Lebreezy. Wade. Bosh. Dirk. Johnson. Amar'e. Not to mention Craig fucking Smith, who is a total homie and who we should re-sign but won't.
July 1, 2010 has been the sole reason Knicks fans have gotten up in the morning for the last three years--that reason evidently to reunite the the 2004-2005 Phoenix Suns, with less depth and no Steve Nash (don't worry Knicks fans, I'm sure it was worth it). It's the reason Cleveland-area vasectomy clinics are booked for the entire summer, as no self-respecting Cavs fan could in good conscience bring a child into a world where he will be forced to choose between Mo Williams and Antawn Jamison jerseys for his first Cavs game.
It's the reason Clipper fans such as myself have replayed Lebreezy's Larry King interview over 400 times on their DVRs, trying not to weep when the words "They have a lot of nice players. Kaman, Baron Davis..." left those sweet, messianic lips. It's the reason Clipper fans have also failed to rid themselves of the self-delusion that even if Lebreezy does sign with us, which there is absolutely no chance of happening, that within fifteen minutes of his on-court debut he would be forced to amputate both legs and lose sight in his right eye after a freak on-court accident involving Penny Marshall and a rogue Zamboni left over from a Kings game. (We still do have the best goddamn supporting cast out there, if you're reading this Lebron. Also, Chris Kaman smokes the dankest, if you're interested...)
But despite what will certainly be an off-season just as enthralling, engrossing and dramatic as an actual professional basketball game (punctuated by massive 360 windmill Chad Ford breaking news reports), I have to confess I'm already a little disappointed. The much ballyhooed Dwyane Wade-sponsored free agent summit never really took shape the way I imagined it would. Dinners with Gabrielle Union and Chris Bosh in LA Live sound nice enough, but I wanted what Wade originally intended: a true summit, in which every major free agent was invited and where each would have an opportunity to lure others to their preferred destinations.
I imagine it would go something like this...
Scene: A gorgeous summer day at Dwyane Wade's lavish South Beach estate. More of a fiefdom than a mansion, the sprawling complex screams Miami ostentation: reggaeton remixes blare from Wade's collection of Ferrari drop-tops; supermodels in thongs adorn an Olympic-sized swimming pool filled with nothing but Grey Goose; flamingos in cutoffs scamper playfully on a private golf course; Cuban refugees drown while attempting to cross Wade's "bay of Bacardi" moat.
Chris Bosh drives up to the estate's secured gate, punches in 712010$$ as the security code and then continues up the platinum-encrusted driveway to Wade's house. Confused yet vaguely impressed--mostly because he had never seen a keypad with dollar signs before--he somewhat diffidently knocks on the front door. As the door opens, he hears...
Wade: Lebreeeeeezy, right on time!!!! I knew you would come.....
The door opens fully. Wade, shirtless and wearing matching pairs of Dolce and Gabana shorts, sandals and sunglasses, looks up blankfaced. After looking up and down Bosh's 7-foot frame several times without a hint of recognition, Bosh decides to break the ice...
Bosh: Sup Dwyane.
Wade [over-excitedly]: Oh shit, my bad Chris! With the Florida sunlight this bright, sometimes it takes me a second or so for my eyes to adjust. Sun always shines in Florida, Chris. You'll get used to that. Glad to see you could come man!!!
Bosh: No problem, I'm just happy to get the invite. I know it sounds corny, but I really am honored to be considered good enough to help one of ya'll win a championship. Thanks man.Wade: Ahh shit Chris, don't be modest!! You were damn good in Helsinki. I just invited you down here so you could get warm and get a tan, man. Half the time we played up there I couldn't tell the difference between you and Bargnani.
Bosh: Hahaha, yeah I know its cold up there. I played in Toronto, for the record. Pretty good city actually.
Wade: Toronto, Helsinki, whatever man. If it ain't South Beach, it ain't worth learning the name.
Bosh: So New York, LA, Chicago...
Wade: Never heard of them.
Bosh: You grew up in Chicago.
Wade: So I'm told. Come on in man, my Mojito is getting room temperature.
Wade and Bosh make their way into Wade's living room, where all four walls are covered with 72 inch plasma flatscreens. The north wall tv is playing Scarface; the west and east, Bad Boys 1 and 2, respectively; and the south is playing Burn Notice.
Bosh: Ahh man, I love Burn Notice.
Wade: I know, right? Michael Weston is the shit. You know where it's set? Only stuff like that can happen in one place: Miami....
Bosh: Right, right. I think they film that in Vancouver, but whatever, I'm picking up on the theme. So who else is supposed to show up to this thing?
Wade: Ahh man, everybody. Amar'e, Carlos, Dirk, hell we even invited David Lee. Of course Lebron, although he hasn't been returning my text messages today for some reason. Probably shitty reception in Cleveland. Joe's already here, he's standing right next to you.
Bosh looks up to find Joe Johnson half an inch from his face, avoiding eye contact.
Bosh: Oh shit! Damn Joe, you scared me. I didn't hear you come in at all, how long have you been standing there?
Wade: He's been there this whole time!!! I know, its crazy. Dude never makes a peep, he's like a Prius or some shit. Go ahead and put your ears to his lips, you can't hear inhaling or exhaling.
Johnson sits down on a leather sofa across from Wade and Bosh.
Bosh: How you been Joe? That postseason was rough, but hey at least you got there man. Fuck I wish I had Al Horford.
Johnson takes out a small notepad, scribbles something on it, tears out a page and hands it to Bosh.
Bosh [reading the note]: "I'm good. Gettin' paid." Yeah, man. We all about to get paid.
Johnson shakes his head, scribbles another note.
Bosh [reading the new note]: "No. Gettin' paid right now. By Wade."
Wade [looking sheepish]: It was the only way he would come, man. Shit, it's the only way he leaves his studio apartment. For anything.
Bosh looks disapprovingly at Wade, who shrugs. Suddenly there's another knock on the door. Wade gets up excitedly to greet the new arrival.
Wade: Ahhh shit, he always makes a grand entrance. The man himself, Lebree....Oh. Hey Dirk.
Dirk: Hello Dwyane. Hey Chris, Joe.
Bosh: Hey Dirk. Oh, Joe's writing something again. He wants to know whether Dirk is getting paid for this too, and how much?
Dirk: What?
Wade: Nevermind, man. Just come on in. Hey, before we start, I just want to say no hard feelings from 2006. I'd love to bring you here to be my 4, mostly so I can stop pretending Udonis Haslem doesn't belong in Greece. Plus, not only would you be playing with a champion, but you'd be living in M-I-A-M-I........That spells Miami.
Dirk: Thanks, Dwyane. I'd love to play alongside a true star like you, and I've always dreamed of having Pat Riley bitch me out publicly for being soft. But I'm not so sure about moving to Miami.
Wade: "WHAT!?!?!!?" "WHAT?!?!?!?!?!"
Bosh: Yo man, I can understand that. It's always tough to move family, leave friends. Plus you got a ultra-loyal fan base like in Toronto.
Dirk: No, it's not any of that. I could give a shit about our part-time Cowboys fans. It's, uh....it's the women.
Wade: "WHAT?!?!?!?!?" "WHAT?!?!?!?!?"
Dirk: There's something about them here I'm just not attracted to. They're too, I dunno...effeminate. They're just not my type.
Wade continues to stare uncomprehendingly at Dirk. Johnson scribbles another note and passes it to Bosh.
Bosh [reading]: Dirk's into that Ali Larter from Obsessed type, except replace the justifying hotness with more crazy.
Dirk: Exactly! That's why I've already signed a max deal with the Nets. The women there are as mentally ill as they are handsome. Can't wait to play in Newark.
A long, uneasy silence is interrupted by the doorbell ring--which is not a traditional doorbell at all, but an all-instrumental rendition of LMFAO's "I'm in Miami, Bitch". Wade gradually makes his way to the door, still recovering from the exchange with Dirk.
Wade: I don't remember inviting you guys.
The door opens to reveal Paul Pierce and Ray Allen. Both are wearing FUBU tracksuits, while Allen is listening to a Sony Walkman CD-player.
Pierce: Sup Dwyane. We figured with the way the playoffs worked out, you'll have to do what the media is doing and reluctantly consider us still relevant. Plus, we didn't want to go to the summit Shaq and AI were hosting. Shit gets depressing when you see the same Mystikal music video girl at every party since 1997.
Wade: Fine, I guess you guys can come in.
Pierce: Sweet! We'll make it worth your while, man. I brought some of my favorite episodes of Martin. You got a VCR, right?
As soon as the door closes behind them, they hear what sounds like someone attempting to ring the doorbell but missing the ringer and instead hitting his finger on the door. After several instances of this, LMFAO finally starts playing and Wade opens the door to find Amar'e Stoudemire and Steve Nash, with Nash holding Amar'e's finger inches from the doorbell.
Wade: Amar'e! And Nash! Why are you here Steve? I thought you were tethered to Phoenix until you retire or they accidentally deport you.
Nash: Amar'e got lost at the airport and couldn't find his way here, so he called me to help him out. Happens every now and then.
Amar'e: Steve's just got a good sense of direction. I mean, I could have made it here without him, but it was quicker for him to fly down here and help me out.
Wade: Well, the more talent the better! Maybe we can work out some type of package trade deal. Come on in, we're just getting started.
Amar'e: Yeah, that sounds great! I'd really like it if Steve and I could still play together. Not that I can't win by myself. I'm Amar'e. But just to give Steve another shot at a championship.
Amar'e and Nash make their way over to the sofa where Johnson is sitting. An unopened bag of Doritos lay on the coffee table. Amar'e picks it up and attempts to open it, but even with his massive 6'11 frame can't seem to get the job done.
Nash [obviously used to this]: Here, Amar'e let me take care of that for you. Don't want to have another Dorito-related eye injury.
Nash opens the bag effortlessly, and hands a chip to Amar'e. Amar'e raise the chip above his mouth and repeatedly tries to drop it in, but misses the target each time. Nash, who has moved to the other side of the couch, finally grabs the chip and effortlessly tosses it into Amar'e's mouth from about four feet away.
Bosh: Yeah, a package deal sounds best.
Wade: Alright, let's start this already. Riles tells me we have room for two max contracts in Miami. Who wants to be Phillip Michael Thomas to my Don Johnson?
Bosh [reading another Johnson note]: Who the fuck is Phillip Michael Thomas?
Pierce [while attempting to shove one of the video cassettes into a blue-ray player]: Detective Ricardo Tubbs, dummy. Shit man, you don't want watch Miami Vice? I got those on VHS too, can get them over here real quick.
Bosh: Look, I'm down to play with either you or Lebron, I feel like I can win a championship with either of you. But to be honest, I think Chicago has more talent around us and can still afford two max players, so why not there?
Wade: Chicago? Seriously? I'll tell you why, M-I-A-M....oh wait up. I'm getting a text from Lebron.
All noise and action in the room comes to an abrupt halt, and everyone in attendance looks intently at Wade's blackberry.
Wade: Looks like he's not coming. I guess Jay-Z and Prokhorov are throwing some party in Moscow, he's taking the Concord....
Before he can finish his sentence, everyone in the room vanishes except for Bosh and Johnson.
Wade: Fuck. Joe, you're off the clock, I ain't paying...
Before can finish his sentence, Johnson bolts, then quickly returns to grab the half-empty Doritos bag and vanishes.
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