May 17, 2014
Aaron wore an unbranded navy blue baseball cap, purchased at a basic apparel store in Queens precisely because it drew no attention to anyone. The problem was that the cap worked reasonably well for someone of average height, but proved considerably less effective for someone standing seven feet tall and towering above nearly every head in any enclosed space across the city. He was well aware of this. He put it on anyway because it was better than nothing.
Since the championship game, he had noticed the change in a gradual yet consistent manner. It wasn't that he had been invisible before—in Queens, anyone who followed basketball knew him from his time at Christ the King, and in Lexington, it was impossible to go anywhere without someone recognizing him—but Manhattan was different. Manhattan possessed the unique quality of efficiently ignoring people, a city far too preoccupied with its own affairs to bother with who was walking down the sidewalk. That dynamic had shifted over the last few weeks.
On the subway two days prior, a woman in her fifties had stared at him from across the train car for the entire ride between 42nd Street and Times Square. She said nothing, merely staring with the expression of someone convinced they recognize a familiar face but hesitant to make a mistake. When she stepped off at her stop, she leaned toward the person next to her and murmured something under her breath. Aaron didn't catch the exact words, but he understood the moment completely.
Before the championship, most people who recognized him had a specific point of reference: they had watched him play in high school, had a relative in Kentucky, or had closely followed the Wildcats' season. Now it was different. Millions of viewers had tuned in for the national championship, which meant millions now held a visual image of him devoid of any personal context. It was a distinction that hadn't seemed significant until he began noticing the subtle difference in how people looked at him.
It didn't bother him. It was simply new, and anything new requires a calibration period before becoming familiar. Before the championship, he could walk through Queens without anyone pausing as he passed by. Now, a version of himself existed on television screens, in newspapers, and on the phones of people who had never seen him step onto a real court, and that public version and the person walking down the sidewalk were the same individual, yet they didn't occupy space in quite the same way.
The coffee shop sat on 46th Street, between 7th and 8th Avenues—one of those Manhattan venues operating in the middle ground between a restaurant and a café, featuring small wooden tables, ample natural light, and just enough ambient noise to allow a private conversation without anyone ten feet away overhearing. It was the exact type of spot someone selects deliberately when seeking discretion without making it obvious they are trying to be discreet.
Aaron pushed the door open. The bell above the frame chimed.
His eyes scanned the establishment in the time it took to take two steps from the entrance. Occupied tables, parallel conversations, the clinking of cups against saucers. At the back table on the left, seated with his back to the wall and a clear view of the door, Austin Walton had an open folder before him and a pen in his right hand, reading something with the focused intensity of someone who had been there long enough to have already ordered his coffee.
Upon hearing the bell, he looked up. He spotted Aaron within two seconds—the exact amount of time it took anyone to locate a seven-footer in an enclosed space. He greeted him with a brief nod of his head.
Aaron crossed the room, pulled off his cap, and took a seat in the chair opposite him.
"Your call surprised me," Walton said. His voice carried a professional register without the tense edge of someone trying too hard to impress. "Though I have a good idea why you reached out."
"I want you to represent me," Aaron said.
Something across Walton's expression shifted almost imperceptibly. It wasn't quite a smile, but rather the distinct relaxation of someone who had been holding his breath for weeks and could finally let go. Aaron caught it and realized that the visit to his apartment hadn't been a mere exploratory formality; Walton had left that meeting uncertain of the outcome and had spent the following days wondering where things stood.
Walton opened the folder in front of him and pulled out a multi-page document displaying the Walton Sports Management logo at the top.
"This is the standard representation agreement," he said, sliding it across the table toward Aaron. "Four-year term. Renewal clauses at the end of the period if both parties agree. And a three percent commission on playing salary."
Aaron reviewed the clauses with the same concentration he applied to playbook diagrams: duration, termination conditions, image rights, and percentage cuts on endorsement deals. The three percent cut on playing salary was listed in clause two, second paragraph. He read the figure, kept reading, and glanced back at it once more. The industry standard was four.
"Three percent," Walton said, anticipating the observation. "The industry standard is four. I'm offering three because I want you to understand from day one that this isn't a relationship where I gain more at your expense. If you earn well, I earn well. That extra one percent left in your pocket is my way of showing complete confidence in what we can build together."
Aaron remained silent for a moment. He looked at the document, then at Walton, then back at the document. It wasn't distrust, but rather his habit of processing information before offering a response—a trait he had held long before he was consciously aware of it.
Walton didn't fill the silence. He waited.
Aaron picked up the pen Walton had placed on the table, flipped to the signature page at the end of the document, and executed his signature without hesitation—written in a script noticeably smaller than people typically expected from someone of his stature.
Walton retrieved the signed document, placed it inside his folder, and brought out another sheet: a table featuring franchise names in the left column and percentages on the right, arranged from highest to lowest probability.
"Good," he said. "Now let's talk about May twentieth."
"The draft lottery," Aaron said.
"Precisely."
Walton rotated the page so Aaron could examine it. "I've been modeling probabilities over the past few weeks. Fourteen teams enter the lottery. The Milwaukee Bucks top the list with a twenty-five percent chance."
Aaron looked at the Bucks logo on the page. The franchise coming off the worst record in the league—sixty-seven losses—and holding the highest statistical odds of securing the top overall pick.
He thought of Giannis Antetokounmpo. The Greek power forward Milwaukee had drafted the previous year with the fifteenth pick in the first round—an eighteen-year-old kid from Athens whom no one outside of the most attentive scouts had followed closely. In his rookie season, he had averaged 6.8 points and 4.4 rebounds in 24 minutes: numbers typical of a raw rookie with potential, but nothing that had captured the general public's attention yet. However, Aaron knew with absolute clarity what Giannis was destined to become over time. He knew the caliber of player he would be in five years. An MVP. A champion. The entire franchise would eventually revolve around him, but for that to happen, there first had to be a building phase—seasons of silent work before everything matured.
In that context, Aaron wouldn't have to share the spotlight with anyone during his formative years. That carried a concrete value.
He said none of this out loud, naturally.
"John Hammond has been following your game closely for months," Walton continued. "I had heard his name mentioned even before the tournament started. They've been building toward something for years and need a central piece to change the profile of the team."
"What if they don't land a high pick in the lottery?"
"Then we keep moving down the list." Walton pointed lower on the table. "The Sixers hold a nineteen-point-nine percent chance. A long process, high loss totals accumulated, Brett Brown building from the ground up. The Orlando Magic sit at fifteen-point-six percent. A more advanced rebuild, but without a clear direction established yet." He paused. "What I'm telling you is that the twentieth is unpredictable by definition. What I can control is who already knows you before that day arrives."
"Meaning?"
"I already have a closed-door workout scheduled with Milwaukee for May twenty-second," Walton said. The delivery carried the precise timing of a line prepared in advance. "Two days after the lottery. Once they know their exact slot, I want them to see you in person and walk out of that workout convinced they want you regardless of where they land. If they have the top pick, perfect. If they land at four, I want them wanting you just as badly at four."
Aaron nodded. It was an argument without any obvious flaws.
What Walton was outlining wasn't just a workout. It was a controlled audition, with the front office fully briefed on who was stepping onto the floor and why, establishing the narrative beforehand rather than letting the Bucks reach conclusions in a vacuum. Aaron had executed similar tactics on the court hundreds of times: refusing to react to the defender, forcing the defender to react to him instead. The principle was identical.
"What about other teams?"
"I'm arranging three more over the following weeks. Philadelphia, likely. And one or two others depending on how the lottery settles." Walton retrieved the sheet and filed it back in the folder. "The goal isn't for everyone to see you. The goal is for the right teams to see you at the right time."
The coffee shop had filled up since their arrival. A couple of tables toward the back held meetings similar to theirs—people with folders, laptops, and low-toned conversations. It was the sort of venue built for that exact purpose: conversations that aren't secret, but don't require witnesses either. Aaron had selected well without realizing it, or Walton had picked it for that very reason.
The waiter approached. Aaron ordered a black coffee. Walton's cup was already half empty.
A moment of quiet followed as the waiter walked away—the kind that occurs in business meetings when one topic wraps up and both parties allow the words to settle before moving to the next.
"One question," Aaron said.
"Go ahead."
"When did you speak to Hammond for the first time?"
Walton smiled with the expression of someone who had just been asked the exact right question.
"January," he said. "After the Michigan State game in November, I called him. I told him I had a client he'd be interested in. Technically, you weren't my client at the time, but I had a hypothesis on how things were going to play out."
He took a sip of his coffee. "That's what this job is about. Not waiting for things to happen so you can react, but anticipating them." He set the cup down. "Any questions about the contract?"
"No," Aaron said. "I read it."
Walton nodded as if confirming something he already knew.
They continued talking for a few more minutes. Walton held firm opinions on every franchise listed and expressed them with the clarity of someone who had given the topic enough thought to look past initial impressions and focus on the secondary details that actually mattered. He spoke about the Sixers in greater detail: Sam Hinkie and a deliberate rebuilding strategy that accumulated losses on the premise that talent would eventually yield results—a long-term bet Walton didn't rule out, though it raised questions about the timeline. He also spoke of Orlando and Rob Hennigan, two years into running the franchise and still constructing the team's identity without having fully defined it. Aaron asked precise questions and listened to the answers without interrupting—his established way of learning from people who possessed greater knowledge on a given subject.
At some point in the conversation, Aaron thought to himself—without speaking it aloud—that one team was missing from Walton's analysis. Cleveland. The Cavaliers held a 1.7% chance in the lottery, far too low to appear at the top of any serious projections, and Walton hadn't mentioned them. From a statistical standpoint, that logic was sound. But Aaron possessed knowledge that no analyst in the world could model: LeBron James was returning to Cleveland that summer. His contract with Miami was expiring and the decision was already finalized, even if no official announcement had been made. Once that occurred, the entire context of that franchise would shift radically. And if the Cavs ended up with a high pick thanks to the lottery, the resulting roster would be completely different from anything anyone was projecting today. It was information he possessed but couldn't use. There was simply no way to explain how he knew it.
When they stepped out of the coffee shop, the midday sun hung over Seventh Avenue at that specific May angle that makes Manhattan feel distinct from its winter state—more open, with brighter light reflecting off the building facades. Walton extended his hand. Aaron shook it.
"The twenty-second," Walton said. "Milwaukee. I'll send you the details this afternoon."
"Sounds good."
Walton walked north. Aaron stood on the sidewalk for a moment, adjusted his cap, and began walking toward the subway station. Signing that document brought something that wasn't quite relief, but resembled it closely. He had spent weeks reviewing proposals from major agencies and evaluating pitches, and in every pitch, something hadn't quite clicked: the structural hierarchy of large firms where established stars would always command top priority. Walton had presented a straightforward premise: with him, Aaron would be the top priority. Not second. First. In an agency representing four NBA clients, that premise held a weight distinct from any big name printed on a letterhead.
Two pedestrians walking in the opposite direction looked up as they passed him. One whispered something to the other.
Aaron descended the subway stairs without picking up his pace.
Authors thought
Which team do you think Aaron will join? Let me know in the comments.
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