The knock, when it finally came, was tentative. “Come in!” Byron Scott shouted. His visitor ducked his head and entered. He took a step into the room and just stood there, uneasy. “Take a seat, Tyson,” Scott said, gesturing with an elbow to an open seat. “We have to talk.”
Tyson Chandler sat down, folding his 7-1 frame into a black leather chair, and looked up expectantly at his coach.
“I really only have one question for you, Tyson,” Scott said. “What are your primary responsibilities on this team?”
Chandler relaxed, stretching his legs. “That’s easy, Coach.” Scott relaxed too, anticipating. “I catch oops from Chris.” Scott leaned forward expectantly, waiting for a follow-up. It didn’t come. He waited a little longer. Nothing. Finally he spoke. “OK. And?”
“Well, rebound, I guess,” Chandler said, the confused look returning. “You know I’ve got that foundation, right?” “Yeeeees,” Scott replied. “That’s good. And?” By now Tyson looked completely lost. “Um…update my blog? You saw that shot of me in the velvet suit? Had that made special.”
Scott just sighed. He motioned to assistant coach Paul Pressey, who had silently entered a minute before. The lights went down, the flatscreen on the wall behind him came to life.
“Tyson, let me show you something…”