Thread
07-03-2019, 01:26 AM
To pass the time waiting on this decision I whipped this up tonight. Hope you all enjoy it.
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"Back"
A short story by Culburn
11:11am local time, Bexar County, San Antonio
His cell phone lit. He'd had it on silent, in LOS, making use of a lull in an otherwise hectic morning to keep track of who was left and who was gone on a yellow-legal-pad.
[Buford James]---"What the fuck?" [Buford James] was Kawhi Leonard's assigned code name while he was employed by the Spurs. Used to bypass protocol and Media. "Who'd you give it to, kid?" He punched it. "What do you want, wiseass?"
"Mr. Popovich."
"Kawhi?"
"Yes, sir."
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"Can I come up? I'm in the parking structure. I'm alone."
He closed his eyes as the blood rushed into his stomach. "Of course, you know the way." There was a staircase, a confidential access to his office. They cut the line.
He clipped the intercom: "Mary, no interruptions, nothing."
"Uhhhhhh, of course, Gre" He cut the intercom, double checked it, locked his office door, unlocked the access door & settled back down.
The cell phone lit again. xxxxx xxxxxx from the Express. "Mother.........fucker!"
He punched it: "What?"
"What's he doing up there, Pop?"
"Off the record?"
"Off the record."
"I don't know. I just got the call."
"What do you think he wants?"
"Goodbye, xxxxx." He turned the cell phone off.
The soft tap on the access door caused him to stop breathing yet again.
"It's open."
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"Your people know you're here, Kawhi?" No handshake, just a simple nod to the hard back chair in front of his non descript desk.
He eased into the chair. "Sure. They're waiting back at the hotel." He gestured to the closed access door.
"Christ, I ain't had a one-on-one without agents & mouth pieces since God knows when. What, what is it then? Are you wired?"
"No. I swear it." He opened his sports jacket.
"Well, kid, are you going to California, or, staying in Cana..."
Leonard cut him off: "I want to come back."
It wasn't a lark, nor a stunt, Popovich knew the tone, the grip from long and maddening experience. The room began to shrink, the lights to dim.
"I, I, I I can't...I haven't got any, not enough mon..." He tailed off and caught the figure on the yellow-legal-pad---lower right hand corner in No. 2 lead.
"It's not important. Doesn't matter. I want back, coach. I want back."
The hard buzzing in his ears hardened as Popovich would not raise his face from the desk top. Neither would Leonard. Then just a whisper across the space: "Please. coach."
"It's all I got, kid. Lower right hand corner." He turned, squared it and started to slide the yellow-legal-pad under Leonard's face, got a few inches in and felt reverse pressure as the slide halted.
"Doesn't matter, coach. Write it up,,,now. I'll sign it."
"My heart can't take this shit." He tersely admonished to himself. "Play it!" Again to himself. "I'd have to call the lawyers."
"I understand. No problem. Call them. I'll sign it."
"Kawhi, c'mon, you need your people here. It's only prop..." He cut him off again...
"No, coach. Call them. It's over. I'll sign. Call them, please."
Popovich started to speak and instead he clipped the intercom. "Call legal, Mary, get the complete set in here. I need the whole bunch...they haven't went to lunch have they? If they have, call them back and tell them "at once." Understand?
"Greg, is everything okay in th..."
"Mary-dear-now. Let me know when they're on their way up. All of 'em, Mary. Now."
"I'm sorry, Kawhi." He extended his hand.
"So am I, coach." The grasp was firm and warm.
---The End---
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"Back"
A short story by Culburn
11:11am local time, Bexar County, San Antonio
His cell phone lit. He'd had it on silent, in LOS, making use of a lull in an otherwise hectic morning to keep track of who was left and who was gone on a yellow-legal-pad.
[Buford James]---"What the fuck?" [Buford James] was Kawhi Leonard's assigned code name while he was employed by the Spurs. Used to bypass protocol and Media. "Who'd you give it to, kid?" He punched it. "What do you want, wiseass?"
"Mr. Popovich."
"Kawhi?"
"Yes, sir."
---------
"Can I come up? I'm in the parking structure. I'm alone."
He closed his eyes as the blood rushed into his stomach. "Of course, you know the way." There was a staircase, a confidential access to his office. They cut the line.
He clipped the intercom: "Mary, no interruptions, nothing."
"Uhhhhhh, of course, Gre" He cut the intercom, double checked it, locked his office door, unlocked the access door & settled back down.
The cell phone lit again. xxxxx xxxxxx from the Express. "Mother.........fucker!"
He punched it: "What?"
"What's he doing up there, Pop?"
"Off the record?"
"Off the record."
"I don't know. I just got the call."
"What do you think he wants?"
"Goodbye, xxxxx." He turned the cell phone off.
The soft tap on the access door caused him to stop breathing yet again.
"It's open."
---------
"Your people know you're here, Kawhi?" No handshake, just a simple nod to the hard back chair in front of his non descript desk.
He eased into the chair. "Sure. They're waiting back at the hotel." He gestured to the closed access door.
"Christ, I ain't had a one-on-one without agents & mouth pieces since God knows when. What, what is it then? Are you wired?"
"No. I swear it." He opened his sports jacket.
"Well, kid, are you going to California, or, staying in Cana..."
Leonard cut him off: "I want to come back."
It wasn't a lark, nor a stunt, Popovich knew the tone, the grip from long and maddening experience. The room began to shrink, the lights to dim.
"I, I, I I can't...I haven't got any, not enough mon..." He tailed off and caught the figure on the yellow-legal-pad---lower right hand corner in No. 2 lead.
"It's not important. Doesn't matter. I want back, coach. I want back."
The hard buzzing in his ears hardened as Popovich would not raise his face from the desk top. Neither would Leonard. Then just a whisper across the space: "Please. coach."
"It's all I got, kid. Lower right hand corner." He turned, squared it and started to slide the yellow-legal-pad under Leonard's face, got a few inches in and felt reverse pressure as the slide halted.
"Doesn't matter, coach. Write it up,,,now. I'll sign it."
"My heart can't take this shit." He tersely admonished to himself. "Play it!" Again to himself. "I'd have to call the lawyers."
"I understand. No problem. Call them. I'll sign it."
"Kawhi, c'mon, you need your people here. It's only prop..." He cut him off again...
"No, coach. Call them. It's over. I'll sign. Call them, please."
Popovich started to speak and instead he clipped the intercom. "Call legal, Mary, get the complete set in here. I need the whole bunch...they haven't went to lunch have they? If they have, call them back and tell them "at once." Understand?
"Greg, is everything okay in th..."
"Mary-dear-now. Let me know when they're on their way up. All of 'em, Mary. Now."
"I'm sorry, Kawhi." He extended his hand.
"So am I, coach." The grasp was firm and warm.
---The End---