When not wrangling copy for the MoJo crew, Ian writes about immigration, sports, and Latin America. His work has appeared in ESPN the Magazine, Wired, and Slate. Got a comment or a tip? Email him: igordon [at] motherjones [dot] com.
Carlos (left) and Luis Enrique (right) with the author, 2005. (The flag was their idea.)
When Luis Enrique passed in early September, just a couple of months after first learning he was HIV-positive, Carlos took his remains to Cuba's best funeral parlor, the one where they bring the government officials. He had seven of the nicest wreaths made, and he dressed Luis Enrique, his longtime partner, in his best clothes. Their Italian friend Maurizio had once given them some French cologne, and Carlos made sure to spritz it throughout the coffin. He then rode with Luis Enrique by the church before ending up at the cemetery, where another friend gave a stirring eulogy. Carlos dabbed some more cologne in the tomb and headed home.
He told me all of this in an email, two weeks later. He was wiped out. "Don't stop writing me," he said, "since the emails make me feel like I'm surrounded by people I care about."
As it turns out, Carlos was HIV-positive too.
We first met Carlos and Luis Enrique at the doorstep of their apartment during a blackout, deep inside a tumbledown building off a dilapidated thoroughfare in Central Havana. Large chips of paint had fallen from the facade, and the dark, humid stairwell reeked of fresh dog shit. It wasn't exactly where my wife and I had envisioned staying at the start of our two-week Cuban vacation.
It was 2005. We were living in Venezuela at the time, and after reading an article online about a Cuban tax on exchanging US dollars, I was convinced that we should bring bolivares instead. Chávez and Castro were panas, right? Perhaps, but upon arriving at José Martí International Airport we learned the limits of that friendship: There was virtually nowhere to exchange Venezuelan currency on the entire island.
A cabbie brought us into the city after we'd explained our situation. He assured us that the two men now in front of us were good people, that their unregistered casa particular was the most affordable place to stay. Brooke and I shared a glance—as if to say, We've stayed in dodgier-seeming places before, right?—and steeled ourselves for the introduction. Carlos, whose threadbare tank top hung low off his slight frame, asked us where we were from. Brooke smiled. "The United States." Walking to his tiny kitchen to prepare coffee, Carlos stopped short. He turned around and folded his arms across his chest. While Luis Enrique, the graying one, whispered Estados Unidos behind me, Carlos took a step back, as if he were trying to get a better look at the two of us. They'd never met Americans before.
After a pause, Carlos snapped back to life. He let out a big smile, unfurled his arms, and pointed above the doorway to the dining room. There, a mid-'80s Madonna poster looked down on us, her hair short-cropped, her bejeweled bra exposed. "Imagine that, Luisito," said Carlos, still grinning. "Americans!"
A mid-'80s Madonna poster looked down on us, her hair short-cropped, her bejeweled bra exposed. "Imagine that, Luisito," said Carlos, still grinning. "Americans!"
The lights were out, they told us, to save electricity for the Canadian and European tourists who would crowd Old Havana's colonial plazas and Varadero's white-sand beaches that summer. We sat in the dimming apartment, sharing stories. When they found out we'd lived in New York, they pumped us full of questions about everything from the state of the World Trade Center site to the length of a subway car. After the lights popped back on Carlos shared his music collection—a hodgepodge of Madonna, Michael Jackson and, strangely, Barry Manilow—while Luis Enrique prepared a dinner of rice and beans.
While we ate they told us that they each earned roughly $10 a month as a bookkeeper (Carlos) and grocer (Luis Enrique). They had met years ago, after Luis Enrique arrived from the central countryside; it was his idea to rent out a bedroom in Carlos' place to make a little extra money. We were their third guests halfway through 2005. Because they didn't have a license from the government, which cost about $150 monthly, they were a strictly word-of-mouth operation.
After several hours of conversation, we felt comfortable enough to tell them that we only had enough cash for a day, and that we would be searching for a place to change our bolivares the next morning. When Luis Enrique got the gist of what we were saying—that these young Americans didn't bring the world's most recognizable currency along with them—he shook his head and cringed. "You messed up," he said.
We were in some kind of trouble. Because of the embargo, we couldn't use our credit cards to get a cash advance or buy new tickets home. Since we didn't want to risk possible State Department fines, going to the proto-US Embassy known as the Interests Section was out. By trying to save a couple hundred bucks on the dollar tax, we'd ended up having to try to survive on about $20 for two whole weeks.
Carlos must have noticed the stress on my face. He walked past the refrigerator, a 1940s Westinghouse beauty, and over to a couple of buckets. "Don't worry," he said, opening the lids. "We have rice. We have beans. We have eggs. Forget the money. Están en su casa."
Carlos and Brooke dancing in the living room, 2005
The next two weeks were a whirlwind. Within a few days, we figured out the money situation, thanks to Western Union and our incredulous but accommodating families. Because we were having such a good time with Carlos and Luis Enrique, we scrapped our plans to try to travel across the entire island and stayed closer to Havana to spend more time with them, off the tourist circuit. So instead of checking out cigars in Pinar del Río, for example, we ended up a party at Carlos' workplace, a meatpacking plant, where folks drank Bucanero by the crate and a British grad student named Camillia sang Dido karaoke to an entranced crowd.
We passed hours around their dining room table, drinking nips of rum and talking about practically everything. (Things we didn't discuss: the contours and complications of their relationship, and Cuba's historical persecution of gay men.) Both Carlos and Luis Enrique were around 40 and never had known life without Fidel. They told us they admired his character and strength, and that they both were repulsed by the idea that some day, a Miami-bred Cuban American might try to take the apartment away, claiming it was his family's 50 years ago. That said, they loved what little American culture they could access and considered Cubans and los yumas to be brothers separated by a messy divorce.
Some of that came from their families. When Carlos was 16, his parents applied for the Interests Section lottery, which each year grants some 2,000 visas to Cubans. Somehow, Carlos parents hit the jackpot. There was only one problem: He didn't want to go. He believed deeply in the revolution and just couldn't see himself leaving. So, despite waiting years to leave, his parents died in Cuba. On the surface, Carlos always played by the rules, always did what the state expected. But here he was, the proprietor of an unregistered casa particular, paying off the neighborhood snitch from the Committee for the Defense of the Revolution with mayonnaise and chocolate ("Cuban business") and guarding an armoire full of deodorant, toothpaste, and aftershave given to him by guests during the past several years.
"I think there will be a lot of people who will try to humiliate us Cubans," Luis Enrique said. "I'm not looking forward to that."
If Carlos was nervous and overly excitable, Luis Enrique was guarded, depressed. A week into our stay he told us that he had planned to leave for the United States during a paid-for trip to visit friends in Bogotá. His nephew in Naples, Florida, had fronted $6,000 and set it up: Luis Enrique was to go to Caracas, where we would get a fake Venezuelan passport, and fly to Mexico City, after which he would make his way to the Texas border. His nephew would meet him there, and upon crossing he would qualify for asylum. Two months into the stay in Bogotá, he crossed into western Venezuela and made his way to the capital. He was terribly nervous at the airport, and when he got to immigration he handed over the passport. The agent looked at it, then at him. "Sir, you and I both know this is fake." Luis Enrique tried his best Venezuelan accent. "Sir, you should just turn around and walk away." He did.
Looking back, Luis Enrique wondered if he should've stayed in South America, as his nephew had wanted. He had sold everything he owned, and he moved in with Carlos, he said, to avoid his empty apartment. When he told us the story, he seemed resigned to the fact that he'd be in Cuba until Castro's death, maybe longer. "I'm scared," he told us. "Who knows what the United States will do? I think there will be a lot of people who will try to humiliate us Cubans. I'm not looking forward to that."
Carlos' emails often started by lamenting the fact that he hadn't heard from us in months. "HAVE OUR AMERICANITOS FORGOTTEN US?" But when he wrote to tell us that Luis Enrique was sick, he was sober and to the point: "I haven't been able to write because the news here is pretty sad." He'd later send photos from the hospital, with an exhausted-looking Luis Enrique underneath a purple-and-green blanket, Carlos standing by his side, in scrubs.
Last week, I wrote to Carlos to see how he was holding up, a couple of months after Luis Enrique's death and a couple of months after he'd started his own HIV treatment. I didn't think much of it when I didn't hear back right away, given his condition and the generally unreliable internet connection on the island. And then, early Wednesday morning, I got this response:
HELLO, CARLITOS DIED OF HIV TOO AFTER LUISITO. THIS A FRIEND OF THEIRS, LA MULATA WHO LIVES AROUND THE CORNER WHO RENTS TO FOREIGNERS. THIS IS MY EMAIL ADDRESS NOW. IF YOU EVER COME TO CUBA AND NEED A ROOM…
No warning, no slow decline, no goodbye. He was gone too, just like that—and just before the Obama administration made history by reestablishing diplomatic relations between the United States and Cuba.
I've spent a fair amount of time thinking about Carlitos and Luisito these past few months, flipping through photos and replaying those two weeks over and again in my mind, and I keep coming back to the last night Brooke and I spent with them. It was a Saturday, and we arrived back at the apartment from a stroll along the Malecón at midnight, mid-blackout. Central Havana was dark—even the normally bright Capitolio was unlit—but inside Carlos' building his neighbors milled around, tense. The illegal-cable guy was on the roof.
They had been waiting for weeks, although no one knew what to expect. There allegedly were two American channels available for $10 per month. Carlos wanted to watch American music videos. Luis Enrique wanted Hollywood movies. The taxi dispatcher next door wanted Major League Baseball, while his wife, whom everyone called China, wanted Mexican soaps. The wannabe rocker upstairs said he didn't care, but he was getting cable anyway. Everybody was.
The outage didn't last long. Gustavo, the cable guy, went to work when the oscillating fans puttered on, barking orders to the roof through a walkie-talkie. He almost looked like a professional. His silver Motorola cell phone hung from a belt clip off olive Abercrombie cargo shorts, covered at the belt by a ribbed white tank top, and in the new light I could see he was covered in sweat. Carlitos paced in front of his red wicker-and-vinyl couch, long ago warped by the humidity, and asked Gustavo several times if he could help. Brooke laughed and told Carlitos to relax, and Luisito stood with China outside, waiting for the first program to come across the screen.
We stared at the television, dying to see what the first yanqui transmission in the building's revolutionary history would be.
The whole process took no more than 20 minutes. Soon Gustavo gave the word, and his partner clicked into the movie. We stared at the television, dying to see what the first yanqui transmission in the building's revolutionary history would be. I hoped for something classic, maybe even artistic. Instead, we got the Wayans brothers spoof Don't Be a Menace to South Central While Drinking Your Juice in the Hood. Brooke shook her head and sighed. The Cubans were transfixed.
The clock read 1:45 a.m., and it looked like they would be up all night watching whatever beamed though the screen. When I woke up and padded across the cool marble into the living room early that morning, Luis Enrique was sitting in very same spot on the couch, watching Bob the Builder in Spanish. He hadn't slept much, but he grinned at me from beneath Madonna's pouty lips. "You know, Carlos is the most communist person in the building," he said, leaning in, "and even he has cable now."
The details of President Barack Obama's much-rumored, much-debated executive action on immigration have been leaked to the press, and the broad outline, according to Fox News and the New York Times, includes deportation relief for upward of 5 million people.
Republicans are already lining up to block the White House's plans, and Obama's successor could go ahead and reverse course in 2017, anyway. Still, here are three reported provisions that could have a dramatic impact on the lives of the United States' 11 million undocumented immigrants:
1. Expansion of DACA, the program for DREAMers: Back in 2012, a Department of Homeland Security directive known as Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals (DACA) extended deportation relief to those young immigrants who came to the United States before their 16th birthday and went on to graduate from high school or serve in the US military. As Vox's Dara Lind has reported, the program has been a success for the roughly 600,000 immigrants who received deferred action by June 2014, although just as many are eligible but haven't yet applied. According to the Fox News report, Obama's executive action would move the cutoff arrival date from June 2007 to January 1, 2010, and remove the age limit (31 as of June '12); a new Migration Policy Institute (MPI) report details how changes to the initial plan could make hundreds of thousands of immigrants DACA-eligible:
Migration Policy Institute, 2014
2. Relief for the undocumented parents of US citizen children: According to the Times, a key part of the executive action "will allow many parents of children who are American citizens or legal residents to obtain legal work documents and no longer worry about being discovered, separated from their families and sent away," a move that would legalize anywhere from 2.5-3.3 million people. The Huffington Postreported in June that more than 72,000 parents of US-born children were deported in fiscal year 2013 alone; of those, nearly 11,000 had no criminal convictions. (One 2013 report estimated that 4.5 million US-born kids have at least one undocumented parent.)
3. Elimination of mandatory fingerprinting program: Under Secure Communities, or S-Comm, immigrants booked into local jails have their fingerprints run through a Homeland Security database to check their legal status. (If they're unauthorized, they can be held by local authorities until the feds come pick them up.) The program, which began under President George W. Bush and was greatly expanded under Obama, has long come under fire for quickly pushing people toward detention and potential deportation, as well as for contributing to racial profiling and even the detention of thousands of US citizens. According to one 2013 report, S-Comm led to the deportation of more than 300,000 immigrants from fiscal years 2009 to 2013.
There are other reported parts to Obama's plan, including hundreds of thousands of new tech visas and even pay raises for Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) officers. Still, given this year's border crisis, it's notable that the president's plan seems to make little to no mention of the folks who provoked it: the unaccompanied children and so-called "family units" (often mothers traveling with small kids) who came in huge numbers from Central America and claimed, in many cases, to be fleeing violence of some sort.
The administration has been particularly adamant about fast-tracking the deportation of those family unit apprehensions, whose numbers jumped from 14,855 in fiscal 2013 to 68,445 in fiscal 2014, a 361 percent increase. Meanwhile, ICE has renewed the controversial practice of family detention (a complaint has already been filed regarding sexual abuse in the new Karnes City, Texas, facility) and will soon open the largest immigration detention facility in the country, a 2,400-bed family center in Dilley, Texas—just as Obama starts rolling out what many immigration hardliners will no doubt attack as an unconstitutional amnesty.
Speed-skating super-suits, motion-tracking cameras, the 10,000-hour rule—it's all covered in Mark McClusky's engrossing look into how athletes use science to avoid injury, train smarter, and shatter records. McClusky, the editor of Wired.com and a former Sports Illustrated reporter, digs into vaguely familiar terms like VO2 max and the oxygen deficit to suss out what separates champs from near-misses while introducing a roster of entertaining characters: a Soviet hammer-throw guru, a Wall Street analyst turned cycling star, and even a British physiologist pursuing hyperfitness back in the 1920s. The book has useful lessons for weekend warriors, but ultimately, McClusky writes, "the greatest athletes are born, and then made."
There's a scene early in Life Itself when a hospitalized Roger Ebert, missing his lower jaw after multiple surgeries for thyroid cancer, needs his throat suctioned. The camera holds steady as Ebert winces through the procedure, but then an email box pops up on the screen. "great stuff!!!!!" types Ebert, no longer able to speak. "I'm happy we got a great thing that nobody ever sees: suction." Director Steve James (Hoop Dreams, The Interrupters) blends an intimate end-of-life story with Ebert's wide-ranging biography: precocious college newspaper editor, recovering drunk, screenwriter of the schlocky Beyond the Valley of the Dolls, friend and critic of Hollywood's biggest names. But for all of Ebert's exploits, it's the private moments James captures, like his increasingly brief email responses as cancer slowly wins out, that endure.
Cuban got on board the next day, even tweeting that he agreed 100 percent with Silver's decision. But what was he so worried about? Well, the league's 30 owners might not have Sterling-like baggage, but there's plenty of embarrassing biographical material to mine—offensive emails, family feuds, sketchy business deals, and more—just like we here at Mother Jones did for their counterparts in baseball and football. So, with an eye on political contributions and general scumbaggery, here's how the NBA's most powerful men (and woman) stack up:
Atlanta Hawks:Bruce Levenson, reportedly worth $500 million, likely won't be the Hawks owner for long, not after the email he self-reported to the league following the Sterling debacle. The offending missive included observations like "My theory is that the black crowd scared away the whites and there are simply not enough affluent black fans to build a significant season ticket base" and "i want the music to be music familiar to a 40 year old white guy if that's our season tixs demo," and "I have even bitched that the kiss cam is too black." (Notably, a league higher-up told one reporter that Levenson didn't actually self-report the email, and others have suggested that he might have used it as an ownership exit strategy.)
Boston Celtics:Wycliffe "Wyc" Grousbeck—son of H. Irving Grousbeck, the cofounder of Continental Cablevision, which sold for $5.3 billion in 1996—was a Princeton rower before becoming a venture capitalist and eventually buying the Celtics with his dad in 2002. In his spare time, Grousbeck moonlights as a drummer (he once played with former Celtic Walter McCarty). His brother, a singer-songwriter who goes by Peter Walker, told the Boston Globe in 2004 that "Wyc's pretty much a straight-up rock dude."
Private equity investor Stephen Pagliuca is managing director at Mitt Romney's old haunt, Bain Capital. But Pagliuca's politics lean left: He's a big Democratic donor, and in 2009 he ran for the party's nomination to replace Ted Kennedy. He came in last of four candidates.
Brooklyn Nets: The famously tech averse Russian oligarch Mikhail Prokhorov (who reportedly doesn't use a cellphone or computer in his office) bought the Nets for $200 million in 2010 and helped oversee their move from New Jersey to Brooklyn. He's one of the tabloids' favorite back-page curiosities, and why not? In 2007, he famously brought eight Russian models with him to the French Alps to help entertain the dozens of business associates he was partying with. French authorities temporarily detained him, fearing that he was encouraging prostitution. Prokhorov's response: The French elite were just jealous because they were way behind when it came to fashion, life, and sex drive. (He later told 60 Minutes that he hadn't yet found a woman who cooked well enough to marry.) He's also really into jet skiing:
Charlotte Hornets: Six NBA titles. Five league MVP awards. Countless pairs of ripped jeans. Michael Jordan has stumbled often since his days as the league's premier player, gumming it up as an executive, sneaker mogul, and even Hall of Fame inductee. Legendary for his competitive nature—and penchant for attacking teammates he saw as weak links—His Airness can't seem to help himself when it comes to being the official arbiter of all-time NBA greatness. Mix in a decade as management, and you get plenty of "Back in my day…" moments, like when he recently called out superstars LeBron James and Dirk Nowitzki for suggesting that the league scale back its 82-game schedule: "Are they ready to give up money to play fewer games? That's the question, because you can't make the same amount of money playing fewer games.''
Chicago Bulls:Jerry Reinsdorf, who also owns baseball's White Sox, has always been more of a baseball man. That's where he's focused much of his energy over the years, becoming one of the players union's biggest adversaries and a pioneer of publicly funded stadiums. When he threatened to move the Sox to Florida in the early 1990s, he got a sweetheart deal from Illinois—or, as one confidant told the Chicago Sun-Times in 1993, "Not only are there ticket subsidies from the state, but if a light goes out in the bathroom, the state pays for the bulb and the installation. If we sent him to the Middle East to deal with the Arabs, they wouldn't have any oil left. He's that good."
Cleveland Cavaliers: Not only is Dan Gilbert the nation's most notorious user of Comic Sans, he's also the billionaire owner of the country's second-largest mortgage lender, Quicken Loans. And while Quicken has cultivated a squeaky-clean image over the years—note its annual place on those best-places-to-work lists, as well as its goofy emphasis on Gilbert's "isms"—it did face its share of post-crisis lawsuits. Now that LeBron is back in Cleveland, Gilbert has just one rebuilding project to focus on: his commitment to turn around his hometown of Detroit, where he has bought and updated some 60 downtown properties at a reported cost of $1.3 billion, and moved 12,000 of his own employees there. (Some even have taken to calling downtown Detroit "Gilbertville.") It's a risk, but then again, Gilbert bankrolled roughly half of a $47 million campaign to bring gambling to Ohio via a 2009 ballot initiative. The initiative passed, and Gilbert's Horseshoe Casino opened in downtown Cleveland in 2012.
Detroit Pistons:Tom Gores, 50, is a Beverly Hills tech buyout king and owner of Platinum Equity, which has bought out everything from steel manufacturers to the San Diego Union-Tribune (though it lost out on a bid for the Boston Globe back in 2009). Gores was born in Israel and moved to the Detroit area as a child; he worked at his brother Alec's software company and private equity firm before leaving to start Platinum. The brothers' relationship cooled when it was revealed that Tom, who is married with three kids, had a sexual relationship with Lisa Gores, Alec's wife. (Alec had Los Angeles private detective Anthony Pellicano follow Lisa and Tom, and the scoop came out in Pellicano's 2008 trial for illegal wiretapping.) For photos of Gores' squinching game, check out the gallery at TomGores.com.
Indiana Pacers:Herbert Simon and his nephew David run one of the world's largest real estate investment funds, the Simon Property Group. He has eight kids and is on marriage No. 3, to former Miss Thailand Bui Simon. He started SPG with his brother, Melvin, David's father. When Melvin died, his widow, Bren, feuded with her stepchildren, calling David "a terrorist" and stepdaughter Debbie "Debbie bin Laden." Herbert and Bui fought off three successive lawsuits from former domestic employees—all brought by the same attorney.
Miami Heat: In a 2005 Washington Post profile of Heat owner Micky Arison, team president and then-coach Pat Riley raved about him: "He's about as down to earth as you're going to get for a billionaire…He doesn't need, nor does he pursue, the spotlight." Arison took over Carnival Cruises from father Fred and presided over its rise—as well as its recent Poop Cruise-era fall. (He stepped down as CEO last year.) Still, Arison seems to take setbacks in stride, given his gracious response to LeBron James' departure for Cleveland this past offseason and his general outlook on the business world (as told to the Post): "In any given year, out of 30 NBA teams, there is only one winner. In business, we can all be winners."
Milwaukee Bucks: The most memorable thing hedge fund exec Wesley Edens—whom Vanity Fair described as a "cerebral, intense, very private wunderkind"—has done as one of the Bucks' new owners is send his 18-year-old daughter, Mallory, to the NBA Draft Lottery this past May to represent the Bucks. (The team snagged the second pick.)
Meanwhile, fellow hedge fund exec and Clinton confidant Marc Lasry was up for consideration for the French ambassadorship—only to pull out just before stories emerged about his taste for high-stakes poker.
New York Knicks: Where to start with tabloid staple and Cablevision CEO James Dolan? With the sexual-harassment scandal involving former coach Isiah Thomas and team executive Anucha Browne Sanders? Or perhaps the lawsuit this past March from a shareholder alleging "grossly excessive" executive pay after Cablevision's board approved $80 million in bonuses for Dolan and his father, chairman Charles Dolan? Then there's the endless kookiness surrounding the team's media policy, which requires a member of the PR office to be present for all interviews with Knicks players and coaches—and then to send transcripts up the chain of command, even to Dolan? Oh, and Dolan also fronts a band called JD & the Straight Shot. He wrote a song called "Under That Hood" (It's all good/Under my hood/So misunderstood) about Trayvon Martin.
Orlando Magic: From Andy Kroll's expansive profile on Richard DeVos and his political family:
He fit the part of GOP rainmaker-in-chief, wearing a diamond pinkie ring and Gucci loafers, driving a Rolls-Royce and frequently commuting to his nearby office by helicopter. He once docked Amway's $5 million yacht on the Potomac River in Washington to hold court with Michigan's congressional delegation, RNC staffers, and personnel from 12 embassies representing countries where Amway did business. DeVos was also a strident voice within the party: In an era when Republicans still courted labor, he urged the GOP to ignore union members. "If they want to be represented by somebody else," he once said, "good for them." At a party meeting in 1982, he called the recession that was spiking inflation and unemployment "beneficial" and "a cleansing tonic" for society.
DeVos recently was the subject of an Orlando Sentinel column headlined, "Is Magic's Rich DeVos Next NBA Owner to Become a Target?" (The story, which came out after the Sterling fiasco, was about DeVos' anti-gay views.)
Philadelphia 76ers: Buyout-firm maven Joshua Harris made his billions in private equity, cofounding Apollo Global Management, which made headlines in 2011 when it was revealed that it had paid a former California Public Employees' Retirement System board member tens of millions of dollars to score billions in investments from the pension fund. (Apollo wasn't accused of wrongdoing.) Harris, who also owns the New Jersey Devils, reportedly is on the verge of buying the English Premier League's Crystal Palace. Meanwhile, the rebuilding-focused Sixers continue to suck; in April, following the team's 19-63 season, Harris called the year "a huge success."
Toronto Raptors: There are many fun things about the NBA's only foreign franchise, including its throwback dino uniforms, its F-bomb-dropping general manager, and one of the smartest and most raucous fanbases in the NBA. (And, occasionally, Drake.) Owner Larry Tanenbaum, however, is boring as sin.
Washington Wizards: For a glimpse of Ted Leonsis at his peak, this 1995 New York Times Magazine profile is chock full of great stuff: As a bachelor, Leonsis would occasionally bring an Elvis bust with him when dining out with friends; later, as an AOL exec, he came around to the fact that the company was more Norman Rockwell than MTV: "Face it, when you go to a cocktail party and America Online diskettes are being used as coasters, you know you've become mainstream." These days, Leonsis is DC sports royalty as owner of the Wizards, the WNBA's Mystics, and the NHL's Capitals—he once got into a physical altercation with a heckling fan, who accused Leonsis of grabbing his neck and throwing him to the ground after a Caps game.
Denver Nuggets: Stan Kroenke—a.k.a. "Silent Stan" for his reluctance to talk to the media—collects sports franchises like trophies. Besides the Nuggets, the multibillionaire owns the Colorado Avalanche, the St. Louis Rams, a MLS franchise, a lacrosse team, and has a majority share of the UK soccer club Arsenal. He's made good money in real estate, but buying a bunch of teams is easier when you're married to Ann Walton, of the Bentonville Waltons. Kroenke served on Walmart's Board of Directors in the 1990s and has benefited from Walton ties for decades: The Denver Post reports that his retail ventures (often anchored by the megastore) have landed hundreds of millions in tax breaks.
Golden State Warriors: Peter Guber's résumé sounds more appropriate for a Lakers owner. He's a longtime showbiz exec and producer of big-time hits like Rain Man and The Color Purple. Since the '90s, he has run Mandalay Entertainment, which has produced art-house gems like I Know What You Did Last Summer and I Still Know What You Did Last Summer. Guber is a fairly loyal Democrat, but he's also said on record that President Obama has disappointed Hollywood, and he has sometimes donated to Republicans, such as the late former Sen. Ted Stevens. The Warriors have thrived under Guber's tenure, but he may not have mastered email yet: He recently replied-all to the entire organization, writing that he had to learn "hoodish" in addition to the languages of the Warriors' international players. (He claims that he meant to write Yiddish.)
Joe Lacob is the more hands-on, day-to-day owner of the Warriors. He's a partner at the elite Silicon Valley venture capital firm Kleiner Perkins, which is the subject of a nasty, ongoing sexual-harassment lawsuit. Ellen Pao, a former partner, is suing the company for wrongful termination after she reported sexual harassment to senior management.
Los Angeles Clippers: Steve Ballmer is the newest (and with a net worth of $22.5 billion, richest) addition to the owners' club. He forked over $2 billion in pocket change this year to rescue the Clippers from Donald Sterling. He's fresh off a 14-year tenure as Microsoft's CEO, abruptly quitting after years of internal and external criticism of his leadership. To be fair, he did preside over a very rough patch for the company—losing billions, getting beat by Apple, and overseeing the flop of the Zune. Forbes even called him the "worst CEO of a large publicly traded American company…without a doubt." The famously exuberant BasketBallmer is now looking to rebound with the resurgent Clips—but not before banning Apple products from the locker room.
Los Angeles Lakers: Technically, the six children of Jerry Buss—the longtime Lakers owner who died last year—own a majority share of the team, but day-to-day owner Jeanie Busshas the final say. (Brother Jim focuses on basketball operations.) That unofficially makes her the league's sole female owner. Despite her short tenure, she's been criticized for the crazy deal she offered Kobe Bryant and her engagement to Lakers legend (and Knicks president) Phil Jackson. Earlier this year, Jackson was being considered for a job with the Lakers, but Jim was against hiring him, leading to even more Buss family strife.
Memphis Grizzlies: At 36, Robert J. Pera is the youngest NBA owner, and one of the world's youngest billionaires. The Silicon Valley native founded Ubiquiti, an internet technology company that wants to kill off Cisco in the quest to wifi-ify America's offices and cities. A former high school player, the 6-foot-3 Pera tweeted that he could easily take Mark Cuban in a 1-on-1, and even challenged Michael Jordan to a $1 million game. (Jordan called it "comical.")
Minnesota Timberwolves: Glen Taylor has that classic life story: grew up on a farm, pulled himself by the bootstraps, and made himself into a multibillionaire by cobbling together a business empire based on printing and electronics. Big surprise, then, that he's a staunch Republican: He was a Minnesota state senator from 1981 to 1990 and has given more than $700,000 to Republicans, particularly fellow Minnesotans like Rep. Michelle Bachmann. (He also just bought the left-leaning Minneapolis Star-Tribune for $100 million, and suggested he'd make it more conservative.) Politics aside, Minnesotans have been critical of Taylor's track record as owner: He feuded with star big man Kevin Love and lost him to the Cleveland Cavaliers. The Timberwolves, meanwhile, suffer the league's longest playoff drought.
New Orleans Pelicans: Tom Benson's two-pronged moneymaking strategy consists of selling cars and taking taxpayers' money. Louisiana's richest man, he owns dealerships all over the state and in Texas too, in addition to New Orleans' Fox affiliate and the New Orleans Saints. Thanks to a complex deal he negotiated on the Superdome (yup, he also owns that), Benson is set to rake in nearly $400 million in state subsidies on the taxpayers' dime. He initially wanted to move the team—especially after Hurricane Katrina—but it seems he's settled for this deal. Benson was honored with a statue outside the Superdome for his trouble; Louisiana has cut health care and education funding to save money.
Oklahoma City Thunder: Oklahoma hedge fund baron Clayton Bennett is easily the most hated man in the Pacific Northwest: He's responsible for moving the beloved Seattle SuperSonics to Oklahoma City. In 2006, Bennett bought the team from Starbucks founder Howard Schultz and essentially promised to keep the team in Seattle. Almost immediately, he and his co-owners conspired to move the team, while assuring Sonics fans they'd stay. Minority owner and Bennett buddy Aubrey McClendon even went on the record in 2007, saying that they'd never intended to keep the team in Seattle. (McClendon, who founded the Chesapeake Energy Corporation, is a leading proponent of fracking, opponent of gay rights, and—as if all that weren't enough—a former Swift Boater.) In spring 2008, Bennett and McClendon got their wish: The Sonics were officially defunct, and replaced by the Oklahoma City Thunder. Seattle was devastated.
Phoenix Suns: It's tough to find an owner as loathed by his team's fans as Robert Sarver. The 53-year-old Tucson native made his money running and selling a series of community banks, writing more than $1 billion in loans to Arizona businesses and homeowners during and after the financial crisis. He bought the Suns in 2004, and since then has presided over a steady exodus of talent—both on and off the court. Phoenix fans, who argue that he's insanely cheap, are hyperbolic about his tenure, arguing that he's run the team into the ground for his own profit. ESPN's Bill Simmons once said Sarver "destroyed basketball" in Phoenix.
Portland Trail Blazers: Paul Allen does a lot of things: The Microsoft cofounder is an investor, philanthropist, film producer, art collector, blues musician, and yachting enthusiast. In his spare time, he tends to his sports franchises: the Blazers, the Seattle Seahawks, and soccer's Seattle Sounders. He's worth more than $16 billion and has pledged to give at least half of that away (e.g., his $100 million gift to fight Ebola). He's given generously to political causes, including $1 million to back a charter-school bill with his old pal Bill Gates and more than $500,000 to committees and candidates—65 percent of it to Democrats.
Sacramento Kings: Vivek Ranadivé, an Indian-born billionaire—and the first and only Asian American NBA owner—could be the Most Interesting Man in Silicon Valley. He attended MIT, supposedly as a penniless exchange student, and went on to engineer software that digitized stock trading for Wall Street giants like Goldman Sachs. His Twitter feed is a steady stream of chill: hanging out with Shaq, hobnobbing with world leaders, and fawning over his wannabe pop-star daughter, whom he coached to a girls' basketball championship. In addition to trying to turn around the long-struggling Kings, Ranadivé also has the modest goal of revolutionizing data, and has huddled with the new Indian Prime Minister Narendra Modi—no friend to Muslims—on bringing basketball to India.
San Antonio Spurs: Peter Holt is American tractor royalty: His great-grandfather built the first one a century ago, and his family's company, Holt Cat, is the biggest Caterpillar dealer in the country. His small-market team has won five NBA titles—all without paying a luxury tax—making Holt one of the more admired owners in the league. He counts Rick Perry in his fan club: The Texas guv has received more than $500,000 in campaign contributions from Holt since 2000, and returned the favor with a state appointment (Parks and Wildlife Commission) and some generous, multimillion-dollar tax breaks for Holt's businesses.
Utah Jazz: Greg Miller inherited the Jazz from his dad, Larry, along with an expansive business empire that includes real estate, retail, and car dealerships. He seems an affable guy—although not even he was immune to feuding with Karl Malone—with a Twitter feed that showcases his globetrotting off-road expeditions. (He was even on Undercover Boss!) Miller is also a devout Mormon who credits "divine intervention" for the success of his franchise and businesses. During the 2012 election cycle, the Miller family companies gave nearly $1 million to the Mitt Romney super-PAC Restore Our Future after a brief flirtation with former Utah governor and Mormon cool-dad Jon Huntsman.