event.
Each year the top sixty to seventy draft hopefuls were invited to the NBA Draft Combine, a three-day, media-heavy beauty pageant. The players were measured in every way possible: height with shoes and without, weight, body fat, agility, wingspan, speed, hand size, and vertical leaps—both standing and running. There were shooting contests, light scrimmages, lots of interviews and preening for the press.
Sooley was eager to go and strut his stuff. Herman said it wasn’t a good idea. His stock had never been higher. Why run the risk of a bad workout?
The practices continued each day, once in the morning and again late in the afternoon when the gym was available. The cast of coaches and players changed almost daily, as Arnie’s pals came and went. Some lived in the area but most were passing through, always on business related to basketball.
The longer Sooley stayed at Arnie’s sumptuous pad, the longer he wanted to stay. His finals were over, as if they mattered. School was out and Murray, his consultant, was hard at work hauling and stacking boxes for the food bank at $8.00 an hour.
He ordered a late breakfast and ate by the pool with whoever happened to stay in the house the night before. He met an incredible collection of coaches, scouts, former players, other agents, reps from shoe companies, and quite a few folks whose jobs were not well defined. Reynard whispered that most were hangers-on, guys looking for a cushy job in someone’s entourage.
Arnie was rarely at home. He was on a jet almost every day and relied on his staff to manage the house and the ever-changing lineup of guests.
Sooley really had no place to go. He leaned on Reynard to make sure he was not overstaying his welcome. To which Reynard laughed and said, “Come on, Sooley. You’re a first-rounder. Primos can stay forever.”
He talked to Murray every day and Miss Ida occasionally. He called his mother every Wednesday morning but had not mustered the courage to tell her about his change in plans. He slept late most mornings, took long walks on the beach, spent at least an hour pumping iron, and worked out with various coaches twice a day. When Arnie popped in for a quick stay-over they talked about the draft and the projections. Sooley, quite naturally, was keen to know where he might land, and thus where he would be living in the years to come. There were thirty teams from coast to coast, and some cities had more appeal than others. Not that it really mattered. The money would be glorious wherever he landed, but it was one thing to be a star for the Celtics or Lakers and something else to play for Sacramento. Like all players, he was dreaming of a lucrative contract with a storied franchise, one in a huge television market.
Arnie talked to general managers and scouts all day long and was still of the opinion that Sooley would go in the middle of the first round. Brooklyn, Denver, and Houston looked likely, but things could change in an instant as the draft neared. Each year brought a bewildering flurry of trades that sent players packing from one team to another.
In early May, Arnie decided that the Combine was not a good idea after all. The scouts had seen enough of Sooley. Indeed, no college player that spring had generated more interest and more footage than him. His speed, quickness, leaping, shooting, were all well-documented, and the Combine would only be more of the same. A bad workout, or one that did not meet lofty expectations, could only harm his stock. Sooley was disappointed but trusted his agent implicitly.
Then Arnie was gone again, off chasing another deal. Sooley begged Murray to hop down for a weekend of parties and girls, but his parents had him handcuffed to his job at the food bank.
Sooley met a girl. Her name was Valerie but she went by Val or Vallie, either one would work. She was one of the girls who hung around the pool in a skimpy bikini and enjoyed showing off her well-toned legs and abs. She said she had played basketball at South Florida until a knee injury ruined her career, and she was quick to show him the scar on her leg, the only blemish on an otherwise perfect body. They spent the first night together in Sooley’s room and had a late breakfast by the pool. The second night they went to her small apartment around the corner and rarely came up for air. She said she was twenty-four, sold real estate, and worked her own hours. By day three, Sooley was thoroughly smitten. Day four was a Wednesday, and he slept late and forgot to call his mother.