The Hangover: Untold Stories From The NBA

Nothing ever made it so fun and so normal to be drunk and stupid and reckless as the adventures of a few post-graduate, obnoxious friends did. Phil. Stu. Doug. The weirdly sexual Alan, jockstrap and nakedness along with him.

The Hangover 2 is now playing. I haven’t seen it yet so I can’t spoil anything. But what I can do is look back at the original classic, the first Hangover. Ever wondered if any of the movie’s famous scenes ever took place in the NBA behind closed doors? Wonder no more.

*THESE SCENARIOS ARE FICTITIOUS STORIES BASED ON REAL-LIFE EVENTS*

*** *** ***

Desert. Four guys. Three buddies. One drug dealer. He’s pissing. One phone. One call. One road. One car. No way home…

Hello?

Yeah uh, that’s not gonna happen…

—–

KG is fired up. “Whatchu mean you don’t know? You talkin’ like this is marriage. Ain’t no one getting married! The bouquet wasn’t even thrown.” Rondo stares at the ground and then looks away, adjusts his headband to put the logo up front, upside down (eat it Stern). Facial expression doesn’t change. Stoic. Stubborn. Give me back my Perk!

“I’m talking to you, shorty. We trying to do some things around here. See those banners up there? This ain’t about you. This ain’t about Perk. This ain’t about those weird little games you used to play. We tryin’ to do something, and you are f#$%^& with my money. You f#$%^^ with my rings. My legacy.”

Danny Ainge comes strolling in, slaps Jeff Green on the backside and smirks that lil’ BYU gunslinger look at Rob and Big. Shorty sees him, the point guard in him vanishes. He starts to stand up: “You F@#$%^ it all up! It’s YOU….” Big steps in. “Calm down Shorty. Listen up, we got moves to make. Get it together.”

Shorty keeps playing, but what else is he gonna do? He’s got a whole city behind him, the first time in his life he’s getting love on the hardwood. He was no one’s Valentine back in the day. Back in Louisville, Ricky P basically said, thanks but no thanks Shorty. We got some wild child from Coney Island. Goes by the name of Telfair. Big deal. Sports Illustrated. The next big thing. Beat it kid. At Kentucky, those old timers and bluegrassers checked him out. Up and down. “Shorty’s a nut. He don’t wanna fit in. Wants to do his own thing, be his own coach. Stubborn. Oh, now you declaring for the Draft? Good riddance.” 21 picks later and Shorty’s finally got a home. ‘Till the BYU golden boy came in and screwed it up, sent away his brother. And now the whole world is gonna feel Shorty’s wrath.

“I’mma play, but I’m not doin’ it for you, Big. Not for you.” Big’s head curls. “Not for me? Whatchu mean? This is a team. We go as you go.” Shorty gets up and walks out. Big just watches. “Damn, we lost Shorty.”

*** *** ***

Two friends. One room. One jockstrap. A beard that talks. No Harden. A couple of suits for the wedding…

Listen, I want you to know Doug, I’m a steel trap. Whatever happens tonight, I will never, ever, ever speak a word of it.

Okay. I got it (nods head)

—–

“Come on in here big fella. Listen up man, you’re my boy. I love you man. The next big center. Purple and gold royalty. That’s gonna be you my man. MY BOY! I just want…” Big Drew is smiling that sheepish smile. He’s a nice cat, can’t help it. He builds toy cars and likes puzzles. He likes attention, likes that girls with halter-tops like L.A. “…Hey man, thanks for that. Untouchable? Means a lot. I feel lighter already. No more injuries. It’s on now baby.”

The exec, shirt a little messy from too much stress, pulls back his hand after being interrupted. He curls it up, places it at his chin. “You listen here big fella. Zen is out. New day. New beginnings. No one’s smoking peace pipes ’round here no more. I make the rules ’round here, big fella. That boy 24. He’s old. He wrinkly. I don’t like him ‘cus he told me my dad was better. Embarassed me. Someone gotta put him in his place.”

“Well, he does have like…”

“Hush, big fella! Zip it. Zip it for a long time. Long time. Your team now. We all just living here. Taking up space. Five rings? Who cares he’s nothing. Old-timer. Like Zen. We in here now, you and me. We goin’ right to the top. You think you can do that? Don’t care what we do. I don’t care if we trade Kobe. Trade that Spaniard. Trade that TV star. Trade ’em all. It’s a new day so can you zip it? It’s on you.” Big Drew has a wide grin, teeth coming out now. He’s smiling. Can’t wait. No Bart Scott. Just feeling really happy, really feeling himself. They stand up to shake hands. Then the exec with the bristled shirt pulls him in closer, and then even closer. Hug. Big Drew turns his head, taken aback. WTF??? “Hug it up baby. MY BOY! YOU’RE MY BOY!”

*** *** ***

Four friends. One roof. Jager. Sin City. Substances that later became roofies. One toast. No safe way out…

This is good. I’d like to make a toast…to Doug and Tracy, may tonight be…but a minor speed bump in an otherwise very long and healthy marriage. Cheers!

…And then six months ago when Doug introduced me to you guys, I thought wait a second, could it be? And now I know for sure, I just added two more guys to my wolf pack. Four of us wolves, running around in the desert together, in Las Vegas, looking for strippers and cocaine. So tonight…I make a toast (pulls out a knife).

—–

It’s a dark alley, right behind the Big Post Office. Night has descended. Mr. No-Nickname, the dude from UConn? Yeah, he’s out. Like a wolf in real life, when he finally got it, he got hurt. Bye bye. Now it’s just these guys. Two burly mothas and a couple of smalls. Baldie steps up. YMCA All-Star? What he looks like. NBA All-Star? What he plays like. “We getting too old for this. Need a wakeup. Sleep when you die.” His burly brother, the white one, scribbles at his beard. “Big bro knows ’bout winning. All ’bout it….”

“Big bro? Soft bro? Shaky as pudding after one scoop bro? No one hearing that. Back in the Bean, back in the CHI, it was brotherhood. One team. One truce.” The crazy one knows about it. Ask the security guards who kept him alive two years ago on the bench. Ask ’em.

“…Teammates. No one above the other. We are gonna D up and we are gonna make up and everyone is gonna feel the love.”

They all smile, dapping each other up. It feels good to be down for a common cause. It’s like filming a movie, except no one knows the ending. Who dies? Who survives? Is it a horror flick? No more Larry Hoover, Jail Blazers. No mo’ big bro running s$%^. No mo’ being known for tearing knees up after the whistle.

The smallest one finally speaks up, the one with the famous father. “I’m down. Shake on it.” Hands reach out and clasp. Someone walks by, 6-4 of splashing wet Js. They used to call him the next LeBron. Now they don’t know what’s next for him. What’s that? A truce? They all look at him, beckoning him to come over and join in. He peers back, somewhat shocked like he’s never seen it before. Finally he says, “I’m outtie” and keeps walking. No wonder he should’ve been traded.

Three friends. One baby. One cop car. A couple of psychos with bats. Eddie and his marriage home…

So cool if I could breast feed, ya know?
(stares wildly)…(car comes shooting in)
…We are ’bout to go for a tractor ride so I should…

F#$% THIS S$%^!

—–

“Never again. Never. Old man? Coach? Can’t get to me. Won’t let him.” The “point guard” and the GM are sitting in chairs along the sideline, the GM with his championship ring on and a forlorn look, the point guard with his “respect” and his balls. Five feet away in another chair, Johnny Ballgame sits. The coach. The leader. Arms folded. Muttering to himself about how young fella won’t listen. He won’t.

“What did you say old man?” The “point guard” steps up and steps out. Away from the GM. Johnny Ballgame faces him up. It’s on. Shouting and screaming. Tussling. The GM in the middle of it all. Chaos.

No one will cede control to the other. The colossal family tilt. It’s been going on for over a year. Stubborn men. More stubborn kids. The GM is trying to break it off. “Chill. Everyone calm down. Me? I’m a Bad Boy. I know ’bout winning. 2004, you remember that? Best believe we can do it again. I need you both to shut up or you are both outta the D.” He doesn’t affect anything. It goes on because it can. It goes on because it won’t ever stop. This is the D. Black Steel In The Hour Of Chaos.

There goes Big Ben complaining up in the weight room. “No one respects me. No one ever did. F#$% ’em. F@#$ ’em all.” He’s throwing up weights and throwing ’em down harder. Over there is UConn’s finest, tall man and the big-balled shooter arguing with the franchise, the young center. Mr. Too Nice.

“What? Okafor all day over ‘Zo. No questions!” Mr. Too Nice, all 6-11 of long, feathery basketball skill ain’t having it, starts chuckling and shaking his head. “Patrick over all of ’em. Jamaica’s Finest all day. John Thompson, don’t even get me started on him.”

Just then, a worm walks by. The Worm. Jersey now hanging in the rafters, Worm just came down off a seven-day heater. Eyes are sunken in. Shirt’s ripped. Tired and just woke up 20 minutes ago. It’s 3:47. P.M. But he’s not done. Pissed actually. “Where the Big Cat at? The Bearcat?” He’s glaring, looking around. “He thinks he can board like me? I’m ready. Let’s get it on now.” Up the stairs he goes, with some sneakers in hand. He hasn’t played in 321 days. No sign of the Cat though. Back down and into the weight room. UConn and G-Town still arguing. No Big Cat. The Worm looks out to the court, sees the “point guard” and Johnny Ballgame’s hissy fits. He chuckles that Worm chuckle, earrings dangling from his nose, brow and ears.

Chaos everywhere. F#$% THIS S#$%!

*** *** ***

Three friends. Two cops. One classroom. A tazor. A class full of kids…

Hey. We got one more charge left. Anyone wanna do some shootin’ up here? (Enthusiastic hands all rise) How ’bout you big man? Come on up here…

In the face! In the faaaaaaace!

—–

“They really think they gon’ stop me? Pulease.” Loud as hell up in OKC. It almost sounds like the whole city is in the building. But the Thunder kids are used to it. They know how to deal with it, know how to speak in it. “I’m me. I made it here on my own. Never had love. Wasn’t even BMOC in high school. Imagine that? At Pauley P, they tried to tear me down. Keep me down. Shackled up. Howland, he didn’t know what he had. He kept trying to get me to back up DC. I back up no one though. You thought I liked that? How? How could you?”

Just stares. Blank stares. What can anyone say? There’s really nothing. They like this cat, don’t wanna see it change. But things done changed. Oh yeah. And from here, it’ll only get crazier. With fame comes a price, a big ol’ price, like what it costs to buy the whole team 360s to entertain ’em. The Golden Boy doesn’t know what to do. Not used to this. Everything comes easy for him. Since he was 15, he was Next. Now, he’s Now. The man. The savior. The anti-LeBron. Shots are fired though, and they’re coming hard and at the worst time possible. Playoffs. Crunch time…when friends lie and disappear, and enemies double. What can he say? Nothing. He looks out at the crowd, everyone sort of staring back. He shoots a glance at the coach, who’s scribbling on a whiteboard, then erasing it, then repeating the process, then throwing his hands up in the air, exacerbated.

“Imma be me. No other choice. I’m good. I’m real good. Some people say I’m next.” He points at the BMOC. “Not you. Not you guys. Me. It could happen. I like y’all a lot. Brothers for life…” Everyone glances up. Heads were down. Family. That gets ’em all juiced.

“…Family is good. I like family. But y’all ain’t holdin’ me back. Starbury? I’d eat him up. He don’t want it. The Answer? He coulda gave me a run. That crossover…ohhh weeee! But I’m too big and strong. D-Rose, he nice. I’m nicer though. He’s got the green light. I don’t even have a light.”

“But Russell,” they all say in unison. “Don’t listen to them.”

He just shrugs. There’s nothing else that needs to be said. Actions speak louder than words. “They’ve been ripping me apart. These shots only makes me stronger.”

The timeout is over and back onto the court they all jog, heads ducking from the weight of expectation. How will the future be? It’s the question on all their minds. BMOC, the Golden Boy has a weight. Shoulders are drooping. Being too nice. “What else you want me to do though? Be mean? That just sounds weird.”

Will the attacks keep coming? Will it be love? Fire? Will it be over before it began? Never easy to predict. They can’t do anything else but live in the moment, live with the BMOC, the Golden Boy, and his lil’ brother, still running his mouth to no one in particular as he snatches the ball and starts coming up court.

What do you think?

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