Welcome to the Pat Riley Chronicles, a running series highlighting fictional and deranged stories unveiling the inner workings of the Miami Heat. All real-life names mentioned are coincidence.
“Refill!” I bellowed, violently raising my glass while glancing around for Mario. Fuming with loneliness and anger, I craved more medicine.
My loyal butler was already scurrying out the door, heading in my direction with my dearest poison. I grabbed the rejuvenated glass after his sloppy pour and emptied its contents into my soul, yearning to ease the pain concocted hours earlier.
“Goddamn it, Almario, this isn’t fucking Macallan 1939.”
“You housed that last night, Master Riley,” he whispered. “This is Macallan 18.”
“Do I look like a peasant?” I asked rhetorically, my gaze shifting towards the soaring sunrise. “Look around. Notice the $5,000 Italian slippers, the glorious hair, the 12-million South Beach penthouse with the gorgeous rooftop terrace you’re standing on. This tastes like piss. Go fetch me more of the good stuff and don’t make me ask twice.”
Clad in a ridiculous shirt with his cartoonized face emblazoned on the front, he hauled his crippled ass back inside, dragging his protective boot across the wooden deck and uttering slurs under his breath. I couldn’t help but chuckle at the state of Mario Chalmers, two-time NBA champion and starting point guard for my Miami Heat just two years prior.
The poor fella shredded his achilles months after I traded him to Memphis last season — in a contract year. He called me in a panic after getting released, desperately seeking a loan. After all, he has a large batch of offspring to support – 24 children with 20 different women, I’m told. The man has stronger swimmers than Michael Phelps.
The unfortunate bastard has been on the receiving end of my rage ever since he started three weeks ago. My wife, Ruth, takes a girls vacation for two weeks every year at this time to avoid my misguided wrath. So while she’s downing mojitos in Santorini, I’m venting my brains out at Rio. At least he’s familiar with the role.
How the hell did I even get here?
I reflected on the past few hours in between puffs of my stogie while reclining in my rooftop hammock in my silk pajamas imported from Milan. I’m MOTHERFUCKING PAT RILEY, prized son of the basketball gods and the greatest closer in the history of the association.
And I was played like a fool.
It’s 10 p.m. on the eve of Free Agency and I’m about to shatter history. Despite being in my 70s I’m beginning to form a raging erection, a Heat Boner, if you will, thinking about what’s to come.
I’m hanging on the couch in my finest suit, with my entrusted capologist Andy Ellisburg sitting across from me punching away on three different computers simultaneously while inhaling his seventh hot dog.
Andy doesn’t exactly emit the aura of elite team executive. Yet with his beautiful mind, he is unequivocally the Alfred to my Batman, and without him this franchise would perish.
Those who dubbed my haul of LeBron James, Chris Bosh, and Dwyane Wade back in 2010 a coup have seen nothing. They’re going to need to invent a new word to describe what’s about to happen to the state of the NBA.
Of course it’s been in the planning stages for nearly two years now. What nobody realized when LeBron returned to Cleveland was I endorsed it shortly after his team dreamt up such an idea. I shit you not. Bringing a title to that pathetic, whiny, smelly sports city with cattle for women would do wonders for his brand and his quest to dethrone Michael Jordan’s GOAT status.
I knew he’d win it within the first couple years, setting up not merely a reunion with Wade, Spo, myself, and the Heat but a foundation for the greatest team in the history of the universe.
The plan calls for the signing of Whiteside first, not because he’s the most important piece but because he’s an infant, and in need of pampering. We’ve already agreed on a two-year deal worth $10 million annually with a player option for the second year. He could get more than double on the open market but has agreed to take less not as a sacrifice for the sake of winning but to maximize his 2K rating. Whatever the hell that is. All I know is his 2k rating will be a 99 overall next season. My son was able to negotiate the boost as he smokes weed with the “2K ratings guy” all the time, or so he says.
Next we will deliver two haymakers, signing LeBron James and Kevin Durant each to two-year deals worth $20 million annually with player options next summer, giving me the financial freedom to continue to drag my enormous dong across the rest of the league, especially that pansy Danny Ainge, who can take his trove of draft picks and engulf it in flames because he nor the rest of the league will have a fighting prayer.
Then we’ll re-sign Dwyane to a one-year deal for the vet minimum with a hand-shake agreement he will receive annual $10 million deals until he’s 40, beginning after next season. Micky may even throw in one of his smaller cruise ships upon his retirement.
The man’s agent, Henry Thomas, is a sleaze but I have his word he’s going to play ball so we can form the next juggernaut. Goran Dragic will man the point, Wade and Durant on the wings, LeBron at the 4 and Hassan at the 5. The bench will also be the league’s best, spearheaded by rising defensive menace Justise Winslow, sniper Josh Richardson, skilled combo guard Tyler Johnson, and Udonis Haslem. The rest of the roster can be filled with golden oldies for all I care as my squad is going to dance to the title and shatter the regular season wins mark in the process.
As if that team won’t be dominant enough, there will be more pieces to my puzzle.
We’ve already laid the framework for another couple mega-transactions next summer, trading Dragic for the cap space necessary to sign two-time MVP Steph Curry to run the point along with Chris Paul in a reserve role. Both have already agreed to take less because I am Pat Riley.
That roster tickles my insides looking at it on paper.
I’ll be forced to wear championship rings on my toes.
Just two more hours until this summer’s signings become official — 120 minutes until I begin my ascension to basketball god. Ainge will be lucky to be my slave.
As I rise to drain the main vein, there is a confident but curious knock at the door. Mario opens the entrance to my castle and utter shock sweeps over his face — eyes widening, mouth gaping.
A wrist clad in gold pushes my lousy butler aside and suddenly my testicles are elevating rapidly towards my throat. Oxygen is scarce. Words evade my lips.
Stepping inside is the mother of the GOAT, the one person who could foil my master plan — it’s Gloria James.
She removes her fur coat and hangs it on Rio as if he were a coat-hanger. It’s the heart of summer in Miami and she’s wearing fur but I’m not surprised in the least because the devil plays by her own rules.
As Mother GOAT heads in my direction, I ramp up the excuse machine, listing reasons for why her presence must be terminated, but it’s no use — she is locked on her target.
That target appears to be fixed to my genitals.
She looks first at Andy, then back at Rio, and firmly instructs them to “get the fuck outa here.” I’ve never seen Elisburg scatter so quickly.
Seconds later and it’s a party of two.
Gloria pushes me onto the $20,000 leopard-print sofa and climbs on my lap. Her hands grab hold of my tie and she’s reeling herself in. While I’m frozen in horror she presses her lips against mine and snaps a selfie.
I feel as if tears will descend upon my cheeks for the first time in my life as I know this might be the end. NO WAY this ends in anything but misery. This woman has a knack for carving mass destruction in her wake. If the public only knew the shit I had covered up from her days in South Beach.
“What the hell are you doing?” I ask.
“What does it look like, Patrick?” she asks in return. “You’re no fool.”
Her hands begin to veer south, taking her talents towards the real Magic City — in my pants. I show no signs of arousal not because I’m no longer a stallion in the sack — I once fornicated for 72 consecutive hours back in college — but because the woman is an erection repellant.
“Are we through?” I ask.
She smirks in disgust, slowly planting her gnarly feet back on the ground. I’ve had enough.
“Gloria, get the fuck out of my condo before I call the cops,” I declare.
As she walks out the door, she turns for two last stinging words: “You’re through.”
While trying to process what had just occurred, I receive a text. It’s from LeBron. A text that will surely unravel my world.
“I heard what happened, how you tried to get with ma,” he wrote. “Not fucking cool. We’re through. Don’t even bother calling, I seen the damn pic. And don’t think Kevin or Dwyane won’t hear bout this. Better never see you again.”
Picking up the Pieces
LeBron ducked my 25 calls. And the same went for both Kevin and Dwyane. Once Hassan got word, he demanded the full max or he was off to Dallas with that piss ant Mark Cuban.
“Don’t care about u tryna lay pipe wit Bron’s mama,” he texted, “but not only do I want that high 2k rating I WANT TO GET PAID.”
So we maxed Hassan. It’s a massive risk, sure, but at least he hasn’t found that tracking device I had inserted into his phone yet. I’ll have eyes on him at all times.
As for Dwyane, his buddy filled his head with so much filth and nonsense I knew our relationship was over. LeBron is not only the greatest ball player of all time but also the greatest manipulator.
My world is dark but I will bounce back because that’s what I do. I am an immortal and the Miami Heat will rise again. But for now, I’ll drink the night away with my lazy ass butler and reflect on what could’ve been.
Gloria James, mother to the GOAT, took a knife to my team’s throat.