Utah Jazz Preview: "Early Sunday"

Josh Spilker of Deckfight gives us the 2010 Jazz. Feel free to add your thoughts in our comments section and check out the other NBA previews we've done so far.

The truck has to be unloaded. Goods, cargo, consumer products, bulk freight. Brown boxes with netting to hold them in place. Pallets draped in a sheet of plastic. Inside the truck, he reaches for a box maneuvering around the pallets. He sometimes uses the forklift when the chance arises, but he doesn't mind the physical labor. It's what got him here in the first place.

"You have the knowledge, the ability, the talent, you can operate it," Brewer tells Paul.

"No, no thanks, sir. I'm happy where I am."

"Paul, I'm your bro, you don't have to call me sir," Brewer responds.

"Sir, yessir," Paul says.

Once Paul and Brewer are out of the way, Carlos fingers the joystick on the forklift with smooth confidence, like Billy Mays behind Donkey Kong controls. In the forklift, Carlos glides to the side of the truck. Up and over, its sleek steel slides underneath a large palette of Thelonius Monk records. "More of these? In Utah?" Boozer mutters. His knit cap fits snug over his glassy head, capturing the easy sweat of this labor. He drops the palette in the middle of the factory floor, the third in a row, so neatly arranged. Many are surprised that Boozer is still here. But he tells them that the money is good, the air is fresh. He is from Alaska, after all.

Down below, Paul has pulled no less than twenty-five boxes off the truck, in five stacks, five boxes high. Ronnie only has two stacks, Deron is doing fine work, three stacks while making time to chat with Carlos and Mehmet, who is also behind his own forklift. Everyone understands that part of Deron's job is to seemingly waste time, to talk with everyone, ask how they're doing, how they're families are going. His job is to know where everyone is at--physically, emotionally, spiritually. Even with these extra sometimes mentally trying duties, he still outpaces Ronnie and most of the other guys on a regular basis.

The P.A. clicks on. "Paul, that's enough, take a seat." The bossman peers out from a window overlooking the factory floor. A tall man with a trucker's hat sits behind him, though Paul can't make out the face. "Andrei, you're in."

Paul raises his right hand while staring up at the cased-in box. "Sir yessir, Mr. Sloan," Paul yells and runs to the breakroom. Andrei is on his way out, yawning with a Snickers bar in his hand. "God, I hate working mornings," Andrei says. "For that matter, I hate working nights too, ha!" And slaps Paul on his back. Andrei jogs to the truck and proceeds to open a box, first lifting individual bottles of detergent out one by one, before moving to another box and lifting out individual bars of Ivory soap. Andrei stacks the bars one on top of another.
"Well, look at that!" Andrei exclaims. He then texts his wife about all his accomplishments at work and in the midst of doing so knocks over the soap with his gangly knee.

"And so much promise," Deron says to Mehmet, jogging over to clean up Andrei's mess.

Back in the breakroom, Paul takes a seat on a hard plastic chair and closes his eyes. Two deep breaths. These fifteen minutes is the only time in his day for meditation, the same prayer and routine that he's done since he was 12. With his eyes still closed, he reaches around to his backpocket and pulls out his wallet. By memory, he flips it open, and his index and thumb split open a hidden pocket. He pulls out the card and opens his eyes. It's a card of man with a beard, in a purple Jazz jersey and short shorts. A loopy "K" and maudlin "M" are all that's decipherable from the signature across the front.

Paul closes his eyes, flips the card over and repeats the stats. With no pause he rattles off 85-86, 87-88. His voice quivers with a great year, 88-89. .519 FG. 10.70 RPG. .88 BPG 27.7 PPG. The card vibrates in his nervous fingers as he begins the the best: 89-90. .562 11.10 RPG .61 BPG 31.0 PPG. If that's not the Holy Spirit then Paul doesn't want to know it. He finishes the remaining years, finding comfort in the rhythmic blur of the numbers. He looks up, sees if he is right. He is, of course he is. Paul knows the bio by heart, because, essentially it is his own. His thumb glosses over the worn veneer of the card. Paul lays the card on the table, and hunches over, tears welling in his eyes. Sometimes the weight is too much.

The phone rings in the breakroom. Paul looks up, knows he's the only one there and picks up.

"Paul." It's the bossman. "Come on up here, there's someone I want you to meet."

"Sir, yessir." He hangs up the receiver.

Paul takes a deep breath. He didn't want to go up there. He preferred to deal with the boss down here, on the floor, where the only thing discussed was proper stacking technique, speed and quizzes about the forklift manual, if there was ever a full-time opening. Which after this summer, seems more and more unlikely. He hoped against hope that things would work out here, here in the anonymous mountains of Utah.

Paul takes another deep breath, turns toward the stairs off the breakroom and jogged the two flights upstairs. He presses the buzzer and is immediately let in. There was bossman Sloan, lounging on a couch. The tall man in the trucker hat seated next to him. They both stand.

"Paul," Sloan says. "This is Karl."

"K-k," Paul stutters.

"That's right, Karl Malone."

"Paul. I've heard a lot about you. It's a pleasure," Karl said reaching for Paul's hand.

The whites of Paul's eyes were large, rotund. His mouth wide open. Paul feels faint.

"Keep working. One day, you'll move up, maybe get your own truck line someday. I know it," Karl continues.

With that, Karl and Sloan can only watch as Paul's body grows lithe and sinks to the ground.