J.R. Smith Had a Shirt Once

Look, I’m not angry. I’m just saying this was supposed to be my moment too. J.R. Smith goes to the podium, thanks his family, credits everyone who has been with him every step of the way. You know who he didn’t thank? Us. Me. Shirts.

Okay, I’m not angry, but maybe I am a little jealous. When you looked out on the court on Sunday, certain things may have caught your eye. You saw the players. You saw the play. You saw the basketball. You saw the pretty lights around the backboard. You know what else you saw? Shirts.

Now, you can say they were jerseys, and I understand why you would, but they had sleeves. That means they’re shirts. Trust me; I know. I’m a shirt.

So needless to say I was a little miffed, a little apoplectic at all the attention #5 was getting (or Shirley the Shirsey as me and the rest of the boys in the suitcase call him). But I wasn’t angry. I’m not out on the floor. That’s not my role. I like to think of myself more of a James Jones.

My role is that of a facilitator. I accessorize. I play the parts no one thinks about until that performance is needed. For example: I can wick away moisture from sweat and champagne in seconds. I have breathable fabric that’s soft to the touch. I can look fit and casual in the club or on a hoverboard. I even brushed up against Rihanna once, or at least someone that looked like her. She seemed impressed.

So Sunday night in Oakland, I was ready for my next big moment. I was dry cleaned by one of JR’s personal martinizers. I was ironed to perfect creases with a Skymall iron expertly flourished by one of JR’s personal creasemakers. I was hung in the visitor’s locker room by JR himself, which is to say JR was within 20 feet when I was put in place by one of his personal shirt hangers.

Mind you, this hanger wasn’t one of those scrap-metal iron ones that you find on the floor of your closet or one of those cheap plastic things you buy in bulk at Target. This was a velvet topped, varnished cherry-wood model with a polished brass hook custom ordered from Etsy. For a while, I thought I was getting the star treatment. I thought I was going to get my 15 minutes.

So where was I? Great question. Let me start by where I wasn’t.

I wasn’t on JR’s back in the locker room when the champagne and tears of joy flowed. I wasn’t with him when he got off the plane in Cleveland. I wasn’t in any of his Vegas hotel rooms. I wasn’t even allowed to wipe the wet off of Coach Lue’s 16th puzzle piece. That distinction went to Iman Shumpert’s ascot.

The places I ended up were far less dignified: an assistant equipment manager’s Uber, the overhead compartment of a turbulent plane, Timofey’s back pocket, and on a greasy counter to be used as a coaster for some fan’s can of Corona Light. I got to spend a bit of the time with JR at XS, but I was mostly draped over his shoulder like a wet towel. My custom embroidery of a pipe on the left breast pocket was completely obscured.

I spent that night in the lost and found next to three tube tops that smelled like Chardonnay and vomit, a cell phone that would ring “Beverly Hills” by Weezer every 15 minutes, and a money clip  of counterfeit 100 dollar bills that spent until dawn trying to convince me that they really were Benjamin Franklin.

“No, really. We really are Ben Franklin! Ask us anything!”

“Yeah ask us about the Declaration of Independence!”

“You idiot. That was Thomas Jefferson”

“You’re both wrong. It was George Washington.”

“Guys! Shut up! The shirt can hear you.”

Six hours of that. That’s 360 minutes. That’s 21600 seconds. That’s death.

By the time I was in the Priority Mail shipping container (yeah, $4000 on goggles but they wouldn’t spring for UPS next-day) I was done. My moment had passed, my perfectly manicured collar was all akimbo, and the scent of indulgence had been drawn down into my deepest stitch. I had all the symptoms of celebration, but none of the memories.

That brings me to now. It’s dark in this bubble wrap envelope. I don’t know where I am. Somewhere in the sky over Oklahoma I imagine. God, I hope I don’t have to go there next year. I hate cows. I hate a lot of things right now.

So again, J.R. I’m not angry. But after the parade we’re going to have some words. We’ll start with the washing instructions on my tag.