Rajon Rondo parked next to the curb in front of the house. He placed his cellphone in the mailbox. He approached the front door. A man at the window pulled back a curtain. “What the hell?” he asked. He walked into the kitchen. He checked the calendar on the wall. The doorbell rang. He turned away from the calendar. He undid the reluctant deadbolt and twisted the key on the other lock. He opened the door just enough to expose the narrow width of his face. “Shouldn’t you be in Chicago right now?
“Y’all are playing Portland.”
“I got suspended.”
“Rajon, man.” He shook his head and turned away from the door. Still, he had left it open and a wedge of light slipped into the foyer’s shadowy confines. He could hear Rondo following him; his former understudy wiped his feet on the welcome mat.
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The man walked into his living room and sat on the couch. He pulled a blanket around his shoulders.
“Is that to keep out the electricity?” asked Rondo. “I noticed you don’t have the heat on either because of, you know, your condition.” He hugged these last couple words with his fingers in the shape of quotation marks.
The older man didn’t answer, but he thought to himself, Is this youngin’ serious—it’s Milwaukee in winter.
“I left my phone in the mailbox in case you’re wondering.”
The older man wasn’t. “You know it’s cold outside, right?”
This time Rondo didn’t answer. He just looked around the room like a kid trapped inside a china cabinet.
“What do you need, Rajon?”
“I don’t need anything per say. I just, well, I was just wondering if you could offer some advice, seeing as how you’re an expert on the law and such.”
The man didn’t know what the hell Rondo was talking about: the law and such?
“Kevin, you’ve been traded before, right?”
“Sure.”
“Well, how did you get traded from an also ran to a contender?”
“You want out of Chicago already?”
“Well, Kevin, it’s just that—”
“Rajon, man, it’s only been a couple months. Have you talked to D-Wade or Jimmy?”
“I’m Jimmy, Kevin.”
“What?”
“Nothing. I’m just . . . it’s not the right fit . . . um . . . it’s like trying to fit a really big Slurpee cup into a cup holder that’s too small.”
The older man reflected on the analogy. “Hate to break it to you, Rajon, but I don’t think you’re the biggest Slurpee cup in Chicago.”
Rondo snickered. “Yeah, and you weren’t the biggest Slurpee cup in Minnesota last year!”
“I wasn’t.”
Rondo didn’t respond.
“I didn’t even start. They have a guy named Towns.”
“You want me to make you some tea? I could make you a cup of tea.”
“I don’t drink tea.” The older man stared at his former teammate, attempting to understand him, but failing. “Rondo, man, why are you here?”
“I told you—I want to be on a contender.”
“I don’t think that’s going to happen.”
“Don’t you have some contacts? Can’t you call up Doc or Pierce for me?”
“They have CP3, Rondo.”
“What about the Spurs? You’re old—you have to know somebody on the Spurs!”
The older man pulled the blanket tighter about his shoulders.
“How about the Warriors?”
Nothing.
“Okay,” said Rondo, growing more and more desperate. “Could you call Ainge for me? Maybe I can go back to Boston.”
“Maybe you should make that tea, Rajon.”
“But I thought you said you don’t drink it.”
“I don’t. But, man! You gotta do something to take the edge off.”
“I could be a Buck. How ‘bout it? You on the bench and me on the court. It would be as close to old times as two guys like us can get.”
“I’m not with the team in that sort of capacity. I go in sparingly. Besides, how alike are we?”
Rondo looks at his old teammate with a sense of hurt.
“We’re brothers.”
“Yeah, but that don’t make us the same. Get your head right.” And, making a fist, the older man tapped knuckles on his pulsing temple and flared his nostrils.
“Look, if it’s not true, it’s not true. There’s no use in pretending.” Rondo started for the door.
“I never pretend,” said the man with the blanket round his shoulders.
“Yeah, and the game’s not about filling up a stat sheet.”
“It’s not, Rajon. If it’s just that, well, then it’s all for naught.”
Frustrated, Rondo grumbled, “You sound like a lawyer,” and skulked towards the door. He placed on hand on the knob, raised his chin, and offered his farewell: “I guess I’ll be seeing you.” His breath hung in the air like a fog. He walked out.
Rising from the couch and leaving the blanket on the cushions, Kevin Garnett watched his former teammate wade across the yard, remove his keys from the mailbox, and drive down the road. Then he flicked on all the lights in the house and turned on the heat. He had grown cold pretending Rajon was something other than Rondo.
