King under the court: Meet the man behind the Miami Heat's new style of Showtime
The conductor was busy getting ready. It was a big night. And the man needed to look presentable. He slowly reached for the staples of his ensemble, the things that formed the contours of his character. Black pants. Black shirt. Closed collar. Jordan Ones. The eclectic Jesse Saenz chose a uniform symbolic of the underground, made-man billing he grew for himself, here in Miami.
He was "The Conductor" after all. And even if it was only a nickname tossed around the club below the Miami Heat's home court, the man needed to play up his persona.
Reflecting a cool and casual vibe to the Friendlies, Jesse's wealthy customers, was a priority. Without Jesse's touch, the show would swiftly fall apart, the curtains close and the crowd quickly careen back to its cars.
The preparations were made throughout the night. Yellowtail would be cooked in white truffle oil and served tiradito. The tuna came with capers upon coco leche de tigre. Both were chopped and portioned in a jungle of kitchens by dozens of cooks. Bow-tied bartenders dashed to grab crates with bottles of Azul tequila and Brugal rum. Valets readied the private garage, bottle girls fit their feet into tiny heels and hosiery while security pulled up their black gloves.
"Awwwlright errrybody," Jesse said, bursting through a pair of double doors into the middle of a cavernous room. The heels stopped clunking across the floor. He tilted the tip of his forehead south, folded his wide arms across his chest and poked out his lips.
"What it do?!"
He was greeted with cheery applause by his staff.
"This is what we've been doing for 10 years," Jesse reminded them. But, tonight, everyone needed to have their game faces on. "The Lakers are in town," Jesse said. "You know what to expect. There's a whole bunch of celebrities who wanna be here tonight because of LeBron." He went over security protocol, checked everyone's memory on the menus and highlighted the proverbial coin-filledcarrot on a stick.
"Because when LeBron comes back to Miami," he said, "it brings money."
Two hours before tipoff, tires screeched underneath Kaseya Center. The Maseratis were coming. At the valet, guests were whisked out of their whips and hurried inside. Old heads tussled with block-letter Heat jerseys they were pulling over big collared shirts and bigger stomachs. Ties came off next. Transported through an X-ray machine with their phones, Balenciaga sneakers and girlfriends with augmented features.
Every few minutes, another few dozen people sat at circular tables under dancing strobe lights. The sushi was brought on long dishes, followed, usually, by Dom Perignon. A DJ was ushered to a booth above the crowd and started spinning tracks. All around, people were bouncing. That guy's a fancy lawyer. That one has a defense contract. The man at the bar owns banks all across the state. And another's a businessman, celebrating an anniversary with his wife's friends.
Besides the gobs of money they flashed and in between guzzles of champagne: All the Friendlies shout out Jesse by name. "Bottom line: it's the best s— ever in an arena. You can even bring kids in here," the millionaire Chris Carlos tells me from a booth. "This is the best venue in the country for a nightclub to be in an arena. And, Jesse is the reason I keep coming back."
Where else could men
