A hissing voice cuts the man off, "What's the matter kid, you got wax in your ears? I said I loved Foots Walker's NAME ... I did NOT say I liked his game!"
The middle-aged man looks up just in time to see the cameraman and narrowly avoids bowling him over, though the sounds of crashing off-camera suggest he was not also able to take the corner of the hallway the camera just passed without also avoiding the wall. The camera sits outside the now nearly-shut door, recording audio but no video. The hissing voice is muttering to itself...
"Idiots! I'm surrounded by idiots! I crawl out of suspended animation in this god-forsaken decade of neon colors and hair spray, and all of these fools lack vision. Soon... very soon... the league will know us as the Blunt Force Blazers!"
There is a pause and wry chuckle. "No, not THAT Blunt Force..."
Suddenly the door opens maybe six inches. The camera zooms in on the door, with the doorknob and the bottom of the frame, but no figure is visible. Suddenly, there is a loud hiss, a yowl, and the camera jerks sideways and crashes to the floor. The hissing voice can again be heard...
"You again? What are you doing near my office this time? And what did you hear? All you paparazzi types are all the same... and this is the third time I've seen you creeping around here this week! The media room is back the way you came, and if I catch you anywhere else in my facility, your press pass will be revoked. Now turn that camera off!"
The camera abruptly jump-cuts to the back of a bland, 1980's press room complete with chalkboard. A group of middle-aged, male, balding reporters are seated on folding metal chairs. At the front of the room is a desk. Seated on the desk is a sphynx cat with a hideous scowl, holding a piece of chalk and addressing the reporters in an annoyed, condescending manner, that suggest he'd rather be doing anything else.
"...I'm just here so I don't get fined."
"You saw the preseason games for yourselves. Yes, we went 4-2, but our fool of a coach thought it would be a good idea to give Foots Walker a starting spot and a stupid amount of minutes. He has been relieved of duty. Who will be the new coach? Glad you asked. Me. I shopped for the groceries, I get to cook the meal. Yes, I know you've never heard anything like that. Give it, I dunno, 18 years and it will become cliche. Some New England patriots linebackers coach is going to steal that and become famous for it, mark my words."
The cat waves a paw dismissively before the reporters can say anything.
"I know, I know, you're all looking to know why I drafted James Donaldson in the creation draft when there were an abundance of scorers to pick from. Well, I'll tell you. Look at this disgusting division. Phoenix got the #1 pick in the creation draft and lucked into Magic Johnson AND somehow John Long and Bob McAdoo fell to them, so their top three 'only' average 67 points a game. The Warriors got Moses Malone with the #3 pick... so all I have to worry about is how to cope with 30-point double-doubles every night. Seattle went #4 and grabbed Robert Parish who averaged 33 a game in the preseason. San Diego only got to pick #5 ... how many points did Reggie Theus score in the preseason? Oh, yeah, 27 a game. And the Lakers... finished the preseason with a better record than either of those teams despite off games by World B. Free because Jamaal Wilkes also decided to go for 33 a night. Simply put, there's so much firepower in this division, I am going to have to zig when everyone else is zagging. Instead of building around an offensive dynamo, we're going to have to gut out victories with teamwork and grit, and Donaldson is just the kind of lunchpail guy to help lead us in that direction."
A young reporter a couple of rows from the back tentatively raises a hand.
The cat raises and eyebrow and asks derisively, "are you lost, little boy?"
"Steve Duin, Blazer beat writer with the Oregonian... Mister WigNosy, sir, rumor around Portland is you've been having trouble coming up with a marketing campaign?"
The cat sniffs. "Trouble? No. Trouble runs and hides from me. But I tell you, Stevie, I like you. You have absolutely no tact... you just come right out and ask stupid questions. Let me tell you what our marketing campaign is. And I think you'll like it. Welcome to the era of the Blazing Blunt..."
The cat cuts himself off and his eyes narrow as there is a collective snicker from the sportswriters.
"Allow me to rephrase... welcome to the era of the Blunt Force Trauma Blazers. Other teams value offensive skill. Maybe they like Scoring ... guys like Wilkes with their feathery jumpshots. Or maybe they like flashy passing like that Johnson kid in Phoenix. The Blazers? I want to play rugby. Do you want to know what made a guy rank highly on the Blazers' draft board? Do you? You want an inside scoop, Stevie? I know your Oregonian reported that Bob Backlund dropped by our offices last week to pay me a visit. Here's the secret... he wasn't here to pay a visit. He was here to assist in our pre-draft workouts, and I might even hire him on as an assistant coach. I like his ... um ... playing style."
The cat sucks air through his teeth and continues, "We were almost the last dogs to the draft bowl. We're not the favorites. We're the junkyard dogs fighting for scraps. And you'd better believe I looked for guys that had that a chip on their shoulder and that aren't afraid of rough-and-tumble play. We're not going to be given a thing. We're going to have to take it. We don't value pretty passing here. We value raw, brutal effectiveness, and it's our goal to bring a style of play to the league all these other pretty boys are simply unprepared for. I don't know if it's going to win, but I know for sure everyone is going to hate playing us. Also, there will be a lot less of Foots Walker on the court. I'm looking for Throat Crushers. Do I know who's my new starting point guard yet? I don't, but I know for sure his name is NOT FOOTS WALKER!"
Wig has lathered himself up into a frenzy, and perhaps realizes it because he takes moment to groom a paw and calm himself down. Duin perhaps can't help himself. He squeaks, "well, that was... interesting. And other than blunt force trauma, what do you like, Mister WigNosy, sir?"
The cat leans back and stretches, then in an almost inaudible voice replies, "Hmm... lying to stupid reporters? Actually, no. Ephemera. Go look that word up. I like intangibles in my players ... and I like intangibles in my assets. Have you ever held a draft pick? Or better yet, 10 points? No? Well, I love all that stuff. Until we accumulate more talent, I'm going to have to satisfy myself with collecting that. But you know what I love even more than that? Winning. No... not winning... crushing the hopes and dreams of anyone that stands in my way. So I'd better see a nice writeup in the Oregonian tomorrow, Stevie."
"And you'd best believe I'll be stewing and brewing after every loss we collect along the way this year... I hate losing even more than I like winning. Yes, I have a vision for how to do that. No, believe me, the #20 draft slot didn't do me ANY favors in that direction. Am I bitter about it? Maybe. If this year is a lost year, so be it... it will just make building a winner over time even more sweet. But I wouldn't mind being wrong about that. And as you can probably tell, I also don't mind being 'the heel,' in fact, see this cup here? It's for me to collect the tears of all the other owners when they meet the Blunt Force Trauma Blazers this year."
"And so you have something nice to write, let me give you a couple of softballs. We don't do convention here. Everything you think you know about this roster is wrong. I will use players wherever they are effective and wherever I think I can get an edge, and to my eye, our roster is pretty interchangeable around Donaldson, so expect the unexpected."
Wig stops again and sneers at the room. "Why y'all so quiet? Anyone besides Stevie got anything they want to know?"
