A DRAFT

by Martin Bell

On line outside of Madison Square Garden before the NBA Draft last June. A member of the Knicks' front office, a really tall black lady, comes out to chat with fans.

I try to convince her not to draft the undersized Mike Sweetney.
 
"Why not?" she asks. Suddenly, every inept maneuver by Knicks management since 1994 flashes before my eyes. My rage boils over. I fly into a tantrum.

I can barely control myself as I recite the litany of awful moves.
 
"But we have an All-Star in Allan Houston," she says, condescendingly.

An All-Star? Who does she think she's talking to? I see red.

"But, but," I sputter. "You idiots are paying him like, like, like..."

[Think. Which sounds more ludicrous, zillion or jillion? How does one best convey the lunacy of the $100 million contract that has us so far above the salary cap the air's getting thin? Zillion, jillion, zillion, jillion, pick one... We're giving a glorified jump shooter more than we ever had to, and somebody has to pay, and it's gonna be this enormous woman, and it's gonna be right now... Zillion. I can't wait to see her face.]

"You're paying him, like, like, a... MILLION DOLLARS!"
 
My eyes widen in horror. I have lost all credibility. Other disgruntled Knick fans on the line who had been cheering me on now silently distance themselves.
 
"I'll pass your advice along," says Knick lady, stifling a guffaw.

She turns away.

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