We compiled a group of individuals (programming note: 30 entries, not 30 people total) who mean something special to SLAM and to our audience. Read the full list here and order your copy of SLAM 248, where this list was originally published, here.

It’s kind of crazy to look back and realize that Darius Miles and Quentin Richardson played just two seasons together. The Clippers drafted them 15 picks apart in 2000—Darius third, Q 18th—and split them up in the summer of 2002 when Darius was dealt (along with Harold Jamison) to the Cleveland Cavaliers for Andre Miller and Bryant Stith. In those two seasons, the Clippers won 70 combined games and did not make the playoffs. Miles started 27 games, Richardson 28. From a basketball standpoint, it was barely a ripple—the anticipated Clippers revival (or perhaps vival, wasn’t no “re” about it) never really transpired, at least not until the rise of Lob City. But you can’t just measure impact by Ws and Ls or points or any of that.

As they tell it, Darius and Q were on their way to being AND1 guys when Michael Jordan himself made sure they joined Jordan Brand. Jump, men. They got all sorts of rare retro PEs, head-tapped their way into the public consciousness back when Melo was still hoopin’ at Towson Catholic, landed a well-deserved KICKS cover. They were an unlikely pairing who meshed in unlikely ways; Miles a willowy 6-9 rim runner who ate up the court with huge strides, Richardson a solid 6-6 with a seemingly bottomless post-up bag and three-point range.

It’s kind of crazy to look back and realize that Darius Miles and Quentin Richardson played just two seasons together. The Clippers drafted them 15 picks apart in 2000—Darius third, Q 18th—and split them up in the summer of 2002 when Darius was dealt (along with Harold Jamison) to the Cleveland Cavaliers for Andre Miller and Bryant Stith. In those two seasons, the Clippers won 70 combined games and did not make the playoffs. Miles started 27 games, Richardson 28. From a basketball standpoint, it was barely a ripple—the anticipated Clippers revival (or perhaps vival, wasn’t no “re” about it) never really transpired, at least not until the rise of Lob City. But you can’t just measure impact by Ws and Ls or points or any of that.

Miles was the one with the superstar vibe, the one who ended up on the “Roc L.A. Familia” SLAM cover alongside Lamar Odom and Elton Brand, all wearing each other’s jerseys. Elton was far from alone in rocking an oversized Miles 21 jersey, wasn’t even the only one to wear it backward. Miles had Iverson’s vibe and Pippen’s game, a long, lanky stat-sheet filler who on his best nights looked like he could very well fulfill the promise that led to Sports Illustrated putting him on their cover with Kevin Garnett peeking out from behind.

Want a wild stat? The Clippers weren’t very good, only had four nationally televised games in Darius’ and Q’s two seasons—one in their first season, three in their second—but the Clippers went 4-0 in those games, including a win over the Shaq and Kobe two-time defending champion Lakers in January 2002. In their final national TV game, against the Mavs a week later, they both played 30-plus minutes off the bench, both scored 15 points, both filled every box-score box—hit a three, had at least one rebound, assist, steal and block.

Their Clippers promise went mostly unfulfilled—which perhaps should not have come as a surprise given a young team in the Donald Sterling days. A rose might grow from concrete, but it is not a common occurrence. As for expectations, those are ours, something separate from the careers that actually play out. So after the summer of 2002, Darius and Q wound up journeymen on their own journeys: Darius with injury-plagued years in Cleveland, Portland and Memphis; Q breaking the Suns single-season three-point record in Phoenix before playing in New York (twice), Miami and Orlando. Darius played his last game at 27, Q at 33; both of their final seasons mere epilogues.

But their stories didn’t end, their journeys weren’t over. And a full decade-plus after their final games, they’d reunite—on a podcast this time—as the Knuckleheads, both giving flowers to former teammates and opponents as well as receiving their own. They’re both active on social media, often in SLAM’s IG comments showing love to both active and retired hoopers. Maybe Darius and Q were never All-Stars and never won championships, but they found one another, they bent basketball culture in their direction, and honestly? That’s more than enough. 

Photo via Getty Images.

The post THE 30 PLAYERS WHO DEFINED SLAM’S 30 YEARS: Darius Miles and Quentin Richardson appeared first on SLAM.

We compiled a group of individuals (programming note: 30 entries, not 30 people total) who mean something special to SLAM and to our audience. Read the full list here and order your copy of SLAM 248, where this list was originally published, here.

In 1980, Stephen King published a novel called Firestarter. The title character was Charlie McGee, a little girl who could harness a vast power to—among other things—start fires. One important lesson she learned early on was to always push the power out, because to absorb it would destroy herself. Hold that thought.

Kevin Garnett never talked before games. And it’s not just that he didn’t do interviews; he didn’t talk, period. If he knew you, he might give you a nod, maybe a tap on the chest. But he didn’t say anything. Afterward he’d talk, but always last. The equipment guys had long since gathered the sneakers and the uniforms and bagged it all up for the next destination; reporters were getting antsy about deadlines and airtimes. But you waited for the same reasons producers ask Andre 3000 for features—because while you might have to wait forever, it was always worth the wait. KG had bars. He’d tell you things about the game you’d never have noticed in a way you’d never have thought of. 

In between, KG did things on a basketball court you’d never seen before. He’d start plays and finish them, guard every position, somehow be everywhere all at once. Dude was like this from the start, from Mauldin, SC, to Chicago—he came into his first pre-NBA workout and by the end had converted even the most staunch nonbelievers in guys making the high school jump. He went fifth and should have gone first (sorry Joe Smith). He soaked up the NBA like a sponge, put his imprint on ’Sota right away, got the Wolves to grab Stephon Marbury in the following year’s Draft. We documented it with a classic cover: “Showbiz & KG.” Nike slid him their coolest shit—he wore Jordans against MJ—before lacing him with a signature sneaker and making him head of the Fun Police. When we did that first Nike-sponsored KICKS issue, there was no question who’d be on the cover. 

For the December 1999 “100 Percent Real Juice” cover—we shot KG on a gold background but switched it out to orange—Jonathan Mannion and I flew out to Minnesota to shoot him at his crib. Garnett shot hoops in his driveway in his full road Wolves uni, the new Mobb Deep bumping from outdoor speakers. He had “It’s Mine” on repeat, trying to memorize Nas’ verse. By the end of the day, I was like, Man, I need to pick this up—only to find out at the closest record store that it wasn’t due out for another couple of weeks. We did that adidas KICKS cover with him and TD and T-Mac and the roundtable interview that anchored it was one of the most fun interviews ever. KG—never listed at 7 feet despite clear evidence to the contrary—busted on Mac for actually being 6-10 or 6-11 and then acted all surprised when it got turned back around on him.

On the court, his intensity spilled out of him like sweat. He burned so hot he had to constantly push it out lest it burn him up. He talked, yes; he cursed up a storm, but he was always talking to himself, pushing and pushing and pushing. KG picked up an MVP in Minny—but couldn’t make it all the way. By the time he decamped for Boston, it was almost a relief. 

“ANYTHING IS POSSIBLE!” He messed up the adidas tagline, but that happens when you add that final (or Finals) touch. That chip. It took him a minute to say anything at all, he said it quiet first before primal screaming it into the TD Banknorth Garden rafters. Achievement unlocked, weight lifted, program complete. Not that he was finished quite yet; there’d be another Finals trip, a Brooklyn stop, a final return to Minnesota as elder and sage—21 seasons for 21.

And now. Kevin Garnett at 48. He’s a Hall of Famer, a media mogul, doing production and a podcast with Paul Pierce. We did a whole special issue on him in 2021. He’s out in Cali, a Midwest guy retired to the beach. He doesn’t hoop anymore because hoop goes just one way for him—the demon comes out, as he puts it, and the demon needs to stay away. At long last, after two decades of relentless intensity, peace. 

Portrait by Benoit Peverelli. Photo via Getty Images.

The post THE 30 PLAYERS WHO DEFINED SLAM’S 30 YEARS: Kevin Garnett appeared first on SLAM.

We compiled a group of individuals (programming note: 30 entries, not 30 people total) who mean something special to SLAM and to our audience. Read the full list here and order your copy of SLAM 248, where this list was originally published, here.

Forget how Merriam-Webster defines “iconic,” here’s how it should be defined: someone who or something that makes an enormous impact not only through his or her or its presence but also through his or her or its absence. 

“Iverson left.” 

Those were the first two words I remember hearing from Tony Gervino when he called from the NBA’s rookie orientation in Florida where we were shooting what would become the 1996 Draft fold-out cover. This was a huge shoot for us, and now we weren’t gonna have the first overall pick. (This news overshadowed the far funnier story of us having to keep a curious Todd Fuller—11th overall pick, Golden State Warriors—from wandering into the shoot. As an aside to an aside, if we included Golden State’s Draft pick, we probably would have taken out Kobe and wow how things could have been different.) 

“Iverson left.” This wasn’t good.

Over the years, we became incredibly familiar with those words, with that happenstance. Iverson was always there on the court and almost never there for photo shoots. He was 12 hours late for the SLAM 32 “Soul on Ice” shoot, dipped from practice (yes, yes, I know) entirely before we were supposed to shoot him for SLAM 42 the following year. We’d driven from New York to Philly, Clay Patrick McBride had everything set up, done the test shots and for a while we just stood around, hoping beyond hope he’d come back. He didn’t. We finally broke it all down and drove back. Instead, we eventually shot him in a room off to the side at an arena—grabbed him for literally a minute before a game and shot maybe one roll. For the record, every frame was amazing.

But it’s that rookie cover I keep going back to, and how Iverson’s absence ended up defining it better than his presence ever could have. It helped of course that Kobe Bryant and Ray Allen and Steve Nash ended up Hall of Famers (and Stephon Marbury and Jermaine O’Neal should be). In a way, Iverson being on there would have completed it. But in another way, his not being on there makes it cooler. This might just be me after-the-fact rationalizing, but I don’t think so.

Iverson had already had his debut SLAM cover by then, an action shot while he was at Georgetown that Scoop had to convince Dennis would work. He’d get another in short order, “Who’s Afraid of Allen Iverson?” on the June ’97 issue. This was the proto-Iverson, a skinny little dude with one tattoo on his bicep, cornrows, a single long gold chain. This is who the mainstream sports media was railing against? By then he’d been Rookie of the Year, dropped 40-plus in five straight games, dropped Michael Jordan with a quick bap-bap, BAP-BAP crossover (and earned the GOAT’s ire in their previous matchup by proclaiming he didn’t have to respect anybody). Iverson loved Jordan, still does, but on the court? No love there.

Off the court though? I gave Iverson a copy of that “Who’s Afraid of Allen Iverson?” issue—we all used to carry copies of the latest issues to give to players—and in return he gave me a big hug. This was the first time I’d met him. But that’s how Allen Iverson was, and how he is. If he loves you, he shows it. I think of Sosa talking to Tony Montana in Scarface and saying, “There’s no lying in you, Tony.” There’s no lying in Iverson either. The last time I saw him, a couple years ago, he gave me a hug, too. “Who’s Afraid of Allen Iverson?” Someone who never interacted with him, that’s for sure.

The “Soul on Ice” cover, which came nearly two years later (March ’99) happened with the NBA still in the throes of a lockout (note the “84% NBA Free!” in the upper left corner). It—both the cover shoot and the story—were part of a larger Iverson media push, so both the shoot and the interview for it were slotted in right before The Source Sports (The Source’s sports offshoot). We had to hire his hairstylist to both unbraid and re-braid his hair so he wouldn’t go into the Source Sports shoot still sporting a blowout. Of course in those pre-social media days, it was actually possible to keep a secret, so when the cover hit, no one was expecting it (an editor at Sports Illustrated actually asked Tony how we got him to wear a wig).

The interview happened in the morning and was something he wasn’t late for—I rode around NYC in a limo as he went to Modell’s HQ with Reebok (and stopped in the diamond district to get a massive piece of platinum and diamond jewelry repaired) and then out to Teterboro Airport. There, a Source Sports guy would accompany him on the flight and I’d catch a car service back to Manhattan. Now, Iverson is clearly not and never has been a morning guy unless he’s coming at it from the other side and preferably from the Main Line TGI Fridays. But he was still cool and compelling and heartfelt and honest to a fault—asked if he could be any other NBA player, he eschewed his childhood hero MJ (by then retired again) and went with Latrell Sprewell, who had yet to be reinstated by the NBA after choking coach PJ Carlesimo. It’s kind of crazy to think that at the time, he was still just 23 years old and hadn’t even been an All-Star yet. That summer, when KICKS Magazine opened to include all brands (it launched as Nike-only), he was on the cover of that, too.

In 2001, Iverson became a god. There was the All-Star Game in DC in February, where he scored 15 of his 25 points in a furious fourth-quarter comeback from down 21 to win by 1. He was, of course, named MVP. On top of that he dropped 50-plus twice in the regular season and won MVP, dropped 50-plus twice more in a seven-game series against Toronto (and posted a season-high 16 assists in the closeout game), and took the undermanned Sixers to the Finals to face an undefeated Lakers juggernaut that he promptly defeated in Game 1 in Los Angeles with a 48-point masterpiece. To paraphrase then-SportsCenter anchor Dan Patrick, you couldn’t stop Allen Iverson or hope to contain him.

People tried, of course. That magical year in Philly did not lead to sustained postseason success, the clashes with Larry Brown did not cease, the local sports radio call-in types did not become rational. Iverson continued to be judged for what he didn’t do (show up to every practice, shoot at a high percentage) rather than what he did (carry a team on his back every f*cking game). I am half convinced that the analytic nerd obsession with “efficiency” was at least in part embraced because it discredited Iverson, a guy whose misses wouldn’t have even been shots for someone who didn’t have his crossover or first step or long arms or big hands or sheer fearlessness to drive again and again into the teeth of physical defenses.

Here was a guy who stood 6-0 (maybe), weighed 165 pounds (maybe) and led the League in minutes per game seven times! He averaged over 40 minutes a game for his career!

He was as superhuman as could be, but Iverson remained a hero to most for his humanity, in a way that even Jordan never was. Jordan always seemed to be above the fray even when he was in it, unreal even when he was standing right in front of you. The myth became the man. Iverson? He was the people’s champ long before Paul Wall, grindin’ out of VA before The Clipse. If you were a young NBA fan, Iverson was a guy who dressed like you, listened to the same music you did; he faced untold struggles and doubters and still he rose. He was a hip-hop icon who was himself of hip-hop, with the cornrows and the throwbacks and the jewelry and even the (unreleased) album. He did commercials with Jadakiss, pushed a Bentley, kept crazy hours and still dropped 45 whenever he felt like it.

Let’s talk about the throwbacks for a minute. His wearing his own Wilt-era No. 3 Hardwood Classics jersey on the cover of SLAM 32 was instrumental in kicking off the whole craze and making the Mitchell & Ness flagship store in Philly a must-hit spot for everyone (including us). AI even rocked throwbacks on the bench when he was out—I distinctly remember him wearing an Abdul-Jabbar Bucks joint in Milwaukee—but, despite the NBA brand synchronicity, the NBA commissioner didn’t love it. There were rumblings of an NBA dress code long before one was ever implemented. So when we were brainstorming ideas for Iverson on the February ’05 cover, I came up with this: What if we shoot Iverson in a suit? 

The first question was whether he’d be down to do it, which he was. Phew. The second question was, did he even own a suit? The last time he wore one was probably when he got drafted. The answer to that, at least in terms of whether he had one he’d be willing to be shot in, was no. So he had one made. If you look at that cover with its black-and-white Atiba Jefferson photo, you’ll notice the suit is kind of baggy. So is the fedora, somehow. He’s like a hip-hop Humphrey Bogart. I ran into Que Gaskins, Iverson’s long-time Reebok guy, some years later, and he told me that Iverson kept telling the tailor everything had to be bigger, no, bigger than that, so many times that the guy finally just threw up his hands and quit. Well, nearly quit anyway. In October of that year, David Stern finally instituted the long-anticipated NBA dress code and hey, at least Allen Iverson already had a suit.

AI’s career didn’t end the way anyone wanted it to, but it lasted long enough for him to get endless bouquets from the generation that came after his—fitting for someone who never hesitated to pay homage himself, once wearing Dr. J’s No. 6 instead of his own No. 3 in an All-Star Game. Traded to Denver, he teamed with a young Carmelo Anthony, his own 6-7 doppelganger complete with ink and braids and a headband. Their SLAM cover together in March 2008 is a frozen moment of laughter, two guys clearly delighted in each other’s presence. And it wasn’t just Melo; that whole class of 2003 was filled with Iverson fans, from LeBron—forced to cover up his own tattoos in high school—to Dwyane Wade, who wore No. 3 because of him.

Allen Iverson inspired us, too. Here was a guy who, from the very start, was uncompromising in what he believed, in what he did, in what he said. With apologies to the great Kool G Rap, he was the realest. It shone through in everything, from his on-court performances to photo shoots to Reebok commercials. There were layers to go through to get to him of course, but by the time you did get to him, you knew exactly where he stood.

Yeah, he could be exasperating, especially to photographers (and writers) with schedules and families and whatnot, but even they got past it when they realized AI wasn’t being malicious or big-timing them or anything, it’s just who he was. But his presence—or his absence—was always huge. We always did what we had to do to get him, no matter how many times we had to reschedule. After all, we knew what missing him was like, and we didn’t want that to happen again. 

Photo via Getty Images. Portrait by Clay Patrick McBride.

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Order your copy of A History of Basketball in Fifteen Sneaker here.

The summer Nike signed Swoopes, MJ himself invited “the female Jordan” to work at his camp and challenged her to a game of one-on-one. Swoopes airballed her first three shots but went up 4–3, then down 7–4. He won the game; she got his UNC shirt. She felt good enough afterward to talk trash to his face on camera:  “He was tired. Old, out of shape . . .” Jordan interjected with a smile, “I didn’t see any challenge. I just wanted to cut it short before someone got hurt.”

More was coming. Nike designer Marni Gerber went to Lubbock to learn what made Swoopes tick and find out what she liked in a sneaker. The result was 1995’s Air Swoopes, the first-ever signature women’s basketball shoe—and one crafted to fit Swoopes’s narrow size-10 foot perfectly. Nike’s list of signature athletes in basketball that year was a short one: Michael Jordan, Charles Barkley, Penny Hardaway, Chris Webber. Swoopes was just the fifth. 

The mid-cut Air Swoopes featured a mid-foot strap, a pull tab on the heel that was long-fingernail compatible, and Swoopes’s own logo, a stylized “S” on the tongue. It even got one of Nike’s minimalistic print ads featuring a shoe and a 1-800 phone number that people could call to hear Sheryl talk about her own sneaker. The Air Swoopes was a serious hoop shoe designed by women, marketed by women, and marketed to women, with sneakers only in women’s sizing. It was something completely different. 

“That [shoe] made everybody stand up and take notice,” said former AND1 and Nike exec Jeffrey Smith. “You mean the girl’s version doesn’t need to be just pink and light blue?” Quite to the contrary: The $85 release version was basic black with a white strap, and Swoopes got her own red, white, and blue makeup to debut as a member of the US National Team. And it wasn’t just any US National Team, but one with vengeance on its mind.

After third-place finishes in the ’92 Olympics and the ’94 World Championships, nothing less than gold would be acceptable at the ’96 Games in Atlanta. Stanford’s Tara VanDerveer stayed on as coach, and the week-long Olympic Trials began in Colorado Springs with 24 players in May 1995. By the time practices started, that 24 had been whittled down to 11, including Swoopes, former Virginia point guard Dawn Staley, and former USC center Lisa Leslie. UConn center Rebecca Lobo was the youngest player at 22, and the two oldest—31-year-old Teresa Edwards and 30-year-old Katrina McClain—were both from nearby in Atlanta. Swoopes was able to lace up her own shoe for the first practice—“That’s cute,” VanDerveer remarked about the signature sneakers.

Starting on Halloween, the squad embarked on a grueling, globe-spanning 52-game exhibition schedule. The primary goal was for the players to coalesce into a true team. But along the way, as they racked up win after win (after win after win after win), they accomplished something more. For starters, they showed just how much better they were than even the best college teams. Louisiana Tech lost 85–74, the closest that any NCAA squad would get. The next closest was Tennessee, who lost by 34. The Olympians beat Stanford 100–63, Kansas 101–47, George Washington 110–37, and Ohio State 118–49, finishing that initial leg of their tour with a 107–24 drubbing of Colorado.

From there they went to Russia, Ukraine, China, and Australia, with some more domestic sellouts in between. Fans kept coming and Team USA kept winning. There were a few close calls: a three-point win over Cuba in Ningbo, China, then a one-point squeaker against Russia in Chicago in their second-to-last game. But when they closed out the final game, an 86–46 victory over Italy before a crowd of 10,643 in Indianapolis, the Americans were 52-0. A little over a week out from the Olympics, they were more than ready. 

After all that dominance, the Atlanta Games were almost an anticlimax— except for the crowds. They had drawn well on their world tour, but this was something else entirely. Team USA averaged 25,000 fans per game, with nearly 33,000 packing the Georgia Dome to watch them dismantle Brazil in the gold medal matchup. Swoopes finished as the team’s third-leading scorer, averaging 13.0 points per game, shooting 55 percent from the floor, and ranking second in assists. 

She had already transitioned into her second shoe, the Swoopes II, by the start of the Games in 1996. The new sneaker featured off-to-the-sides lacing, a big Swoosh up front and a tiny one at the ankle, and a prominent shank plate in the middle of a thick midsole that was far ahead of its time. Maybe, like the first Air Jordan, Nike should have given the first Air Swoopes more time to breathe and let the legend build before releasing a next sneaker. Then again, Sheryl never even lost a game in her first shoe. Even Mike couldn’t say that. 

Talk had begun early in the world tour of forming a new women’s professional league called the American Basketball League (ABL), whose founders hoped to sign up as many Olympians as they could. Many tentatively agreed to join; with the new possibility of earning a real salary to play at home in the United States rather than finding a scarce spot overseas, the decision was a no-brainer. But before the pre-Olympics tour concluded, the NBA had announced a second professional option, one with even more solid backing. The best women players would have a choice of American pro leagues, something their predecessors had never enjoyed. 

Excerpted from “A History of Basketball in Fifteen Sneakers.” (Workman) by Russ Bengtson. Copyright © 2023

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It’s mid-morning on the West Coast, where Kevin Garnett lives now, and the sun is shining through the window behind him, gleaming off his Larry O’Brien trophy (“Just always know when you see me, you see her, and when you see her, you see me”) as well as his luxuriously moisturized bald dome (“It’s all coconut oil and sunshine, it ain’t built for everybody, you know what I’m sayin’?”). KG is 44 now, five years removed from his last NBA game, but he still looks like he could get out there right now and give somebody buckets.

This is not going to happen, of course. KG spent his 20-plus-year NBA career squeezing it all out down to the pulp, retired—if I can mix metaphors here—with the tank on E. But that intensity, that drive, that demon that drove him, that didn’t just go away. The fire still burns. So what’s supposed to be a half-hour Zoom call goes on for an hour, then an hour and a half, despite the fact that he’s got a whole gang of other interviews to get to. KG might be retired from the NBA, but he sure ain’t retired-retired.

Back in his playing days, Garnett was always the last to speak after games. He’d get his half-hour or so of treatment in the back, then get dressed, and only then—when everything was perfect—would he come out and answer questions. The entire media contingent was always still out there waiting, because we all knew he always had something to say. 

That, at least, hasn’t changed.

SLAM: I want to start going back to—I think this was the very first time I ever met you—and it would have been the Wheelchair Classic at Madison Square Garden.

KG: Wheelchair Classic, Wheelchair Cla—oh wow. Wow, wow, wow. That’s a throwback.

SLAM: Do you remember what it was like getting out on the court with those guys?

KG: Anytime when I was in high school I stepped on the court with any pro player, I was always in awe, I was always in awe of the difference and I always wanted to see the difference in what makes this mug a motherfuckin’ pro. And then when you play, you actually saw, you actually experienced a pro. You saw the difference in the style of play, the style of pace, the patience. And that’s what separates, to me, the professional from just a regular basketball player. You learn how to attack, you learn how to defend on all genres, on all categories—fast, big, strong, long, lean, you learn how to guard it all. So whenever I would step on a court, I would always be in awe of pros just because of that reason. But man, the Wheelchair Classic, you took me back. That’s deep.

SLAM: With young guys coming up back then, it flowed the other way, too, because you guys were so different from people who were already in the NBA. There was definitely a shift coming.

KG: Mm-hmm, definitely an energy coming, definitely a different—I think after you saw UNLV start making their run, you start seeing, like, the Fab Five come into it, the energy started to change a little bit, at least for me. Growing up during the crack era, kids getting killed for they shoes was, like, a new thing. Remember the first time you heard a kid got killed in Chicago for a pair of Jordans? That changed everything for me, man. Like, kids at school and all of us growing up and the way we competed. MJ made it cool to dress up and be professional, and then it’s like, Onyx came out and it was like “Duh duh duh, duh, duh, duh. Let the boys be boys!” It was a different energy vs the Anita Baker and the Luther Vandross. Our generation was coming off a bunch of, like, Yo, my dad ain’t in here, we single mom kids, we coming up like this. You learn to slap box, you learnin’ the street. It was just all of it, all of it at the same time, kind of rush the door and hit it all at once. And it was crazy that SLAM was, like, the birth of all of that, was at the same time.

SLAM: Did you feel that extra weight on you coming into the League? From that?

KG: Not weight, but I felt like I was representing. When I came out, no bullshit, this is a true story, I actually thought Felipe Lopez had the tools and the confidence and the skills to actually do what I did. When I actually sat back and thought about why more people didn’t actually take this route, it was really because of the education. I don’t think too many kids, any city kids, country kids, kids from the suburbs, didn’t matter. Overseas. All that. I didn’t think people was educated enough on the possibilities and the options of actually going from high school to the pros. And with that, I felt like I was representing Steph [Marbury]. I felt like I was representing AI [Allen Iverson], Shareef [Abdur-Rahim], Big [Robert] Traylor, Paul—Paul Pierce, Vince Carter, because I had played with all these guys. And I felt like I was representing that. I was representing the next wave of players that wanted to come in and make their mark and be impactful in the League.

SLAM: Your first game you were 4-4, you were pretty comfortable right from the start. Was there a moment when you thought, Wait a minute, I belong with all these guys.

KG: Comfortable, but I went through a couple preseason games against Big Dog [Glenn Robinson], which was like a grand opening for the League. He was the first superstar I played that didn’t take it easy. Big Dog was talking shit, it was bucket for bucket, and it grew a fire in me. And you know, the first couple games I was—I won’t say gullible, but I knew all these guys and I looked up to ’em, even Joe Smith and Rasheed [Wallace] and Stack [Jerry Stackhouse] and all those guys, even though we was all in the same [draft] class. I was a true fan. I was a kid who had posters on his wall. So Webb [Chris Webber] was my favorite player. And when I played Webb, he shot a jump hook on me, and I was looking so googly-eyed, and Sam Mitchell—to his credit—slapped the shit out of me like, Look, hey, you can’t come out here and appreciate these guys like this. I know you got these guys on your wall, fuck all that, we out here now. And it wasn’t until then, I can honestly say that moment there for me, was actually like, OK, OK, you can appreciate these guys and respect them, but not out here.

SLAM: Do you think about how coming out straight from Farragut shaped you? How maybe you would have been different had you gone to college? I know you were talking about Michigan, Carolina… 

KG: If I’m being honest, I’m glad I came out of high school, man. I see how college muzzles these kids and how these kids don’t really have a voice, how they get told and controlled so much. You know my biggest thing coming out of high school was [deep breath] just the control of me, man. I felt like so many times, you didn’t really get to make a decision, someone was making the decision for you. You know part of what took me so long in picking a school was me actually liking it vs a crew of people around me or people that want the best for me telling me. I wasn’t feeling that. I was like, Look, when I make a decision, I’ll make a decision. When I got to Chicago, I was a lot more mature than I was in South Carolina. I grew up a lot faster and the city helped me deal with a lot of intangibles and little things that kids really go through. I ain’t had no Mom and Pop to bounce things off of, I had to grit and grind and make decisions on my own, and those decisions, I had to stand on ’em. And they had to be decisions that carried a workload, and I was committed. I was committed to basketball day one, and I wasn’t gonna let anything stop me. And although I did have some, you know, bumps in the road, I kept it moving and I kept it going.

SLAM: Was there an exact moment when you’re like, OK, NBA, we’re doing this?

KG: I played Scottie Pippen in the summer one time. And we got to, like, a little shit, like, a little, I don’t even know. A little pushing match? Elbow? Some shit, I don’t know what Scottie was doing. But you know, he’s Scottie Pippen, and he’s a beast. Super GOAT. And I just stood my ground. But it wasn’t until then that I had confidence in myself and my skills, that the stuff that I was having confidence in was working, which built my confidence even more after playing him. 

Then I sat and I had a conversation, probably like a three-, four-hour conversation with Isiah Thomas about the West Side of Chicago and 16th Street and what I have to deal with every day, and he knew all of it. And the ABCs that goes with Chicago. Again, I’m gonna use the word “intangibles,” that come along with Chicago and going to school and playing in the Red West [Conference]. Like, he understood all that. We got to talk about street shit and just everyday stuff, right? Soon as I talked to Isiah Thomas, I knew it. I was committed. I came in, I knocked on Wolf’s [William “Wolf” Nelson, Farragut’s coach—Ed.] door. I was like, Yo, sit down, I need to tell you something. He thought something was wrong, he thought I got a girl pregnant or some shit, he was looking at me like, What? I was like, I’m going to the League. I need you to write this down. Tomorrow I need you to look up these agents…and da, da, da. He was looking at me and laughed. He’s like, What? He saw my face. And he saw how I was looking. And he saw how I looked at him. And I wasn’t smiling. I was deadass and I was looking at him like, I ain’t fuckin’ around, after you get through laughin’ I need you to get a piece of paper and write this down. This is what I need you to do. And I was talking to him with so much conviction that it wasn’t no laughing in the room. It felt like a Sunday but it was really a Saturday, and Monday got here and it started. And I can honestly say that that moment, after speaking to Isiah, and feelin’ that synergy, feeling like, I’m about to do something that everybody else ain’t did, I ain’t going to junior college, I’m not going to college. I’m about to bet on myself. I’m one of the hardest-working people I know. Don’t nobody work harder than me. Don’t nobody want this more than me. I’m fittin’ to go all in with this, and I jumped out and I jumped right in the rabbit hole. I didn’t care what it was. And in my mind, it couldn’tve been no harder than getting up, surviving every day in Chicago from the time I walked out of my house to the time I walked back in it. I looked at the League like it couldn’t have been harder than the West Side. I was like, No, it can’t be harder than this shit.

SLAM: I feel like from the moment you stepped on the floor, first game, your rookie year, you were influencing people, people who maybe never thought you could make the jump from high school to the pros. But you stepping on that floor made that real. Were you aware of that from the get-go?

KG: I wasn’t aware of it, but you know, you know how something is there, like a consistency of something being there? I felt that. And then people who know me, know I have, like, a little presence about myself. As a rookie, I would talk, but then I was listening so much and I was trying to soak up so much. And again, you’re trying to prove yourself so much that you find yourself just in this state of just always, always soaking up something, always gravitating toward something. Always. I don’t care what it is, it was always a learning moment for me. So I felt like I didn’t have the privilege of going to school like these other guys. I didn’t have the privilege of coming in here learning and all this other stuff. But Kevin McHale put me in a position that I can learn under him. And he put me in position to where I can be transparent with him and all the older guys that were there. And then I had a great group of older guys. Sam Mitchell was probably the best fit for me, very aggressive guy, from the South, he’s from Georgia. So he kind of understood, but he understood my motor, too, and that I wanted things. And then you know, when we got on the same page as far as where we come from and start peeling back layers about who we are, that’s when our relationship grew. And he knew I was a competitor, and I wasn’t backing down from nobody. And he loved that. I was a fucking pit bull. And I didn’t care about who—after that Webber incident, I didn’t care about any of that shit no more. I took more of a West Side kind of Chicago attitude with some South Carolina skill and discipline. And I worked my ass off. 

SLAM: When were you able to take the time to start looking back? Was it after you retired?

KG: I still haven’t looked back on shit. Fans send me videos or stuff all the time—fans make fan pages, tag you in shit, fans make YouTube joints and all this, and I like to thank all the fans, too, because half the shit that I’ve done I forgot about. You don’t really think about how much time you’ve actually put into this until you look up and your kid is 12 or 13. The only reason I think I actually look back at it now is because my kids actually want to converse and talk about it, and then I get younger fans coming up to me and their friends. That’s the only time I really talk about it. I don’t really like going back in time, unless I’m talking to [young players], I used to train some of these young guys, so giving them examples of things that I’ve been through and stuff I recall. But I never wanted to be the guy to be like, Hey, man, when I played…

SLAM: It’s funny to me that people talk about you acting in Uncut Gems, but my introduction to Kevin Garnett the actor was the Fun Police commercial with Cherokee Parks—you, Cherokee and Tom Gugliotta.

KG: The Fun Police was fun. I remember Cherokee and Googs being in it. I remember my best friend Bug being in it with me. Fun Police was fun—Trump was in one of my Fun Police joints, too. You remember that? Fun Police was probably one of my favorite commercials that I’ve ever done. And Uncut Gems was just a gem within itself, if I’m being 100. It fell in my lap. Adam [Sandler] was unbelievable. I got to see the true essence of his greatness. Julia Fox was great, she was unbelievable in this. The Safdie brothers was…they was just so easy to work with. They was so simple, so down to earth, so encouraging. I was like, You motherfuckers should be some goddamn coaches the way y’all do this shit.

SLAM: Do you want to do more acting? 

KG: I have a production company called Content Cartel, and we are co-producing my documentary along with Blowback Productions. Shout out to Marc Levin. Shout out to SHOWTIME. Got a bunch of projects coming up. This is my second calling. I love storytelling. Believe it or not, I have a ton of stories that I don’t tell on purpose. Production is something that I think I get, and it’s a lot of stories that need to be told. 

SLAM: What about from an NBA perspective? I don’t want to bring up sore subjects, but I know the Timberwolves thing didn’t necessarily go the way you wanted it to go. Is there still interest in being involved at an ownership level? 

KG: I noticed that in this boys club of owners, you have to play the game and know the game. And, you know, I think at this point, I’m considered a worker from that standpoint, I don’t think that the [owners] overall see the value in players coming back in ownership, which is sad, because, you know, Michael Jordan was once a player. Needless to say, I felt like the new wave of things to be done is coming. And this old wave is on its way out. So I’m just gonna wait for this old way to just kind of die out and new ways of business start to take over. And I think that’s the way that kind of fits me and suits me. If not, if I’m not able to be in an ownership group, then it’s all good. But it’s not gonna stop my greatness and other things that I want to accomplish. 

I love Minneapolis dearly. I do have an opinion on the reactivation or at least the reoccurrence of the city in which I think some real development in capital dollars in education, police reform—like all that needs to be addressed. We need education, we need our communities to feel like they’re safe. Real shit. And I think Minneapolis has a bunch of underlying issues that need to be addressed. And I think the ownership can play a huge part in not just educating, but bringing two parts together and bringing people together. Sports, believe it or not, and, you know, you can agree or disagree, but I think that sports brings the world together like music, you know? And my only real take in all of this was to be able to bring the city back together for what I know the city to be. 

And that was my real influence with trying to go in so hard and trying to make this work. But you know, in all things, if you’re gonna dance, if you’re gonna dance with somebody or if you’re going to partner with somebody, it’s got to be a two-way street. And it’s got to be something that both of you see the vision of, and I just, I think that in this situation, the vision wasn’t valued, nor looked at, and I think that it was ignored. I’m looking forward to being part of a different group, if it’s in Minnesota with the Timberwolves, cool. It doesn’t look like that. But if anything else comes up, I know Vegas is on the rise for getting a franchise soon. I know Seattle has roots, so we’ll see, I’m not going anywhere. And that situation too, it helped me and it educated me. So, you know, the second time that I come, I think I’m gonna come a whole ’nother way than I actually went this first time. But it was a great education for myself, all parties involved. I appreciate the experience. But yeah, I’ma fall back, I’ma regroup and then I’m gonna come back at this again. So you ain’t seen the last of me. So we’ll see. Keep your fingers crossed for me.

SLAM: You’re sounding like somebody who could be governor of Minnesota instead of just the owner of the Timberwolves.

KG: [Laughs] Hell no, hell no. There’s too much responsibility, man. I’ve been really, you know, chill, playing the shadows, I’m watching everything. I’m paying attention. I’m staying in tune. I’m staying in tune with the street. I’m listening to the community, I’m listening to all the kids that’s going through it. A lot of those kids that’s going through it and are really standing on the front line in Minneapolis are kids that I actually know, been through programs that I actually set through with the city. 

I went back to see the George Floyd memorial and the monument and just walk through there to get like a real feel for myself and, you know, get down on ground zero and feel the people, man, and it was one of the better things I did because I haven’t done it in a long time. I haven’t been back to Minneapolis in a minute. I still have a home there, I still have family there, still live there. Yeah, so things like that are just in my heart to do, but you know, I’m not a politician, I’m more the people’s champ. I fuck with the people. I don’t want to get mixed up with lobbyists and a bunch of other shit that I don’t really truly understand at the end of day. Nor will I give something to be something, you know. I stand on my square, you know what I’m saying, I’m five all day. And people know that. That means more to me than anything. But if the governor wants to reach out to me and help to bring some type of reform or some type of balance back to the city, I’m all ears, but it’s gonna be something of my own imagination and vision that I would like to see for the city and my people.

SLAM: I know the actual ceremony got pushed back because of COVID, but have you thought a lot about getting into the Hall of Fame and what that milestone means?

KG: When it first happened, I was all gassed. It’s just, it’s hard to actually feel good about the Hall of Fame with so much real-life issues and stuff that’s going on. I’m super gassed. And I’m just overwhelmed with the concept of being one of the best ever to do this. It hasn’t really settled in for me. COVID got everything effed up, you know what I’m saying? COVID got everything kind of, you know, sideways. But yeah, it wasn’t expected, to be honest. I got so much other shit going on in my life that I forgot about the Hall of Fame, if I’m being honest.

SLAM: It hurts with Kobe not being there for it.

KG: Yes, Kob’ fucks with me to this day, man. I still haven’t gotten over that. I feel some type of way when I look up and they just got him on TV every day. Like still here and…yeah. For all of us who had a relationship with Kob’, that’s gotta be hard. Because we’re all trying to get past it, we’re all trying to move on. And his energy and his legacy is still here. Somebody was asking me something the other day and before you answer you got to always take a breath, you know what I’m saying? Shout to Kob’, rest in peace to Mamba, man. Always. Till we meet again.

SLAM: What would it be like if you had a chance to do it all over? What would it be like if 19-year-old Kevin Garnett was joining the NBA in 2021?

KG: If I was joining the League in 2021? Well, my energy and my vision to be the best wouldn’t change, none of that. None of the intangibles would change for me. You gotta know, I competed differently, I competed angrily, I competed very aggressively. But that was the time. That’s not really the energy now, the energy now is more skilled, it’s more—it’s probably more skilled than ever. Like, do you see some of the shots that these kids are making? Jayson Tatum, every time I watch him, every shot that he takes looks difficult. He’ll shoot a turnaround going over his right shoulder, and I’ll be like, man, you really—for anybody who knows that move, you really got to get your right leg around and square up and—I’m just amazed at the skill level, man. 

If I was playing today, I definitely would have a three ball. I probably would have displayed a lot more one-on-one. I was really an unselfish player to a fault and my mentality was more of, If I can get everybody else involved and they get going, then I can have chances to take advantage of one-on-one opportunities because of double teams. I had a lot more one-on-one game than I actually displayed in the League, because during the time that I played, you had to, it was more systematic, it was more plays being called, you didn’t really break the play. You know, I actually like to blame Kob’ and T-Mac for that shit, they broke more plays than anything, you know what I’m sayin’? And the Mamba Mentality wasn’t always accepted either. 

I saw Joker [Nikola Jokic] do a step back off the so-called wrong foot and it was so unorthodox, but I had to sit back and as a student of the game I said, Hmm, there goes the Dirk part of his influence in our League and what Dirk brought to our League with that whole one-legged fadeaway off the glass with the 6-11, 7-foot guy shooting threes, being mobile. You know, as I go through and I watch the League and what we’ve actually given the League, I started looking at it like, Wow, I see Dirk’s influence, I see Timmy’s influence, I see Rondo’s influence, I see P’s [Pierce’s] influence, I see LeBron’s—I started to see my own influence. And then where they’ve taken our influence and doing one-legged step backs off the glass and facing up one dribble? The moves, man, the moves. The skills! Like, I heard Shaq say this, and just shout out to Shaq, man, and I love you Big Fella, but I don’t know if everybody from the older generation could have played in this generation. Just because it’s a faster pace, no one’s been at that Golden State pace as a League when you scorin’ 136-133. 

SLAM: Did you ever think 25 years ago that you would be in this position? Did you think your career would last as long as it did? That you would reach the heights that you did?

KG: I want you to go and ask Kevin McHale a lot of the stuff you been asking me, and I’ll tell you, he’ll tell you, Day one, he wanted to be the best player in the League, he wanted to outlive everybody in the draft, he wanted to outplay everybody, he wanted to be the best hands-down in the All-Star Game, he wanted Olympics, all that. I wanted to cross everything off the list that you got to actually cross to be a master. You know? And I went in there like that, and more importantly, I worked my ass off. Part of why I definitely can’t run as fast or I can’t run after my kids is because I did go so hard, but there’s no regrets. And you asked me earlier what I would change, and I wouldn’t change anything. Maybe some tweaks here and there but nah, nah, working with Kevin McHale was a gift. I could never thank him more. Or, I couldn’t thank him enough for the knowledge in the stuff that I was able to get, I couldn’t have gotten that anywhere else but him. I’m very fortunate. I took that and I ran with it, and I grew it, and I put my own little vision on it. And it was only right to give it back and be able to give it to players so they can use it. Anything that you go into as a young kid, you hope that you come out on the other end as someone that is accomplished. I felt like I reached a lot of those things.

SLAM: Does that intensity go away? If you stepped out on a court right now and somebody rolled a ball out—

KG: I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t. No, I wouldn’t. The demon never goes away. And if you do put the demon up, it’s banging on the door at times to come out so I have to be under control. I do a bunch of yoga, I do a bunch of meditating, manifesting, just to keep things at bay. But yeah, I’m pretty sure that if we started racing and I got to losing, or anything competitive and I start losing, then you start to hear the banging at the door, Uh oh, the demon’s trying to come out. So these days I keep shit real chill and calm. I haven’t played ball in a very long time, believe it or not. But I’m shooting stuff in the basket, I have a little son so we mess around and stuff. Basketball is something that I put in the closet for a reason. Whenever I have a long day or I’m having difficulty or something, I take a ball and I’ll just go dribble at the beach or just kinda get lost in it. That’s kinda always been my therapy. It probably always will be. 

KEVIN GARNETT: Anything Is Possible is a feature-length chronicle of Kevin Garnett’s remarkable career and the pivotal moments that defined it. Stream the documentary on SHOWTIME. 

Photos courtesy of KEVIN GARNETT: Anything is Possible and via Getty Images.

The post Kevin Garnett Opens Up About the Early Years and How He’d Have a ‘Three Ball’ If He Was Playing Today appeared first on SLAM.

Let’s get something out of the way right up front—Kevin Garnett’s No. 21 not being retired by the Timberwolves yet is some straight-up bullshit. Garnett retired in 2016 after 21 seasons, was elected to the Hall of Fame in his first year of eligibility, finished his career back in Minnesota out of respect for Flip Saunders when he could have just let the clock run out in Brooklyn. But that’s not who Kevin Garnett was. That’s not who Kevin Garnett is. Did he want something from it? Yes. He wanted a chance to finally get equity in the franchise that he elevated, to own part of what he built. That didn’t happen. It still hasn’t happened. Maybe it never happens. Maybe certain bridges that burned never get rebuilt. Because of all that, Garnett has flatly stated he doesn’t even want the Wolves to retire his number. But dog, you do it anyway. You give him his day at the arena he poured so much blood, sweat and tears into. He may not have delivered the Wolves a championship, but he gave them so much more than that.

Look too closely for Kevin Garnett’s legacy and you just might miss it. There’s more obvious ones out there. Watch a game on any given night and you have guys pulling up from midrange like Kobe or pulling their version of Iverson’s crossover. You have guys shooting one-legged stepbacks like Dirk or going glass like Timmy. More blatantly there’s a lot of people wearing Michael Jordan’s number or Kobe’s shoes. Garnett wore 21, 5 and 2, numbers that were already common enough. Jimmy Butler wore 21 for his draft position and an old college teammate. Joel Embiid wears 21 for a guy who is entering the Hall of Fame next to Garnett—longtime foe Tim Duncan. And sneakers. KG wore a lot of sneakers, bouncing from Nike to AND1 to adidas to Anta. He doesn’t have an ongoing line with any of those brands, doesn’t have a retro signature model at the moment. Maybe PJ Tucker will eventually break out a pair of KG’s old Nikes, assuming they can still hold up to NBA action. There’s nothing super specific you can point to and say, Oh yeah, that right there, that’s for KG.

But don’t look even closer trying to figure it out. Do the opposite. Pull back. Take a wider view. Not to get too Obi Wan Kenobi with it, Garnett’s legacy in the NBA is everywhere. So much of the NBA now is made in his image. It’s younger, less position-centric, filled with players in full control of their own destiny. A lot of that gets credited to LeBron James and The Decision in the summer of 2010, when he told a national audience he was taking his talents to South Beach. And yes, that was a moment that made a difference. But the groundwork for that was laid 15 years earlier, by a mature-beyond-his-years kid from South Carolina by way of Chicago. A pickup game against some Bulls superstars, a deep conversation with a Pistons legend, and he was ready to do something no one else had done in 20 years.

In the two decades after Darryl Dawkins and Bill Willoughby went pro straight out of high school in 1975, no one else even tried it. Which is surprising, seeing that both Dawkins and Willoughby did OK. Dawkins played 14 seasons primarily with the 76ers and the Nets, shattered a couple backboards, built up a whole mythology around himself. And while Willoughby might be remembered as a bust by some, he was still in the League for nearly a decade. Blocked one of Kareem’s skyhooks, too. A confluence of events drove Garnett to follow their path. He moved to Chicago for his senior season, hooping for Farragut Academy alongside Ronnie Fields and looking after his younger sister. He got pulled into a pickup game with Michael Jordan and Scottie Pippen and held his own. He had a long conversation with Chicago native Isiah Thomas about life in The Chi and his NBA readiness. And his test scores weren’t up to par. By the time they were, it was too late. He had already plotted his course. Garnett was selected fifth overall and pushed open a door that had long been shut. The following year, two high schoolers went in the first round. Six years after his selection, Kwame Brown was the first overall pick. From 1995 to 2006, when the NBA imposed an age limit, 39 high schoolers were drafted by NBA teams. Ten became All-Stars. When Garnett is finally inducted into the Hall of Fame this summer, the pandemic having scuttled last summer’s ceremony, he and fellow 2020 inductee Kobe Bryant will become the second and third straight-outta-high-school Hall of Famers. They won’t be the last.

Long before LeBron made his Decision, Garnett made his. The flood of high schoolers and college freshmen who followed after made it seem like a matter of course. But Garnett was the pioneer. When Garnett declared for the Draft in ’95, he was doing something that hadn’t been done since before he was born. He wasn’t going to play at junior college, wasn’t going to wait for his latest set of test scores to come back. He was ready and he was going to go. He took control of his own destiny and molded others to it.

Convinced he was ready, he convinced others. He convinced agent Eric Fleisher to take him on, used a single 90-minute solo workout to convince NBA GMs that they absolutely had to use the fifth overall pick on a high school kid. Timberwolves VP Kevin McHale and GM Flip Saunders went into that workout plotting to overstate their enthusiasm over Garnett in order to get a team picking ahead of them to bite, that way one of the four college can’t-miss guys would slip to them. They came out of it with the realization that Garnett was the guy. And Garnett’s faith in himself never wavered. He signed a three-year rookie deal, then two years into it turned down an extension that was worth more than Wolves owner Glen Taylor had paid for the team two years earlier. Garnett knew his worth. And when the Wolves came back with a higher offer and he signed that historic deal, he ignored all the doomsayers about what it would mean and just worked harder.

Garnett’s NBA legacy is complicated, because he did things that rule changes ensured no one could do again. That huge contract he signed prompted a lockout and restructuring that imposed limits on extensions—and structured rookie deals so they couldn’t sign them so quickly. In 2006, the NBA put in an age limit requiring a would-be draftee be 19 years old plus one year removed from high school. Only three active players—LeBron, Dwight Howard and Lou Williams—remain who entered the League straight out of high school. And then the way the game itself is played has changed. Garnett took 632 three-pointers over his 21 seasons. Embiid took less than four seasons to top that. Ask KG who in the League reminds him of himself these days, and he cites Embiid, along with Kevin Durant and Russell Westbrook. But then he gets to talking about someone else and woo, does it sound like he’s talking about himself. “Giannis is what, Giannis is 7-foot, yo,” Garnett says excitedly. “He keep talkin’ about this 6-10 shit, that motherf***er’s 7-1, he won’t get measured, he’s 7-1 and he plays like he’s 8-11. You know what I’m sayin’? It’s a different league, bro.”

Maybe so. But a league where a 7-1 guy (not saying names here) who insists on never being measured can guard every position on the floor, both start the break and finish it, and fill stat sheets while winning an MVP in the process sounds awfully familiar, whether you’re talking 2004 or 2020. Sure, Westbrook displays Garnett’s ferocious intensity and Durant combines spidery length with height-defying moves on either end, and Embiid is a self-taught, self-assured terror. But if anyone singlehandedly carries forth the blueprint Garnett laid down, it’s Giannis Antetokounmpo, 6-11 (lol) unicorn.

At this point it’s almost a throwback, a guy who’s clearly seven feet tall not being listed as a seven-footer, seeing that the NBA is a league where the openly 7-3 Kristaps Porzingis can spend a majority of his time floating around the perimeter and firing up threes like a funhouse mirror Stephen Curry. Garnett famously insisted on being listed at 6-11 since seven-footers inevitably found themselves lodged in the paint—and while he never really took to shooting threes, coming up as he did in the Jordan era, he was able to feast on face-ups and operate out of the high post while being the ultimate disrupter on defense. Get by him somehow and well, you still weren’t out of his long-armed range. Garnett’s true height was always the NBA’s worst-kept secret, and something he could have copped to long ago—no one was going to force him to be a back-to-the-basket center—but he kept insisting he was 6-11. Still does.

Garnett’s career was bracketed by team excellence in a way no one else’s was. He entered the NBA the season the Chicago Bulls went 72-10 and retired from it the season the Golden State Warriors went 73-9. Two historic teams that set records playing distinct styles. Garnett can be seen as a throughline between them, alchemizing Pippen and Jordan (and Rodman, too) into Durant and Draymond Green. Garnett was the ultimate complementary superstar, a defensive juggernaut and matchup nightmare who made everyone else’s job easier. “I was really an unselfish player to a fault,” he says, “and my mentality was more of, Man, if I can get everybody else involved and they get going, then I can take advantage of one-on-one opportunities.” 

The game changes, but the mentality stays the same. Remember to thank KG for that. 

KEVIN GARNETT: Anything Is Possible is a feature-length chronicle of Kevin Garnett’s remarkable career and the pivotal moments that defined it. Stream the documentary on SHOWTIME. 

Photos via Getty Images.

The post Looking Back at Kevin Garnett’s Legacy and His Monumental Impact on the Game appeared first on SLAM.

In the entire 70-plus year history of the NBA, just 135 players played 1,000 games or more in their careers. (Glen Rice is 135th, with exactly 1,000—Paul Millsap, who has played 996, will become the 136th early next season.) Ray Allen currently ranks 22nd, with exactly 1,300. Next year he’ll drop to 23rd, as LeBron James—currently at 1,265—continues to rampage his way up the all-time lists. Allen played in more career games than John Havlicek (1,270), Hakeem Olajuwon (1,238), and Shaquille O’Neal (1,207). Of his celebrated 1996 draftmates, only Kobe Bryant (1,346) played in more, and not by much. Allen’s career lasted 5.78 Todd Fullers or 2.56 Kerry Kittles. All of this is a roundabout way of saying that when I picked Ray Allen as the 1996 rookie who was “Most Likely to Fade into Obscurity,” I could not have been more wrong.

Twenty-four years later, I am hard pressed to remember why I selected Allen for such a dubious distinction. Maybe there was a little backwards praise in there—after all, to fade into obscurity you have to be non-obscure to start. And Allen certainly was that. He’d been a high school star in South Carolina, played in Nike’s summer camps, and spent three years at UConn battling the likes of Kittles and Allen Iverson in Big East tournaments. He entered the draft as a no-doubt lottery pick and Michael Jordan picked him to be one of the faces of the new Jordan Brand. Did I pick him because he landed on the Bucks? Maybe that was part of it.

Here is something I certainly did not consider when I put his name down—how Ray Allen, 20-year-old NBA rookie, would feel when he saw it. It seems obvious now, in these days of Twitter and the like, but back then everything seemed at a further remove. Yes, I distinctly remember getting a huge—and entirely unexpected—hug from Allen Iverson when I gave him copies of the “Who’s Afraid of Allen Iverson?” issue in the dingy visitor’s locker room at Madison Square Garden, but that was a COVER. Who read all the little stuff? Well, Ray Allen did.

“I remember being excited because this was probably one of the first magazines I was ever on the cover of.” It’s September and Ray Allen is speaking over Zoom from Connecticut. Ready or not, here it comes: “And then just seeing the accolades on the inside cover, you look for any recognition whatsoever. I know so much was said about Allen and even Shareef, because he was a prodigy at such a young age, and Camby being 6-11, and having so much upside for the NBA, so I was just curious what people thought about me. And then all of a sudden you see this list and my shoulders drop, because it really bothered me. Even though at the time I knew what ‘obscurity’ meant I had to look it up in the dictionary because I wanted to make sure that I had it right.”

Let’s rewind a bit to the draft itself. Allen had worked out for the Sixers and the Raptors and the Grizzlies and the Bucks, and felt sure he was going to be a top-four pick. So when the Timberwolves, picking fifth, called shortly before draft day and wanted him to come in, he brushed them off. Then, right before the draft, he got a call in his room from ML Carr and Red Auerbach, informing him that if he somehow fell to sixth, he’d become a Boston Celtic. For Allen, who’d spent three years in the Northeast, this was a dream scenario. And when Milwaukee selected Stephon Marbury, he thought that dream was about to come true.

“So bam, Minnesota is on the clock and the cameras come over to my table,” he says. “And I was so confused. I couldn’t believe what was happening, I was angry. Why would you pick me and you got JR Rider already on your roster?” So Allen shakes hands with David Stern, goes to the back, dutifully does his interviews with the media. “I’m having a conversation with people from Minnesota, their local news stations, and I’m over here filibustering on what it’s gonna be like with JR Rider.” And five minutes later he’s pulled aside. There’s been a trade.

“When I look back on that draft class,” he says, “I just remember one of the things that stood out to me the most was how much I had no clue what was taking place. I didn’t know about trades, I didn’t know about manipulating your position.”

Swapped from Minnesota to Milwaukee for Marbury, Allen then endures a number of indignities in rapid succession. First, he’s traded before he can even celebrate being an NBA player. Second, his family gives the Marburys the Wolves draft hats and don’t get the Bucks ones back. Third, he’s put on the phone with Milwaukee media, who helpfully tell him that the fans gathered at the Bradley Center are booing the trade. And fourth, in the first draft where salary slots are based on selection, he’s picked fifth but goes to the team picking fourth. “To this day I tell Stephon that he owes me 200 grand, because that was the difference in salary from the fourth to the fifth pick,” he says. I can’t help but laugh. “Yeah, laugh about it, but I never seen my money though.”

That’s just additional context to why that “fade into obscurity” thing may have hit so hard—context I certainly didn’t have. (To be fair, it probably wouldn’t have mattered either way.) And it helps explain his immediate reaction. “The first five or six years in the NBA I didn’t want to talk to SLAM Magazine at all because I felt like they had said something against me or stained my name or whatever that may be,” Allen says. “But then as I started to grow and mature I realized how good and how important it was—you had no idea who I was, you had no idea what my heart was or what my desires or intentions were in professional sports, and so it made me have to dig inside who I am and who I was. That was so important to me and it helped me kind of focus in and do what I needed to do to be successful.”

Allen played all 82 games as a rookie, starting in 81. He started every single game the Bucks played the following season, and the next three seasons after that. He was named second-team All-Rookie, and in his fourth season, made the first of three consecutive All-Star appearances. He’d eventually be a 10-time All-Star, win two rings and be inducted into the Hall of Fame. Allen’s career was defined by his meticulous preparation and his flawless jumper—the first which honed the second and enabled him to consistently perform at a high level from the first minute of the first game to the final seconds of the last every single year. He was a student of the game and a student of everything else, always bringing a book or books on every road trip. My most common question to him over the years, once he resumed talking to us, was: “What are you reading?”

After that 1996 cover, I participated in plenty more “Rookie Most Likely To…” lists, picked more “fade into obscurity” guys. Without looking them up, I couldn’t tell you who any of them were. The only reason I remember I picked Allen is because Allen himself reminded me. It’s come up in our conversations before, and he cites it as one of the reasons he worked as hard as he did. “Those types of mentalities of not accepting mediocrity and not fading into obscurity are so important for people who think that they are good,” Allen says. “Being the best sometimes allows you to be mediocre because you don’t work and get better, and I think reading that in the magazine, not understanding the lesson in the beginning—you didn’t [write] it because you knew me, you just did it because you were figuring out how to place or rank this class, and me after understanding this, I said, You know what, this was a godsend for me. I needed to hear this. I needed somebody to tell me I wasn’t what I thought or hoped to be and I need to work on this forever.”

Here’s what I think. I think this is who Allen was the whole time. If I didn’t say it, if I didn’t provide the impetus, someone or something else would have. It’s like Michael Jordan—sure, there was the “that’s when it became personal to me” moment, but if it wasn’t this, it would have been something else. “Fade into obscurity” may have sent the charge, but the wiring? That was already there.

GRAB YOUR COPY OF SLAM PRESENTS ’96 DRAFT FOR EVEN MORE GOODIES FROM THE ISSUE

“Some players in every sport, when they make it, when they get drafted, they think that they made it, but making it is not just getting there—now the real work begins,” he says. “You don’t ever think that you’re good. If you think that you’re good, then that’s as good as you’re ever going to be.”

This is all starting to feel very Terminator 2, “the future is not set” and all of that, floppy-haired Edward Furlong firing up a dirt bike as Guns N’ Roses blares. But there is a time travel aspect to all of this, predictions being made in the past by GMs as well as writers that wouldn’t be proven out for 20 years on, putting stardom expectations on a bunch of 20-somethings—and in some cases teenagers—who had yet to step foot on an NBA floor. It’s kind of a “you make your own luck” thing, too, and now that I have mixed up Terminator and Titanic, I should find a way to wrap this up before things get really out of hand.

But the hell with it, let’s let things get out of hand. Allen himself brings up the movie Midway—one I haven’t seen—as a way of illustrating the difference between living through something and the way the story is told afterward. When you’re going through it, it looks different. “We get that because of history, because of historians,” he says, “and I think that’s what the great thing about what you do, what the magazine does, because it records all the events that have taken place—the games that have been played, the players that have played in them, but now we have to have the stories that take place in between each one of these moments to bridge the gaps and tell the human side of these statistics.

“We shared a journey together and hopefully our stories help people live better, not only in the athletic world but in life in general.”

You hope to get closure but sometimes you don’t. This year started out like most any other, and then Kobe Bryant died in January, and a global pandemic hit, and it was all one giant reminder that no one really knows what the future holds. “With Kobe passing, it really shed light on just the idea of how you don’t have enough time,” Allen says. “I thought at some point, some day, we’d be sitting around talking about everything that we went through and what it was like. And as Kobe is no longer with us, God rest his soul, that’s one part of the human side that we no longer can appreciate or experience because a lot of his stories, if he didn’t have it written down somewhere or he didn’t share it with another player, then it’s part of our history, part of basketball culture that we lost forever.”

I thought the same thing. So I finally take the opportunity to apologize to Allen for the long-ago slight, the prediction that thankfully didn’t come true, that in fact became something of a self-fulfilling prophecy in reverse. Allen rejects the apology, because that’s who he is. It’s who he always was. And of course, had I known this, I never would have made the damn prediction to begin with.

—

SLAM PRESENTS ’96 DRAFT IS AVAILABLE NOW.

The post Ray Allen on SLAM Predicting He’d ‘Fade into Obscurity’ and Much More appeared first on SLAM.

To celebrate #TBT, SLAM will be posting an old, iconic cover story on the website every Thursday.

SLAM 32, featuring Allen Iverson, was published in March of 1999.

—

Shut up.

All of you who have been talking, writing, miming about Allen Iverson’s posse, his hair, his Benz, his jewelry, his clothes, his music. Stop for a minute—just a minute—and listen. (The previous sentence should have read “Stop for a minute—just a minute—and watch,” but since the NBA seems intent on killing itself, listening will have to do.) Listen to the one person who has any real stake in Allen Iverson’s life.

Listen: Anything that has anything negative to do with my name, negative people will bring it back up, and they’ll try to tear me down. But it’s going to be like that for the rest of my life, you know?

Allen Iverson says this from the back of a black stretch Lincoln, slowly rolling through New York City traffic, Primo-blessed All City flowing through the speakers. Draped in his signature Reebok fatigues and enough ice-dipped platinum to ensure Patrick Ewing’s family’s “survival” for countless generations, Allen Iverson sounds like a hypocrite. Just another young superstar with an attitude. Look at the 23-year-old with the jewels and the shady friends and the arms full of new tattoos, worrying about getting torn down. Isn’t he doing that himself?

Listen: I dress the way I want to dress, I look the way I want to look— people don’t understand. “He wanna wear the cornrows, and all that, it’s supposed to be some thug image.” It’s not that. It’s I’m tired of being on the road—I go out and I have a game and I wanna get my hair cut, the barber pushes my hairline all the way to the back of my head. I’m tired of that, so I get my hair braided and I can wear my hair like this for two weeks and play two, three games. I’ll never cut my hair again. My son, I’ll never cut his hair. He’s gonna wear cornrows—is he a thug? You know it’s not about that. I guess I am hip-hop, but I’d rather be like that right now. When I get to 30 or maybe—well, I’m 23, and maybe when I get to 24 I’ll want to change.

Explanations can be awfully simple when you let them come out. Allen Iverson isn’t trying to be a gangster—he just never had the chance to be a kid. He grew up poor, spent his 18th birthday in prison on trumped-up charges that were later dismissed. After that, two years under John Thompson’s lock-and-key at Georgetown, then, at the ripe old age of 21, introduced to Philadelphia as the Savior. Black Jesus, Part II. When your name’s been in the headlines since high school, your life is no longer your own.

Listen: You know, people just make mistakes; everybody makes mistakes. The people that write them negative articles, they make mistakes—if not every day, every other day. The same person that’s bashing you on TV, whether it’s a commentator or reporter, that same person has made mistakes in his life but was never in the spotlight, so people didn’t hear about it, you know what I’m saying?

Allen Iverson spends a lot of time defending his life. Too much time. People forget what it’s like to be 23—and will never understand what it’s like to grow up the child of a 15-year-old mother in a crowded house with raw sewage on the floor, and then be given a ticket out. Not only a ticket out, but the ticket—virtually unlimited riches, millions of adoring fans. Success came quickly. Iverson scored 30 points in his first game on 15-19 from the floor; last year’s stats (22 ppg, 6.7 apg and 3.7 apg) were All-Star numbers on any other team. But for every person who wants to see him succeed, there are two hoping he’ll fail. Charles Barkley, who in his illustrious career has spit on a little girl and thrown a grown man through a plate-glass window, called him “playground Rookie of the Year.” Yet through all of this, AI’s remained the same—true to himself, true to those who’ve stayed true to him. Doesn’t this mean something?

Listen: I’m confident, not cocky.

Over the course of four hours, Allen Iverson repeats this phrase many times in many forms, as something of a mantra. It is unclear who he is trying to convince, me or him. The truth is this—whatever it is he’s got, Allen Iverson has earned the right to it. After all, who else has gone from prison to NBA Rookie of the Year? Who else, once touted as the best football prospect in the land, has emerged instead as one of the best basketball players on the planet? Who else has a crossover that broke off Michael Jordan, not once but twice?

Listen: If I played the two-guard position, I know for a fact—and I put that on everything I love—I would lead the League in scoring every single year. But the picture’s bigger than that. I’m a point guard and I want to be the point guard. I want to learn the point guard position, and that’s more important to me than having the scoring title and all that. I want to be a point guard, and that’s that. You know, I want to score and get assists and and steals rebounds and blocks—I want to do every single thing there is to do on the basketball court.

Confidence—or cockiness? Know where this is coming from: ever since AI was a shorty, his dream was to play in the NFL or the NBA. Everyone told him it was a one-in-a-million, a one-in-a-billion chance. “I always told them, ‘Not me, man. I’m different,’” Iverson says. “I always used to feel like that. I’m not sayin’ it to be big-headed or anything, but I had that much confidence in myself.” He still does. He’s earned it.

Listen: I want to be a Sixer for the rest of my career. I don’t want to play for no other team. I don’t think that’s fair to kids and fans, man, to see a guy be here and then jumpin’ around to different teams. I just don’t.

The cover is no joke. Even though he did roll in seven-plus hours late to the photo shoot, AI’s got a lotta love for Philly—a lotta love for the game. The Sixers went 31-51 last season, and A.I. wants to stay? What kind of modern-day power move is that? We won’t go so far to call him a throwback—Nate Archibald 2000, The Funk Doctor—but he’s got roots. Followed Jordan as a kid. Magic. Bird. Because underneath all the perceptions, all the lies, damn lies and headlines, Allen Iverson is a basketball player. This interview probably won’t change your view of AI—as a matter of fact, it will probably just reinforce whatever way you’re leaning. But still, do yourself a favor. Do Allen one. Listen.

SLAM: What’s your definition of a true point guard?

Allen Iverson: Someone that just understands the game, knows how to get people involved with the game. Knows when to go and when not to go. The leader on the court, the vocal leader, the leader by example. The guy who plays every game like it’s his last.

SLAM: Do you want to meet the definition or redefine the position?

AI: No, I want…I trust my coach to teach me how to be a true point guard, whatever that definition is, the real definition. Not out of my eyes, but John Stockton’s eyes and Magic Johnson’s eyes. You know, guys like that. I think my coach will teach me how to be a true point guard, the best I can be at that position. I might never be a John Stockton or a Magic Johnson, [but] I want to know the point guard from John Stockton’s perspective. I think I have more physical talents then John Stockton, but I think he knows it mentally better then me, so I’m leaving it up to my coach to teach me how to be a true point guard from his perspective and with my ability.

SLAM: I know Coach Brown has a rap for being kind of tough on point guards. Is he?

AI: Yeah he is, he is. I mean it was tough in the beginning with my coach, because I didn’t understand him and he didn’t understand me, but eventually just playing together and learning from him and him learning how I feel about different things, we got tighter. That’s what makes me look forward to this season even more, because me just putting my pride aside and listening to how he wanted me to play and run the team—it worked out. I became a better player by listening to what Larry Brown had to offer.

SLAM: Has part of it been you changing after being in the League for two years?

AI: I haven’t changed. I think my game has changed, because I have learned…you know, my first year at Georgetown, I was just reckless, because I was trying to make a name for myself. I was trying to show myself and everybody else that I could be successful on the college level and that I was a good basketball player, and I went through the same thing as a pro. I was young and I didn’t know the game and I still don’t know it like I want to know it. But I haven’t changed, I’m just learning. I guess I have changed but I’m learning—it’s not because I want to change my image; I want to change my style of play.

SLAM: At Georgetown you were the Big East’s defensive player of the year both years. People don’t really talk about that since you’ve been in the pros. Have you been paying more attention to offense?

AI: Well, they might not notice—I was fifth in steals, but people just talk about my offense. I’m not a great defensive player; I know I have to get better—and Coach Brown lets me know that every chance he gets. I gamble too much, ’cause I’m always trying to get a steal. In this league, if you go for a steal and you don’t get it, nine times out of 10 you get hurt for it, they exploit that. I’m always trying to make something happen on both ends of the court, and you hurt the team gambling a lot on defense, because once you miss a steal, the defense is on their heels.

SLAM: Do you think you can become a great defensive player?

AI: I think so. I think all that is mental. That’s like offense. Once you start believing you can become a great offensive player and you feel that way, then your body and your mind are going to respond. So, that’s that same thing with defense. There’s a lot of people that just concentrate on trying to be a great offensive player when you’re supposed to be concentrating on being a great defensive player, too.

SLAM: It seems the offense wasn’t that big a switch, though. You scored 30 your first game in the League.

AI: Offense just—I mean, whether it is good or bad, offense is just the most exciting part of any game—football, baseball, basketball. Defense, you know, you have to be really talented to be a great defensive player, because there are so many great offensive players. And to be a great defensive player, that’s special because you stopping a great offensive player. That’s like a linebacker—if you a great linebacker, that’s serious, man, to able to get to Barry Sanders every time you want to. That’s crazy, that’s talent.

SLAM: Can anybody stop you one-on-one?

AI: No, I don’t think so. And I really believe this in my heart. I respect Derek Harper, because I think he is the greatest defensive player I ever played against and I ever watched, but I don’t think he can stop me. I don’t think nobody in the League can stop me—and I know that there’s a lot of guys in the League that feel the same way I feel, so I don’t think that’s no big-headed or conceited comment. I don’t really think nobody can stop me. Maybe in college, when they ran box and ones on me, but in the NBA, where it’s just man to man? No one can stop me. A team may be able to do something with me, but no one man can stop me from doing whatever I want to do on the basketball court.

SLAM: Do you think you deserve $100 million?

AI: Do I deserve it? Yeah, I think I deserve it. I don’t know if that’s what I’ll ask for, but I think I deserve it. I think I deserve more, you know, that’s just who I am. I feel everybody deserves whatever they want, really. Whatever the franchise feels they need or want to give you, they should give it to you, you know? And that’s real. They got enough money to give people whatever, you know what I’m saying?

I think the crazy thing about this lockout [is] when you look at guys like Kevin Garnett’s salary, pshhhh, Kevin Garnett—I think—should have gotten more than what he got. And they’re able to pay him that, you know. All that money the [owners] got and they’re getting off of us, it shouldn’t be no problem—nobody’s salary. They pay Kevin Garnett what they know they can pay him. They give him this money, and everybody’s beefing, when number one he deserved it and number two they felt like he deserved it. And they felt like they had to give it to him, so what’s wrong with that? I don’t see anything wrong with that.

SLAM: Who did you start out watching when you first followed basketball?

AI: Zeke. Michael [Jordan], of course, but Zeke was always my man. I loved Isiah.

SLAM: Did you like the Pistons?

AI: Nah, I was always a Bulls fan, ever since Michael got there. I remember one time the Knicks beat ’em, and I damn near cried—I had tears in my eyes.

I was a Bulls fanatic. Because I love Mike, I love Pippen, I love Horace Grant and B.J. Armstrong and Paxson, Luc Longley, Cartwright and I just loved the Bulls, and now that I play them I hate them. Because I remember Scottie Pippen when the Knicks used to beat him all up—and then now, for them to talk shit to me on the court while I’m playing? I still love Pip today and Mike and Dennis Rodman, ’cause they great basketball players. Then to hear the way they talk shit on the court, I’m like, “Dog, I remember when you didn’t say shit on the court, you know you was so humble and you wouldn’t say nothing on the court and now even you talk shit?”

SLAM: When did you start playing basketball?

AI: I think I was like nine or 10 years old. I always thought basketball was soft. Now I come to find out I was outta my mind, playing against Shaq and Barkley and Kevin Willis. Charles Oakley. Serious. I never wanted to play it, when my mom bought me some Jordans—I came home from school, she was like, “You going to basketball practice today,” and I was like, “I ain’t playing no basketball, it’s soft. I don’t want to play no basketball, I don’t like basketball.” I’m crying all the way out the door, she pushing me out the door. I got out there and seen kids that was on my football team and, um, I just enjoyed it. I came home and I thanked my moms, and I’ve been playing basketball ever since.

SLAM: What was your home court growing up?

AI: Newport News [VA]—Anderson Park, that’s where like it first started. And then Hampton [VA]—Aberdine Elementary School, ’cause that’s where I watched my uncles and my uncles’ friends, the people I thought that were sooo nice, so cold on the court. I watched them, and I had to play right after school—in the 8th grade or 7th grade—when it was blazing hot, like 105 or something like that. Then they came at five, six o’clock when the sun is going down, and they ran. I could never play with them, ’cause they would never let me. I guess they thought I wasn’t good enough, I was too young. And then, ninth or tenth grade, they want to pick me first—“Yo, I got AI.” It was just a great feeling, man, because that’s where I always wanted to play. [Before] they hollering at me to get off the court and they screaming at me because I was trying to play while they were playing. And then to go back and be able to play against them and kill them.

SLAM: Is there any one who you really learned the game from?

AI: Coach [John] Thompson. He the one that really taught me how to play basketball. I still don’t know it like I want to know it, but he gave me a clear picture of how to play it.

SLAM: Are you up on your NBA history? I know your rookie year was the NBA at 50, so you were at All-Star Weekend with all those guys…

AI: That was crazy, playing the rookie game and looking in the stands and seeing Bill Russell, Wilt Chamberlain—I was like, oh my god. Doc—Doc! It just felt crazy. I was like, I’m gonna show in front of these cats tonight. It ain’t gotta be scoring, it could be everything else, but I just want to perform for those guys. I was so hype, it was showtime and it was fun. It’s something I’ll cherish for the rest of my life. Red Auerbach—my coach—during the [rookie] game at halftime, he was like, “I don’t know what you out here doing, Allen. People came here to see you score; you ain’t have to prove no point. I understand you out here passing—and I respect that—but put the ball in the hole, too. Everybody want to see the whole game.” ’Cause I wasn’t trying to take over the whole spotlight and shine and score 30 points and all that, I was just dishing crazy, and he was like, “This half I want to see you score.” I was like, “A’ight,” and that’s what I did. In the second half, I started scoring.

SLAM: So he was actually coaching out there?

AI: Coaching. Really coaching. He was talking to me during the game, and at one point I just blacked out, I couldn’t believe he was coaching me—it felt so good man. I wanted to, right there, scream up in the stands—“Mom, did you see him talking to me? Did you see him coaching me?” I mean, he was one of the greatest coaches ever, and just for him to say something out of his mouth to me was enough. Even if it was not coaching me, even if he was just speaking to me, it would have made me feel good, but he was coaching me. I felt like crying, because I felt like I really did something in my life for me to be on the sidelines with him coaching.

SLAM: Talk to me about Doc a little bit.

AI: Doc was Mike in his time. Everybody was like—there will never be another Dr. J, da da da. That’s how crazy this thing is. Nobody ever thought there would ever be anyone better then Doc or like Doc. Or Magic, and then come Mike. It’s crazy, Doc started all that. Mike did some shit that Doc never did and vice versa, but Mike took it to a completely different level.

SLAM: What was it like playing against him for the first time? How different was it from just seeing him play?

AI: It was just wild. I can’t even remember the feeling. Just me being on his court, playing against world champions and the greatest basketball player in the world. I wasn’t out there crazy in awe or anything like that—’cause that’s just not me. I’m in the same profession you are and I respect you and what you did for your family and team, but once we get on the dance floor, I’m in a whole ’nother mode. I might feel different if I meet you before the game in the hallway, but once we get on the dance floor, I’m a do my thing and I’m not going to be in awe of nobody. But it was a crazy feeling just playing against him.

Really the only guy that flipped me out when I was on the same court with him was Sprewell. ’Cause if I could be any other basketball player, I would be Sprewell. What he did was foul, everybody know that, and I would never do no shit like that. I mean, I guess he just flipped out and snapped and he’s going to learn a lot from it and he’s a good dude, ’cause I know him as a person. But as far as talent, if I could be any other player, I wouldn’t be Michael Jordan, man. I wouldn’t take Michael Jordan’s game, I would take Latrell Sprewell’s game. I love the way he play. I love the way he play and he hard, hard on the court. You know, he might talk shit to you, he might not. He might give you 30 or 40 with a regular look on his face, like, “Whatever. This is what I do. That’s the way I play. I don’t gotta talk shit, ’cause I do this. I do this nightly. I don’t have to talk no shit to you to prove nothin’ to you.” But Spree, man. Spree’s something else.

SLAM: What is it? What is it about his game?

AI: Energy. He can play the whole damn game. He got pride with his game, you know, And he just hard. When I look at him I see myself, ’cause he don’t care who you are, he just go at you. He go right at your chest, crazy, hard. He can shoot, he can run, he can dribble, he can jump. He’s smart, he know the game.

If not Sprewell, if I had a choice, it would be Shaq. I don’t think nobody could beat my team 10 to 15 times if Shaq was on my team. Never. I mean, that guy has talent that’s just unbelievable. He’s unbelievable. If I played with him, I don’t think nobody could beat me. I don’t know if you beat me in a series, but you won’t sweep me. That’s why I look at [the Lakers] and I’m like—Utah was a great team, Karl Malone, John Stockton did great, but you got Shaq on your team. How can you live with yourself knowing you got swept and you got Shaq on your team? Shhhh…

SLAM: If Mike steps and the Bulls are no more, who’s the next squad?

AI: Who do I think? Really, in my heart? Philly. I’m not gonna say nobody else, ’cause I don’t believe that. I just believe it’s my time. I believe it’s our time. Philly was always one of the great teams. I think it’s time for that to come back.

SLAM: How bad do you want that?

AI: More than anything in the world. [Pause.] Anything. I think that’s the only thing that gonna separate me from a great player. Great players win, man. I’m not a great player. I’m nowhere near a great player now, ‘cause I don’t know the game mentally like I should. But I’m learning, believe me—I know so much more then I knew when I was a rookie, and great players win. You can be a great player, [but] if you lose, you lose. You can have the greatest stats ever, but if you lose, you lose. Ain’t nothing better than winning. When I win, then I get the respect I deserve. Until then, I’m just another basketball player. The average player, you know.

SLAM: What do you want your NBA legacy to be?

AI: Titles. I gotta have titles. Hopefully I can play, like, Robert Parish years, Kareem Abdul-Jabbar years. Hopefully. I don’t wanna go until I get some titles. And not just one. I want titles. Plural.

SLAM: Add some gold to that platinum?

AI: No doubt. Add some gold. I need it, man. I’m hungry—I’m starvin’—I’m starvin’ for success. That’s what I want now. I love lookin’ at my mom and sayin’, “You made somethin’. You made somethin’ outta me.” I love that. So I’m starvin’ for success. I mean, I wanna be good. I want to be somebody.

SLAM: How important is the individual stuff—MVP, scoring title, that sort of thing? You wanna be remembered as the best player in the game? The best point guard?

AI: I wanna be remembered as the best player in the NBA. I want to be the best, the very best. And with the company I’m keeping right now? With the guys I’m playing with? Boy. That’s a huge statement. With the talent that we got right now in this league, with the Shaqs and Grant Hills and Latrell Sprewells and Gary Paytons and Tim Hardaways and Penny Hardaways. [Pause.] That’s a big statement, but I’m willing to try and back it up. I want to be the greatest basketball player. With Michael Jordan, that’s some big words, but that’s the challenge of my life. Maybe people won’t consider me to be the best, maybe some will. Who knows? I mean, the sky’s the limit.

—

Russ Bengtson is a freelance writer and the former Editor-in-Chief at SLAM. He tweets @RussBengtson.

Photos via Getty.

The post SOUL ON ICE: The Allen Iverson Cover Story From SLAM 32 appeared first on SLAM.

This story was originally published in SLAM 32 (March 1999).

—

Shut up.

All of you who have been talking, writing, miming about Allen Iverson’s posse, his hair, his Benz, his jewelry, his clothes, his music. Stop for a minute—just a minute—and listen. (The previous sentence should have read “Stop for a minute—just a minute—and watch,” but since the NBA seems intent on killing itself, listening will have to do.) Listen to the one person who has any real stake in Allen Iverson’s life.

Listen: Anything that has anything negative to do with my name, negative people will bring it back up, and they’ll try to tear me down. But it’s going to be like that for the rest of my life, you know?

Allen Iverson says this from the back of a black stretch Lincoln, slowly rolling through New York City traffic, Primo-blessed All City flowing through the speakers. Draped in his signature Reebok fatigues and enough ice-dipped platinum to ensure Patrick Ewing’s family’s “survival” for countless generations, Allen Iverson sounds like a hypocrite. Just another young superstar with an attitude. Look at the 23-year-old with the jewels and the shady friends and the arms full of new tattoos, worrying about getting torn down. Isn’t he doing that himself?

Listen: I dress the way I want to dress, I look the way I want to look— people don’t understand. “He wanna wear the cornrows, and all that, it’s supposed to be some thug image.” It’s not that. It’s I’m tired of being on the road—I go out and I have a game and I wanna get my hair cut, the barber pushes my hairline all the way to the back of my head. I’m tired of that, so I get my hair braided and I can wear my hair like this for two weeks and play two, three games. I’ll never cut my hair again. My son, I’ll never cut his hair. He’s gonna wear cornrows—is he a thug? You know it’s not about that. I guess I am hip-hop, but I’d rather be like that right now. When I get to 30 or maybe—well, I’m 23, and maybe when I get to 24 I’ll want to change.

Explanations can be awfully simple when you let them come out. Allen Iverson isn’t trying to be a gangster—he just never had the chance to be a kid. He grew up poor, spent his 18th birthday in prison on trumped-up charges that were later dismissed. After that, two years under John Thompson’s lock-and-key at Georgetown, then, at the ripe old age of 21, introduced to Philadelphia as the Savior. Black Jesus, Part II. When your name’s been in the headlines since high school, your life is no longer your own.

Listen: You know, people just make mistakes; everybody makes mistakes. The people that write them negative articles, they make mistakes—if not every day, every other day. The same person that’s bashing you on TV, whether it’s a commentator or reporter, that same person has made mistakes in his life but was never in the spotlight, so people didn’t hear about it, you know what I’m saying?

Allen Iverson spends a lot of time defending his life. Too much time. People forget what it’s like to be 23—and will never understand what it’s like to grow up the child of a 15-year-old mother in a crowded house with raw sewage on the floor, and then be given a ticket out. Not only a ticket out, but the ticket—virtually unlimited riches, millions of adoring fans. Success came quickly. Iverson scored 30 points in his first game on 15-19 from the floor; last year’s stats (22 ppg, 6.7 apg and 3.7 apg) were All-Star numbers on any other team. But for every person who wants to see him succeed, there are two hoping he’ll fail. Charles Barkley, who in his illustrious career has spit on a little girl and thrown a grown man through a plate-glass window, called him “playground Rookie of the Year.” Yet through all of this, AI’s remained the same—true to himself, true to those who’ve stayed true to him. Doesn’t this mean something?

Listen: I’m confident, not cocky.

Over the course of four hours, Allen Iverson repeats this phrase many times in many forms, as something of a mantra. It is unclear who he is trying to convince, me or him. The truth is this—whatever it is he’s got, Allen Iverson has earned the right to it. After all, who else has gone from prison to NBA Rookie of the Year? Who else, once touted as the best football prospect in the land, has emerged instead as one of the best basketball players on the planet? Who else has a crossover that broke off Michael Jordan, not once but twice?

Listen: If I played the two-guard position, I know for a fact—and I put that on everything I love—I would lead the League in scoring every single year. But the picture’s bigger than that. I’m a point guard and I want to be the point guard. I want to learn the point guard position, and that’s more important to me than having the scoring title and all that. I want to be a point guard, and that’s that. You know, I want to score and get assists and and steals rebounds and blocks—I want to do every single thing there is to do on the basketball court.

Confidence—or cockiness? Know where this is coming from: ever since AI was a shorty, his dream was to play in the NFL or the NBA. Everyone told him it was a one-in-a-million, a one-in-a-billion chance. “I always told them, ‘Not me, man. I’m different,’” Iverson says. “I always used to feel like that. I’m not sayin’ it to be big-headed or anything, but I had that much confidence in myself.” He still does. He’s earned it.

Listen: I want to be a Sixer for the rest of my career. I don’t want to play for no other team. I don’t think that’s fair to kids and fans, man, to see a guy be here and then jumpin’ around to different teams. I just don’t.

The cover is no joke. Even though he did roll in seven-plus hours late to the photo shoot, AI’s got a lotta love for Philly—a lotta love for the game. The Sixers went 31-51 last season, and A.I. wants to stay? What kind of modern-day power move is that? We won’t go so far to call him a throwback—Nate Archibald 2000, The Funk Doctor—but he’s got roots. Followed Jordan as a kid. Magic. Bird. Because underneath all the perceptions, all the lies, damn lies and headlines, Allen Iverson is a basketball player. This interview probably won’t change your view of AI—as a matter of fact, it will probably just reinforce whatever way you’re leaning. But still, do yourself a favor. Do Allen one. Listen.

—

SLAM: What’s your definition of a true point guard?

Allen Iverson: Someone that just understands the game, knows how to get people involved with the game. Knows when to go and when not to go. The leader on the court, the vocal leader, the leader by example. The guy who plays every game like it’s his last.

SLAM: Do you want to meet the definition or redefine the position?

AI: No, I want…I trust my coach to teach me how to be a true point guard, whatever that definition is, the real definition. Not out of my eyes, but John Stockton’s eyes and Magic Johnson’s eyes. You know, guys like that. I think my coach will teach me how to be a true point guard, the best I can be at that position. I might never be a John Stockton or a Magic Johnson, [but] I want to know the point guard from John Stockton’s perspective. I think I have more physical talents then John Stockton, but I think he knows it mentally better then me, so I’m leaving it up to my coach to teach me how to be a true point guard from his perspective and with my ability.

SLAM: I know Coach Brown has a rap for being kind of tough on point guards. Is he?

AI: Yeah he is, he is. I mean it was tough in the beginning with my coach, because I didn’t understand him and he didn’t understand me, but eventually just playing together and learning from him and him learning how I feel about different things, we got tighter. That’s what makes me look forward to this season even more, because me just putting my pride aside and listening to how he wanted me to play and run the team—it worked out. I became a better player by listening to what Larry Brown had to offer.

SLAM: Has part of it been you changing after being in the League for two years?

AI: I haven’t changed. I think my game has changed, because I have learned…you know, my first year at Georgetown, I was just reckless, because I was trying to make a name for myself. I was trying to show myself and everybody else that I could be successful on the college level and that I was a good basketball player, and I went through the same thing as a pro. I was young and I didn’t know the game and I still don’t know it like I want to know it. But I haven’t changed, I’m just learning. I guess I have changed but I’m learning—it’s not because I want to change my image; I want to change my style of play.

SLAM: At Georgetown you were the Big East’s defensive player of the year both years. People don’t really talk about that since you’ve been in the pros. Have you been paying more attention to offense?

AI: Well, they might not notice—I was fifth in steals, but people just talk about my offense. I’m not a great defensive player; I know I have to get better—and Coach Brown lets me know that every chance he gets. I gamble too much, ’cause I’m always trying to get a steal. In this league, if you go for a steal and you don’t get it, nine times out of 10 you get hurt for it, they exploit that. I’m always trying to make something happen on both ends of the court, and you hurt the team gambling a lot on defense, because once you miss a steal, the defense is on their heels.

SLAM: Do you think you can become a great defensive player?

AI: I think so. I think all that is mental. That’s like offense. Once you start believing you can become a great offensive player and you feel that way, then your body and your mind are going to respond. So, that’s that same thing with defense. There’s a lot of people that just concentrate on trying to be a great offensive player when you’re supposed to be concentrating on being a great defensive player, too.

SLAM: It seems the offense wasn’t that big a switch, though. You scored 30 your first game in the League.

AI: Offense just—I mean, whether it is good or bad, offense is just the most exciting part of any game—football, baseball, basketball. Defense, you know, you have to be really talented to be a great defensive player, because there are so many great offensive players. And to be a great defensive player, that’s special because you stopping a great offensive player. That’s like a linebacker—if you a great linebacker, that’s serious, man, to able to get to Barry Sanders every time you want to. That’s crazy, that’s talent.

SLAM: Can anybody stop you one-on-one?

AI: No, I don’t think so. And I really believe this in my heart. I respect Derek Harper, because I think he is the greatest defensive player I ever played against and I ever watched, but I don’t think he can stop me. I don’t think nobody in the League can stop me—and I know that there’s a lot of guys in the League that feel the same way I feel, so I don’t think that’s no big-headed or conceited comment. I don’t really think nobody can stop me. Maybe in college, when they ran box and ones on me, but in the NBA, where it’s just man to man? No one can stop me. A team may be able to do something with me, but no one man can stop me from doing whatever I want to do on the basketball court.

SLAM: Do you think you deserve $100 million?

AI: Do I deserve it? Yeah, I think I deserve it. I don’t know if that’s what I’ll ask for, but I think I deserve it. I think I deserve more, you know, that’s just who I am. I feel everybody deserves whatever they want, really. Whatever the franchise feels they need or want to give you, they should give it to you, you know? And that’s real. They got enough money to give people whatever, you know what I’m saying?

I think the crazy thing about this lockout [is] when you look at guys like Kevin Garnett’s salary, pshhhh, Kevin Garnett—I think—should have gotten more than what he got. And they’re able to pay him that, you know. All that money the [owners] got and they’re getting off of us, it shouldn’t be no problem—nobody’s salary. They pay Kevin Garnett what they know they can pay him. They give him this money, and everybody’s beefing, when number one he deserved it and number two they felt like he deserved it. And they felt like they had to give it to him, so what’s wrong with that? I don’t see anything wrong with that.

SLAM: Who did you start out watching when you first followed basketball?

AI: Zeke. Michael [Jordan], of course, but Zeke was always my man. I loved Isiah.

SLAM: Did you like the Pistons?

AI: Nah, I was always a Bulls fan, ever since Michael got there. I remember one time the Knicks beat ’em, and I damn near cried—I had tears in my eyes.

I was a Bulls fanatic. Because I love Mike, I love Pippen, I love Horace Grant and B.J. Armstrong and Paxson, Luc Longley, Cartwright and I just loved the Bulls, and now that I play them I hate them. Because I remember Scottie Pippen when the Knicks used to beat him all up—and then now, for them to talk shit to me on the court while I’m playing? I still love Pip today and Mike and Dennis Rodman, ’cause they great basketball players. Then to hear the way they talk shit on the court, I’m like, “Dog, I remember when you didn’t say shit on the court, you know you was so humble and you wouldn’t say nothing on the court and now even you talk shit?”

SLAM: When did you start playing basketball?

AI: I think I was like nine or 10 years old. I always thought basketball was soft. Now I come to find out I was outta my mind, playing against Shaq and Barkley and Kevin Willis. Charles Oakley. Serious. I never wanted to play it, when my mom bought me some Jordans—I came home from school, she was like, “You going to basketball practice today,” and I was like, “I ain’t playing no basketball, it’s soft. I don’t want to play no basketball, I don’t like basketball.” I’m crying all the way out the door, she pushing me out the door. I got out there and seen kids that was on my football team and, um, I just enjoyed it. I came home and I thanked my moms, and I’ve been playing basketball ever since.

SLAM: What was your home court growing up?

AI: Newport News [VA]—Anderson Park, that’s where like it first started. And then Hampton [VA]—Aberdine Elementary School, ’cause that’s where I watched my uncles and my uncles’ friends, the people I thought that were sooo nice, so cold on the court. I watched them, and I had to play right after school—in the 8th grade or 7th grade—when it was blazing hot, like 105 or something like that. Then they came at five, six o’clock when the sun is going down, and they ran. I could never play with them, ’cause they would never let me. I guess they thought I wasn’t good enough, I was too young. And then, ninth or tenth grade, they want to pick me first—“Yo, I got AI.” It was just a great feeling, man, because that’s where I always wanted to play. [Before] they hollering at me to get off the court and they screaming at me because I was trying to play while they were playing. And then to go back and be able to play against them and kill them.

SLAM: Is there any one who you really learned the game from?

AI: Coach [John] Thompson. He the one that really taught me how to play basketball. I still don’t know it like I want to know it, but he gave me a clear picture of how to play it.

SLAM: Are you up on your NBA history? I know your rookie year was the NBA at 50, so you were at All-Star Weekend with all those guys…

AI: That was crazy, playing the rookie game and looking in the stands and seeing Bill Russell, Wilt Chamberlain—I was like, oh my god. Doc—Doc! It just felt crazy. I was like, I’m gonna show in front of these cats tonight. It ain’t gotta be scoring, it could be everything else, but I just want to perform for those guys. I was so hype, it was showtime and it was fun. It’s something I’ll cherish for the rest of my life. Red Auerbach—my coach—during the [rookie] game at halftime, he was like, “I don’t know what you out here doing, Allen. People came here to see you score; you ain’t have to prove no point. I understand you out here passing—and I respect that—but put the ball in the hole, too. Everybody want to see the whole game.” ’Cause I wasn’t trying to take over the whole spotlight and shine and score 30 points and all that, I was just dishing crazy, and he was like, “This half I want to see you score.” I was like, “A’ight,” and that’s what I did. In the second half, I started scoring.

SLAM: So he was actually coaching out there?

AI: Coaching. Really coaching. He was talking to me during the game, and at one point I just blacked out, I couldn’t believe he was coaching me—it felt so good man. I wanted to, right there, scream up in the stands—“Mom, did you see him talking to me? Did you see him coaching me?” I mean, he was one of the greatest coaches ever, and just for him to say something out of his mouth to me was enough. Even if it was not coaching me, even if he was just speaking to me, it would have made me feel good, but he was coaching me. I felt like crying, because I felt like I really did something in my life for me to be on the sidelines with him coaching.

SLAM: Talk to me about Doc a little bit.

AI: Doc was Mike in his time. Everybody was like—there will never be another Dr. J, da da da. That’s how crazy this thing is. Nobody ever thought there would ever be anyone better then Doc or like Doc. Or Magic, and then come Mike. It’s crazy, Doc started all that. Mike did some shit that Doc never did and vice versa, but Mike took it to a completely different level.

SLAM: What was it like playing against him for the first time? How different was it from just seeing him play?

AI: It was just wild. I can’t even remember the feeling. Just me being on his court, playing against world champions and the greatest basketball player in the world. I wasn’t out there crazy in awe or anything like that—’cause that’s just not me. I’m in the same profession you are and I respect you and what you did for your family and team, but once we get on the dance floor, I’m in a whole ’nother mode. I might feel different if I meet you before the game in the hallway, but once we get on the dance floor, I’m a do my thing and I’m not going to be in awe of nobody. But it was a crazy feeling just playing against him.

Really the only guy that flipped me out when I was on the same court with him was Sprewell. ’Cause if I could be any other basketball player, I would be Sprewell. What he did was foul, everybody know that, and I would never do no shit like that. I mean, I guess he just flipped out and snapped and he’s going to learn a lot from it and he’s a good dude, ’cause I know him as a person. But as far as talent, if I could be any other player, I wouldn’t be Michael Jordan, man. I wouldn’t take Michael Jordan’s game, I would take Latrell Sprewell’s game. I love the way he play. I love the way he play and he hard, hard on the court. You know, he might talk shit to you, he might not. He might give you 30 or 40 with a regular look on his face, like, “Whatever. This is what I do. That’s the way I play. I don’t gotta talk shit, ’cause I do this. I do this nightly. I don’t have to talk no shit to you to prove nothin’ to you.” But Spree, man. Spree’s something else.

SLAM: What is it? What is it about his game?

AI: Energy. He can play the whole damn game. He got pride with his game, you know, And he just hard. When I look at him I see myself, ’cause he don’t care who you are, he just go at you. He go right at your chest, crazy, hard. He can shoot, he can run, he can dribble, he can jump. He’s smart, he know the game.

If not Sprewell, if I had a choice, it would be Shaq. I don’t think nobody could beat my team 10 to 15 times if Shaq was on my team. Never. I mean, that guy has talent that’s just unbelievable. He’s unbelievable. If I played with him, I don’t think nobody could beat me. I don’t know if you beat me in a series, but you won’t sweep me. That’s why I look at [the Lakers] and I’m like—Utah was a great team, Karl Malone, John Stockton did great, but you got Shaq on your team. How can you live with yourself knowing you got swept and you got Shaq on your team? Shhhh…

SLAM: If Mike steps and the Bulls are no more, who’s the next squad?

AI: Who do I think? Really, in my heart? Philly. I’m not gonna say nobody else, ’cause I don’t believe that. I just believe it’s my time. I believe it’s our time. Philly was always one of the great teams. I think it’s time for that to come back.

SLAM: How bad do you want that?

AI: More than anything in the world. [Pause.] Anything. I think that’s the only thing that gonna separate me from a great player. Great players win, man. I’m not a great player. I’m nowhere near a great player now, ‘cause I don’t know the game mentally like I should. But I’m learning, believe me—I know so much more then I knew when I was a rookie, and great players win. You can be a great player, [but] if you lose, you lose. You can have the greatest stats ever, but if you lose, you lose. Ain’t nothing better than winning. When I win, then I get the respect I deserve. Until then, I’m just another basketball player. The average player, you know.

SLAM: What do you want your NBA legacy to be?

AI: Titles. I gotta have titles. Hopefully I can play, like, Robert Parish years, Kareem Abdul-Jabbar years. Hopefully. I don’t wanna go until I get some titles. And not just one. I want titles. Plural.

SLAM: Add some gold to that platinum?

AI: No doubt. Add some gold. I need it, man. I’m hungry—I’m starvin’—I’m starvin’ for success. That’s what I want now. I love lookin’ at my mom and sayin’, “You made somethin’. You made somethin’ outta me.” I love that. So I’m starvin’ for success. I mean, I wanna be good. I want to be somebody.

SLAM: How important is the individual stuff—MVP, scoring title, that sort of thing? You wanna be remembered as the best player in the game? The best point guard?

AI: I wanna be remembered as the best player in the NBA. I want to be the best, the very best. And with the company I’m keeping right now? With the guys I’m playing with? Boy. That’s a huge statement. With the talent that we got right now in this league, with the Shaqs and Grant Hills and Latrell Sprewells and Gary Paytons and Tim Hardaways and Penny Hardaways. [Pause.] That’s a big statement, but I’m willing to try and back it up. I want to be the greatest basketball player. With Michael Jordan, that’s some big words, but that’s the challenge of my life. Maybe people won’t consider me to be the best, maybe some will. Who knows? I mean, the sky’s the limit.

—

COP YOUR ALLEN IVERSON SLAM COVER TEE HERE.

Russ Bengtson is a freelance writer and the former Editor-in-Chief at SLAM. He tweets @RussBengtson.

Photos via Getty.

The post Can’t Knock the Hustle: The Allen Iverson Cover Story from SLAM 32 appeared first on SLAM.

Nike too was at an interesting crossroads in 1984. They’d recently been passed by Reebok for the No. 1 spot in America, thanks to the Boston-based company’s garment leather aerobic shoes that Nike didn’t have an immediate answer for. Basketball, meanwhile, was something of an untapped market. Nike had made a splash with 1982’s Air Force 1, but the majority of superstars—including Dr. J, Magic and Bird—wore Converse. This was just the way it had been, ever since a salesman named Chuck Taylor got his name on the canvas All-Star back in the ’20s. There were notable exceptions—Puma’s Clyde, adidas’ Jabbars—but signature shoes were just that: exceptions.

For Nike, Jordan represented a huge opportunity if they could sign him. Jordan himself wanted to wear adidas, the brand he wore in high school. But Nike had a plan where other brands didn’t, to not only give Jordan a (for the time) big contract, but to also take his input and create a shoe just for him. And then, beyond that, to give the new shoe a marketing push unlike any that had ever come before. Jordan himself would debut the shoe early in the NBA season, and it wouldn’t go on sale until April of the following year.

If it’s hard to separate the Air Jordan I from sneaker culture, it’s because most of what we know as “sneaker culture” sprung up around the Air Jordan I itself. Much of what we take for granted today simply didn’t exist until the Air Jordan was created. The TV commercials, the limited production numbers, the cult of personality itself—Jordan spawned all of this.

First of all, think of the world as it was in 1984. So much was new, from personal computers to cable TV to hip-hop. For a kid in 1984, there was so much to discover: Atari 2600s and Commodore 64s, ESPN and MTV, Run-DMC and LL Cool J. All of it sudden, it seemed there was so much MORE of everything. As for the NBA, there was the ongoing rivalry of Magic and Bird, Dr. J was flying high for the Sixers, and the year prior the league had introduced yet another ABA innovation—the Slam Dunk Contest.

For Nike, the time couldn’t have been better to introduce something new. And, given their timeframe, what happened next was perfect—the NBA banned their new shoe. Well, not exactly. What they banned was a custom version of the Air Ship, an inline shoe and Air Force 1 successor that had been made up in the Air Jordan’s black-and-red color scheme. It didn’t fit the uniform code, the NBA said, and it was out. Nike responded by doing two things: They created a version of the shoe that added white panels to the black and red upper, meeting uniform regulations. And they turned the ban into that famous TV commercial.

When the ban came down, the NBA season hadn’t started yet, and the shoe wasn’t set to go on sale for another six months. It was the kind of publicity that you literally can’t buy. Jordan talked up the shoe on TV with David Letterman, then wore the “banned” black-and-red model in the 1985 Slam Dunk Contest, along with a matching nylon tracksuit. He stripped off the tracksuit after the first round, and lost the competition to Dominique Wilkins, yet still caught the ire of other All-Stars. “Michael is a rookie and he still has a lot to learn,” said the Spurs George Gervin, “just like we all did.” Well, not so much.

When the Air Jordan finally released in April of 1985, the hype had built to a fever pitch. Jordan, voted in as an All-Star starter, was well on his way to Rookie of the Year honors. And with jerseys still being something of a specialty-store item, his shoes were the best way for fans to show allegiance. According to the language of Jordan’s initial five-year, $500,000 per year deal with Nike, the last two years would become guaranteed if he sold $4 million worth of shoes in the deal’s third year. Instead, Air Jordan did $100 million worth of business in the first 10 months. Air Jordans were everywhere.

The outrageous success of Air Jordan would change everything when it came to basketball shoes. The year before Jordan was drafted, the biggest sneaker deal was No. 1 pick Ralph Sampson’s deal with Puma. Jordan’s former college teammate James Worthy, the No. 1 pick in 1982, had signed with New Balance for $150,000 a year. Now, with Air Jordan under his belt, agent David Falk could get a huge deal—with adidas—for Knicks center Patrick Ewing, the first overall pick of 1985. They’d go on to sign Run-DMC too, after the group released a song called “My Adidas” in 1986.

But while other brands played catch-up, Nike was off and running. The original Air Jordan I stayed on shelves for over a year before being replaced by the Air Jordan II, a sleek, Italian-made shoe that did away with the Swoosh entirely and left Jordan’s ball-and-wings logo as the only overt branding outside of a block-letter NIKE on the heels. And the Jordan I’s DNA carried forward in the Dunk, a collegiate model done up in all sorts of team colors. The Georgetown Hoyas, Patrick Ewing’s alma mater, even got their own shoe—the Terminator, made up in navy and grey with HOYAS across the heels.

There were missteps of course, both figurative and literal. Following the immense initial success of Air Jordan, Nike produced millions more pairs, many of which wound up selling for far below the suggested $65 retail price. And Jordan himself would break his foot in just the third game of his second season, knocking him out for nearly five months, including the All-Star break. (He’d return in time to play 15 more regular-season games before turning in a legendary playoff performance—63 points at Boston Garden!—against Larry Bird and the Celtics. In Jordan Is, of course.)

Following that Celtics sweep, Jordan himself wouldn’t lace up a pair of Jordan Is for an NBA game for another 12 years. He never planned on wearing them again. But before what he expected to be his final regular-season game at Madison Square Garden in 1998, he’d found an original pair in the back of a closet and thought it would be cool to wear them one last time even though they were a size too small. He scored 42 points, putting one last mark on a world he—and his shoes—had made.

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GRAB YOUR COPY OF SLAM PRESENTS JORDANS VOL. 4!

Russ Bengtson is a freelance writer. He tweets @RussBengtson.

Photos via Nike and Getty Images. 

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Walker is part of this story because the story doesn’t exist without him. Well, maybe it does, but he’s an integral part of it nevertheless. Back in the early 2000s, during one of his three All-Star media appearances, Walker was asked why he shot so many threes. “Because there are no fours,” he famously responded. At the time, Walker was attempting somewhere around seven or eight threes a night, and Hall of Famer Steph Curry hadn’t even started high school yet. His words would become prophecy.

Four-pointers are normal enough now, all an entire generation knows. They started as a BIG3 (remember the BIG3?) gimmick shot in 2017—kind of like how the three-pointer originated in the ABA before debuting in the NBA—and then became a league-recognized shot over a decade later in 2028. Curry, then in his final season at age 40, already the all-time three-point leader, found his familiar launching spot now worth an additional point. He not only surpassed Jamal Crawford’s four-point record (Crawford having retired five years earlier at 43), he passed LeBron James to become the NBA’s all-time leading scorer and won the inaugural Four-Point Shootout at All-Star Weekend, narrowly edging Trae Young and LeBron James Jr.

Twenty years later, the four is commonplace. It’s important to remember that, while the introduction of the three-point line in 1979 changed the game so dramatically that it took nearly 40 years for a full-on revolution to happen, the four-point line was embraced quickly. In the first year of the NBA three-point line, Clippers guard Brian Taylor led the league in threes, hitting 90 in 78 games. That paltry number would stand as the single-season record for three seasons, until Darrell Griffith broke it with 91 in 1984. It would be nine years before anyone hit 100 in a season. That was Danny Ainge, who hit 148 in 1988. By 2018, a full 12 players hit 200 threes in a season, led by MVP James Harden’s 265. Two seasons earlier, Curry had set an NBA record with 402, taking more than 11 attempts a game.

By that time the floor had spread so much, the players become so long and athletic, that the next logical step was to spread the floor itself. But the matter of history and records (and expensive courtside seating) made such a change difficult. There had to be a better reason. So in the process of adding the four-point line, the NBA expanded the court for the first time ever—from 94×50 to 104×55—allowing for not only a full 23’9” three-point arc, but 25-foot corner fours. Keeping the 24-second and eight-second clocks meant things sped up anyway.

The four-point line was instituted in college that year as well—at the 23’9” distance of the NBA three-point line—but seeing that the college game was already primarily a three-or-dunk proposition, it didn’t affect the gameplay as much as it did the scoring. Records, like Troy State’s 258-point game and Pistol Pete Maravich’s 44.2 ppg average, seemed primed to fall.

But a funny thing happened on the way to four-point Nirvana. Spreading the floor that much further and teams regularly launching from 25 feet out led to something else—a big man renaissance. With more room to operate and plenty of rebounds to corral, other records fell instead. Amir Cousins pulled down 50 rebounds in a 2030 game for the Kentucky Wildcats, shattering the post-’73 record of 37. And seven-footer Shaquille Lewis averaged 45 ppg in his lone season at LSU before being drafted first overall by the Golden State Warriors in 2031.

In the NBA, there was more room for bigs to operate too, but the four-point shot mostly opened things up for the shooters. After all, they’d been waiting for this opportunity for a long time. Stephen Curry and his Golden State Warriors 25-footered their way to six titles through the teens and early ’20s, and the Philadelphia 76ers even went so far as to put a four-point line down on their practice court’s floor in 2018, a full decade before the line became a reality for the rest of the NBA.

When it did, all of a sudden those coaches who complained that their young charges were just launching deep threes trying to be like Steph decided that this wasn’t such a bad thing after all. The Rockets and the Warriors led the way while some teams—like the mid-range centric Knicks, led by their 25th coach of the millennium—more or less pretended the four-point line wasn’t there at all. It also put a premium on shooters. Word was that the Spurs actually called up 52-year-old Hall of Famer Ray Allen before the start of the ’28-29 season to see whether he’d give it one more shot. Allen, well on his way to qualifying for the senior PGA tour, passed.

Zaire Wade, then 26, quickly adapted to the deeper shot, finishing second in fours to Curry and averaging a career-high 34.6 ppg, besting Hall of Fame father Dwyane’s best single season average of 30.2. The elder Wade was proud, yes, but also prideful: “When we played we didn’t have fours,” Dwyane said. “If we did, you bet your ass I would have averaged 35.” Wade the younger, knowing his pops averaged under 30 percent from 23’9” for his career, wisely kept his mouth shut.

That first year had its moments. A four-point lead could now be erased by a single shot, and early on coaches failed to realize this—or fouled when they didn’t need to. Then there was the matter of Donte DiVincenzo, the No. 17 pick out of Villanova in 2018 who had bounced around the league before landing in Minnesota. With the help of assistant coach Jamal Crawford, he became the league’s first five-point specialist, able to draw contact and still hit from (very) deep. Double-digit deficits could be made up in two trips down the floor. What was once just a saying became absolute truth: No lead was safe.

Bigs got theirs a little later, as teams got used to looking for deeper looks. Offenses spread, and vets like Shareef O’Neal and Bol Bol got busy. Teams with shooters looked to team them with agile bigs like Bol and O’Neal who could chase down long rebounds and either reset the offense or finish strong. O’Neal, a free agent pickup for Lakers GM Kobe Bryant on a mid-level deal of six years, $300 million, nearly doubled his scoring and rebounding averages to 35 points and 18 boards per between 2028 and 2030. He turned out to be a bargain.

Bol Bol manned the middle for the Golden State Warriors—a team that had previously employed his 7-7 dad as the league’s most unorthodox three-point specialist. They’d previously established a dynasty thanks to the three, one that just would have been that much more dominant had Curry’s deep threes counted as fours. They replicated their success in the ’20s with a balanced attack, fours from LaMelo Ball—who they’d signed away from the rival Lakers after hiring father LaVar as a special assistant to GM Bob Myers—and Bol’s flawless inside game.

But just as teams adapted to the Warriors run-and-gun (and gun) style of the ’10s, teams adapted to their four-and-the-floor style of the ’20s. Celtics coach Antoine Walker encouraged his team to launch everything—damn the shot clock—while the Miami Heat, led by LeBron James Jr and Zaire Wade, used a more planned-out style of attack backed with an in-your-shorts defense. The Chicago Bulls, meanwhile, were still rebuilding. And the Knicks—nobody knew what the Knicks were doing.

Which more or less brings us to the current day. No one has eclipsed Curry’s record of 402 threes in a season, and it’s likely no one ever will. Not now. Perhaps, though, someone will one day top it with combined threes and fours, as players edge ever closer to the mark. The Houston Rockets backcourt of Zion Wade and Chris Paul II came close, as did Timberwolves guard DJ Rose. At 36, Rose will get another shot at it. And of course there will be new challengers to the throne, like rookies-to-be Trey Iverson and Smoothie Antetokounmpo.

Has the four-point shot been good for basketball? Is that even a valid question to ask? As long as there has been basketball, there have been those who’ve bemoaned each and every innovation, from the jump shot to the slam dunk to the three-pointer. And no amount of 3D GIF highlights beamed through those haters’ iHomes will change that. Which, quite honestly, is their problem. The game changes, but the game lives on.

There are fans today who don’t remember a game without a four-point line, and that’s fine. There are others—not many, but some—who still remember the game before threes. Michael Jordan, 85 years old now, still thinks he was better than anyone who ever played, four-point line or no. Seven-time champion and six-time MVP LeBron James feels the same way at 63.

Then there’s someone like Walker, who lord knows would have jacked up fours by the dozen had they existed when he played. But that was a long time ago, and today Walker’s range isn’t what it used to be. His shot is more of a heave, and his first attempt clangs off the front of the rim. He beckons to a ballboy, who feeds him another. He rotates the ball, centering commissioner Joel Embiid’s signature under his fingers, and lets fly again.

*Swish*

Walker looks over and ruefully shakes his head. He doesn’t say anything. Which is fine. The meaning is clear just the same.

—

This is a fictional story written from a fictional future. Please keep that in mind.

—

Russ Bengtson is a freelance writer. He tweets @RussBengtson.

Illustration by Mark Ward.

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The roots for the takeover were laid in 2013, when adidas did two things. First, in February, they introduced the Energy Boost, a state-of-the-art running shoe featuring an all-new foam—Boost—that looked and felt like nothing else. Then, later in the year, they put a plan in motion to sign a deal with former Nike endorser Kanye West.

A notorious perfectionist, West has never been the easiest person to work with. His time with Nike only produced two silhouettes, both produced in extremely limited numbers, both of which caused utter frenzies upon their release and re-sold for many times their retail price. But West wanted more. He wanted proper royalties on his designs, and he wanted his creations to reach a much wider market. With adidas, he would get both.

West’s first release, the Yeezy 750, seemed like a continuation of his Nike line—a bulky hightop with a midfoot strap. His second, the Yeezy 350, was something new. A minimalist Primeknit upper with a Boost sole, the 350 was a cozyboy runner with a Kanye co-sign. Outwardly it wasn’t all that different from many other running-inspired silhouettes. Nothing, save the rippled sole unit taken from the 750, screamed “Yeezy.” But the demand was the same.

Still, even with increased production, West alone wasn’t the difference maker. It was Primeknit, along with Boost, that really gave adidas the advantage. And as basketball shoes continued to fade as the go-to casual style, adidas’ Boost runners—or runner-ish—models filled the void.

The first Energy Boost shoe was a huge hit with runners, as the sole unit made an energy return promise that it kept. But the stretchy Techfit upper wasn’t exactly fashion forward. The Pure Boost, which featured an all-Boost midsole, came closer, although its minimalist upper was made from similar materials. What really broke through was the Ultra Boost, the Boost-iest shoe yet, with a Primeknit upper that was—and is—comfortable enough to run in yet perfect for non-runners, too.

And once adidas found the right formula, they expanded on it, from cageless Ultra Boost to Primeknit Pure Boost to the Boost-free Alphabounce. Rather than use their knit uppers to refresh retros, as Nike did with their own Flyknit, adidas chose to focus on entirely new silhouettes. And in a sneaker world seemingly growing less connected to classic designs and more focused on simple wearability, Boost spread.

When adidas did reach into their past, they brought elements of it forward in a new way. In December 2015, the NMD, an all-new, go-everywhere shoe inspired by three classic running silhouettes, complete with a Boost sole and a Primeknit upper, arrived. It was an immediate hit—and still is—even before high-profile collaborations with Pharrell Williams.

For regular readers of this publication—we’ve been doing it for a while now—sneakers have been mainstream for years. For others, not so much. Whether coming from the high fashion world or elsewhere, adidas has what new sneakerheads need, whether it’s the Kanye co-sign, the simplicity of a Stan Smith or high-fashion collabs from the likes of Raf Simons, Yohji Yamamoto or Rick Owens.

There was some good luck disguised as bad at work here as well. It’s not that adidas abandoned the signature hoops market, but while Nike inked guys like LeBron James and Kevin Durant, adidas signed Dwight Howard and Derrick Rose. Only later did they add James Harden, who, like former teammate Russell Westbrook, maintains a keen interest in the fashion world. And they may not have been able to sign Harden without ’Ye, whose presence spoke to adidas’ willingness to try new things.

West’s influence in general has been widely debated, with certain unnamed industry analysts scoffing at his ability to direct consumer dollars. And it’s true that, despite production numbers being way up from his Nike days, his Yeezy line is still only a blip on the radar, a high-dollar luxury item consumed primarily by would-be influencers and those seeking to make immediate profits on the secondary market. Strictly viewed by sales of his own products, West’s influence is indeed negligible. But “influence” can’t be measured by such a strict measure. How many would-be Yeezy consumers, thwarted by the Confirmed app or their local sneaker shop, settled instead for Ultra Boosts or NMDs?

It goes even deeper than that. A sneaker market that used to be overwhelmingly based on the Jordan model—whether it be by sales of Jordan’s own shoes or just on basketball signature models in general—isn’t anymore. The way to sneaker dominance isn’t as simple as finding the next All-Star and creating a sneaker line and a series of clever ads. The NBA learned the hard way that there will be no “next Jordan.” Sneaker companies are learning that, too. The running shoe revival came at just the right time for adidas to take advantage. And the Stan Smith, long a “sale” staple, became a must-have for damn near everyone.

In the meantime, we also know this: What has changed will undoubtedly change again. Perhaps one day basketball shoes will once again capture the hearts and feet of the sneaker obsessed. Or maybe the retro cycle will slow, then pick up again as a new generation falls for classics they’ve never seen. In the meantime, though, adidas is making its presence known. Just look down.

—

Photos via adidas

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He was awful.

The Cavs dropped to 0-4 as James posted just 7 points (on 3-11 shooting), getting to the line only once in 41 minutes and missing both of his three-point attempts. He did add 9 assists and 11 boards but was outplayed by fellow rookie Carmelo Anthony, who doubled the King’s point total with 14.

It was an inauspicious debut for both James and his new home whites, as the Cavaliers brought back their classic wine and gold color scheme (with navy trim) for the first time since the early ’80s. But redemption would come quickly, as the Cavs posted double-digit wins in the next two home games, with James scoring 17 in each.

And as LeBron settled into his new surroundings, he put up his best games of the year at home: 33 points, 16 rebounds and 6 assists against the Grizzlies at the end of November; 32 points, 10 rebounds and 9 assists against the Blazers in late December; and a season-high 41 points, 6 rebounds and 13 assists against the Sixers in late March. The Cavs went 23-18 at home, offset by a 12-29 record on the road. Rookie of the Year, yes. Playoffs, not quite.

But the playoffs were always a long shot for a team that had gone 17-65 the season before, one that featured not only a highly touted 18-year-old star but a new head coach in Paul Silas. Winning more than twice as many games as the year before qualified as a tremendous accomplishment. As for James, he entered the League with the highest of expectations—a No. 1 overall pick who attended the draft in a snow-white suit, the presumed savior of his home state team—and exceeded them at every turn.

No, James didn’t post a 50-point game as a rookie, and, hard to believe as it may be in this post-Westbrook world, he didn’t get a single triple-double. What he did show was poise and versatility and maturity and sheer athleticism rarely if ever seen in anyone who made the leap from high school to the NBA. While Kobe Bryant, Kevin Garnett, Jermaine O’Neal and Tracy McGrady would all become All-Stars, they also all went through growing pains, some more than others. James hardly did.

And while he didn’t enter the NBA as a finished product—he missed the All-Star cut for the first and only time in his career—most of the building blocks of his game were already in place. Compared to Michael Jordan simply because of his dominance in high school, he emerged as more of a Magic Johnson-type floor leader in Karl Malone’s body—who could also hang 30 on you with no problems.

The jersey James wore as a rookie would eventually be completely redesigned in 2010—as James himself left town to join the Miami Heat to don both a new uniform and a new number. Four years later, two rings richer, the King returned to Cleveland once more, and this time around he gifted hometown fans with a ring of their own. The reign continues.

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Photos via Getty Images

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Location: Talking Stick Resort Arena, Phoenix, AZ

The best thing about being a rookie, for just about any athlete, is after a year you’re not a rookie anymore. Willie Cauley-Stein did his time last year with the Kings, playing behind and alongside DeMarcus Cousins, starting 39 of 66 games and averaging 7 points, 5.3 boards and a block in a touch over 21 minutes a night. Not a bad start for the big man.

This year, though, Cauley-Stein is a rookie no more. No more goofy backpacks or singing to vets or whatever the hell other kinds of low-key hazing they put guys through these days. No longer is he one of the picked-on, the new rich, the kid fresh out of college who probably only has *snicker* one Rolls-Royce.

Nope, there’s a new class of rookies now, one that includes 6-10 Suns power forward Marquese Chriss, selected eighth overall out of Washington by the Kings, of all teams, before being traded to the Suns. He’s the one who gets to carry the bags, he’s the one who has to wear whatever it is his older teammates decide, he’s the one who winds up on posters—in this case, courtesy of Willie Cauley-Stein. It’s the circle of life. You’ll get your chance too, Marquese. Next year.

Photo via Getty Images

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Location: Oracle Arena, Oakland, CA

Missed dunks have generally been the subject of ridicule. Think of Michael Jordan ganking a wide-open one in the 2002 All-Star Game, or a wildly coiffed Birdman missing one after another in one of the more forgettable Dunk Contests in human history. Very few, outside of ones where the backboard exploded, are viewed with anything resembling awe. This towering LeBron James attempt was one of those few.

It’s an almost-dunk that will forever go down in Cleveland lore, the final exclamation point on an up and down series that ended with the Cavaliers being crowned on enemy ground, completing a comeback from 3-1 on an Oracle Arena floor that the Warriors had only lost on four times all year—including Game 5. Maybe call it The What-If.

The dunk didn’t matter, not really. As it turned out, the Warriors were done scoring, and Kyrie Irving’s three-pointer would be the last field goal of the game. But LeBron wanted this, maybe more than any dunk he’d ever wanted before—Draymond Green being the victim would have been perfect. He came down hard, clutching his wrist, and after a few endless moments, went to the line and hit one of two. The game was iced either way. But oh, what if.

Photo via Getty Images

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It was a Saturday in August. An empty high school gym in Minnesota. Empty save for the sounds of a power saw. A security guard, hearing the racket, rushes in. “What’s going on here?!?” The man cutting the lane from the court looked up, clearing sawdust from his goggles as the saw wound down. “Hey, it’s cool,” he said, “Zach paid for it.” He nodded toward the other end of the court, where a tall figure waited, ball in hand.

“Well, if you say so,” the guard said, backing out the door. “I’m still going to have to put this down in my report.” The man with the saw just waved him off, as the saw spooled back up, sawdust spraying. He shut it down again, pulling the last piece of wood out, leaving a 12 x 18-foot hole. “Is that cool, Zach?” The figure nodded, dribbling once.

The man got up, dusted off his hands, and went to the sideline, where a large translucent container waited. He wheeled it over on to the court, water sloshing. Before he undid the straps holding the cover on, he looked back once more. “There’s like six alligators in here, though.”

“Go ahead,” Zach LaVine said, “push the whole thing in. This is how I win.”

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Imagine for a moment that you are Stuff, the Orlando Magic mascot, a fantastical dragon with pink wings and “party blowers” that emerge from your nostrils. Hatched from an egg in 1989, you are the longest-tenured member of the Orlando Magic outside of senior VP Pat Williams. Those googly eyes have seen much. And for many young Orlando Magic fans, you are the wildest thing they’ve ever seen.

But wait. You are asked to assist someone over All-Star Weekend, a player who was born in 1995—six years younger than you—as he competes in the Dunk Contest. Which is fine, you’ve seen dunk contests before. Lots of dunk contests. Hell, you watched Shaq for four seasons. Dunking, right, whatever.

So you go. You help out. And on Aaron Gordon’s second dunk, he takes the ball from you, sits down with his butt a full seven feet above the ground and passes it underneath his legs before slamming it home.

You can only stare. For once, you know exactly how those young fans feel.

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Salah Mejri is 7-2. He is 29 years old. Until this season, he’d played in Africa and Europe—the past season and a half with Real Madrid, where he started exactly two games and averaged 10 minutes per. He was the first Arabic and Tunisian person to play in the Euroleague, and when he signed with the Dallas Mavericks this summer, he became the first Tunisian to play in the NBA.

As such, his career has been full of firsts. In this game alone he became the first Tunisian to play against the Thunder, the first Tunisian to dunk on Serge Ibaka in the NBA, and the first Tunisian to be dunked on by Dion Waiters. He also became the first Tunisian to score in the NBA, and holds the Tunisian NBA record for points in a game AND a career, with 17 (he was scoreless in his first six appearances). Since this writing, he’s no doubt added to his total.

He tied a career high with 1 block against the Thunder and almost got a second, one that would have kept him off this spread. Matched up with the 6-4, 24-year-old Waiters on the perimeter, he spun to the basket as Waiters drove the lane and came within a hand’s breadth of blocking Waiters’ dunk. That, for Dion at least, wouldn’t have been a first.

https://vine.co/v/iMEDrPtpW7g

Image via Getty

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The play was fairly ordinary for the Minnesota Timberwolves—a steal by Ricky Rubio sparking a break and a blind dropoff to a lane-filler. After all, the Wolves have plenty of those, from reigning Slam Dunk Champion Zach LaVine to reigning ROY Andrew Wiggins to leading ROY candidate Karl-Anthony Towns. Only this time it was none of them. This time it was 39-year-old Kevin Garnett, finishing with a right-handed hammer on Blake Griffin.

Garnett obviously isn’t anywhere near the player he used to be, and he lost long-time friend Flip Saunders to cancer right before the season began, but if there’s anything that’s remained constant about KG over his 21-year NBA career, it’s the effort. The intensity. He’s never let anyone outwork or outhustle him, and damned if he’s going to start now.

So he outruns rookies, gives players who weren’t born when he was drafted reason to celebrate, and sets an example that will live on long after he’s retired. He dunks on dunk champions, finishes finishers and heads back downcourt, ready for the next one.

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Justise Winslow was the 10th overall pick in the 2015 NBA Draft, which is fine and all—a dream for some—but not exactly what he was expecting. Heading into the Draft, top five seemed like a distinct possibility for the Duke freshman. Instead he fell to the Miami Heat at 10, who were probably as surprised to find Winslow still available as they were to be picking there in the first place.

There are advantages to dropping, of course. First and foremost, there is the possibility that an elite rookie lands on an already-good team, as Winslow did with the Playoff-ready Heat. And then there’s the little manner of motivation. Falling a few picks isn’t the end of the world financially, and could even help situationally, but it still rankles. Ask Paul Pierce, the 10th pick of the 1998 Draft, how it made him feel. Hell, ask the 18-year veteran how it makes him feel now.

Winslow’s game is still developing, as any 19-year-old’s would be, but he’s already an elite defender and, at 6-7, 225, a problem on the break. And if anyone should get in his way, well, Justise is served.

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There are currently just 10 NBA Slam Dunk champions playing in the NBA, spread out over a nearly 20-year span of contests, from 2015 winner Zach LaVine to 1997 winner Kobe Bryant. So when two meet in a game, it’s pretty unusual—almost as rare as MVPs facing off (there are only eight of those). One would think, perhaps, there is a degree of camaraderie among them—perhaps even deference on one’s part when the other attacks the basket.

Or, not. Maybe there was supposed to be and Blake forgot. It was a long offseason after all, with the Clippers’ unfortunate Playoff ousting, the emoji-fueled DeAndre Jordan fiasco, the occupation of DJ’s Houston home. Not to mention his undoubtedly stressful day job as Senior Editor of The Players’ Tribune. Seeing the basket and holding the ball, BG was faced with a familiar problem that had an all-too-simple solution: dunk. Anyone in the way, well, that was their problem.

And honestly Terrence, we say just let it go. Don’t try to get him back or anything. Because, well, you saw what he did to the shot clock in pregame warmups, right?

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Blake Griffin is more than just a dunker. Seriously. You’ve heard this before (in this very mag) but I’m not convinced you actually believe it. What more does he have to do? He averaged 5.3 assists per game last season—more than anyone on the Clippers not named Chris Paul—and shot 40 percent from three. Blake Griffin as a stretch 4? Why not?

Well, there IS the whole dunking thing. The reason he’s still primarily recognized as a dunker is because he’s so damn good at it, and he is perfectly willing to dunk on anyone at any time.

Had DeAndre Jordan actually gone through with it and departed for Dallas, Griffin would have no doubt baptized him at his earliest convenience, and even Martians are not immune to his otherworldly hops. Ditto Team USA teammates like Kenneth Faried, who found himself on the wrong side of an intrasquad scrimmage.

For while Blake Griffin is not JUST a dunker, he still IS a dunker. A minor distinction, perhaps, but one that becomes larger depending on where you’re standing. Just ask Faried.

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History will view the 2015 NBA Finals as the Finals that nearly did away with centers, as Andrew Bogut went from playing 28 minutes in Game 1 to consecutive DNP-CDs in Games 5 and 6. Evolutionary basketball. But history will not be telling the entire truth. Cavs counterpart Timofey Mozgov averaged 32 minutes over the course of the series–a number that would have been higher were it not for his nine-minute appearance in Game 5 when David Blatt tried to match Steve Kerr’s smallball. The Cavs lost the game and two nights later, the series.

It wasn’t Moz’ fault. If anything, there’s a chance they don’t make the Finals at all without him. He was a pick-and-roll savant on offense and a massive roadblock on defense. Facing Draymond Green, Mozgov made stop after stop after stop.

But the law of averages said someone would get through. It happened to be Harrison Barnes, who delivered one of his only 11 two-pointers over both a late-arriving Mozgov and a shouldn’t-have-even-bothered-arriving Mike Miller. Too bad Blatt didn’t give Moz the whole night off after all.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rUU08EuWJG0

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Before the season started, Andre Iguodala had started every single game he played in the NBA. All 800-plus over 10 seasons, including the Playoffs. This season, he didn’t start any. An All-Star in Philly (for one year, anyway), he’s become just another cog in the Warrior machine, albeit one who can guard multiple positions and finish breaks in the traditional manner. Which, for GS, is something.

Because, let’s face it, a team that can end a two-on-one (or three-on-one) break with an uncontested three and have it actually be the right decision doesn’t have much need for dunks. Why settle for 2 points when you can get 3? And when the Splash Brothers are splashing, even Riley Curry knows that open jumpers are cash money.

Still, sometimes the opportunity presents itself. Like in Game 2 of the Western Finals, Dwight Howard left to fend for himself as the ball goes from Leandro Barbosa to Andrew Bogut to a trailing Iguodala whom Dwight can only watch as he soars past, throwing down hard enough to send the ball back toward midcourt, leaving a tangled net–and a flummoxed Howard–in its wake. Splash that.

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“I should have never agreed to jump over the car,” Blake Griffin thought to himself for the 800,000th time. Sure, everything worked out—he won the Dunk Contest, got the KIA deal (nice car, the Optima), made himself a household name. But his household name was as a dunker, and dammit, Blake wanted to be known as more.

It’s simple. While dunking is fun and gets you SportsCenter clips and Vines, it’s just not a sustainable way to play. Well, unless you’re Vince Carter. What’s more, Blake was never just a dunker. It’s just that his dunks were so…so extra that it’s all anyone wanted to see. “Sure Blake, nice spin move. Solid jumper. NOW DUNK ON THE 7-FOOTER.” (And, to be honest, Blake wanted to dunk. It was the ongoing struggle.)

This first-round series against the Spurs was his chance. What better time to display one’s grasp of the fundamentals than against the L’s most fundamental team? BG would show himself to be the evolutionary Tim Duncan, a guy with the skills and the athleticism. Then Aron Baynes came on, a 7-footer with the agility of Blake’s Optima and, well, maybe next year.

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Spoiler alert: St. John’s would wind up losing this game by 38 points, their worst loss since 2002. They would then lose to Providence in the first round of the Big East Tournament, and to San Diego State in the first (fine, second) round of the NCAA Tournament, both by double digits. This after winning eight of their previous 10, including four straight. But that all came later.

Rysheed Jordan was in his hometown of Philadelphia, his St. John’s squad was up 8 early, and as he split the double team up top the lane was briefly, tantalizingly open. It didn’t stay that way, but by then it was too late. As Villanova junior guard Dylan Ennis (brother of the Bucks’ Tyler Ennis) popped out to draw the charge, Jordan had already taken two dribbles down the lane and elevated like his name-and number-sake. It was, as they say, Jordanesque.

Was it a charge? Maybe. Ennis seemed to be out of the circle, and his feet appeared to be set. But seeing that it was St. John’s final great moment of the year, it’s nice that they got the benefit of the doubt.

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Here’s the Knicks’ dirty little secret: Everyone wants to go off at the Garden, hardly anyone wants to do it as a Knick. First there was MJ, then Kobe, now it’s LeBron. (We will, for the moment, forget the legions of other players who’ve scored career highs in New York.)

LeBron is hyperaware of basketball history, and even before he was a pro he knew of the allure of the Mecca. Not that he wanted to play there—he’s had two chances to sign with the Knicks, in 2010 and 2014, and each time chose greener pastures. But as a member of the Cavs (the first time), he had two of his best games as a pro at the Garden: 50 points, 10 assists and 8 boards in November of 2008 and 52 points, 11 assists and 9 rebounds in February of 2009.

So for his first—and presumably only—All-Star appearance at MSG, it figured he’d come out firing. Which he did. LeBron finished as the East’s leading scorer and glided in for this effortless reverse oop from Kyle Lowry at the start of the third. He’ll be a free agent again this summer if he opts out. But he’s still not signing with the Knicks. Sorry.

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When Vince Carter leapt over 7-foot French center Frederic Weis in the 2000 Summer Olympics to deliver what would come to be known as Le dunk de la mort (the dunk of death), Jusuf Nurkic was 6. This isn’t a buildup to anything, no piece of fanfic that had young Jusuf in the crowd thanking the stars that Carter would never be able to do such a thing to him.

No, this is just about Vince Carter and how he’s been dunking on big men for years and seems to be set to do it for the foreseeable future, crossing up some anonymous wing before (sorry, Wilson) and revving that imaginary motorcycle after. He’s on his fifth NBA team, he’ll be 38 by the time you read this, he played with DELL Curry for God’s sake, and he’s still baptizing bigs. Nurkic is just the latest in a line that includes not only Weis but Alonzo Mourning, Rik Smits…the list goes on. There will, of course, be a day it all ends.

A 6-year-old watching now should not grow up to be on the wrong side of a VC dunk. Future Nurkics are safe. Although if that 6-year-old can make the League by 20, Vince will still only be 52. You never know.

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The Detroit Pistons endured their share of indignities through the first quarter of the NBA season, whether it was Josh Smith’s shot selection, losing 13 straight games, or the jerseys they had to wear against Oklahoma City on December 7. And Lord only knows what sort of speeches Stan Van Gundy was giving, day in and day out. They couldn’t have been pleasant.

And maybe that was one thing too many. Whatever it was, something caused Andre Drummond to snap. Sure, Russell Westbrook had dunked on Smith earlier in the game, prompting the need for vengeance, but Drummond probably would have liked to dunk on Smith himself.

So when Drummond caught the ball and spun inside on Reggie Jackson, with only Serge Ibaka between him and the basket, he didn’t hesitate one second. He took one dribble and dunked, with the frustration only someone averaging 11 ppg and 12 rpg for a team going nowhere could know. And for a moment at least, everything was OK.

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Lance Stephenson is from Brooklyn. And if his “Born Ready” nickname is a bit of an exaggeration, it’s not much of one. Then again, that name implies a bit of passivity that’s never, ever been in Stephenson’s game. After Lincoln HS, he left Cincinnati after one year, was a Pacers second-round pick and played spot minutes off the bench his first two seasons. His third, he started 72 games.

Last year was his true breakout, and afterward he broke out, signing a three-year, $27 million deal with Charlotte. As it turned out, what with Paul George’s season-ending-before-it-began injury, not a bad move. He joined the reborn Hornets to provide not only more toughness but a bit of that Brooklyn attitude. Case in point: third quarter of the home opener. Long rebound to Al Jefferson, who hands it to Lance at the top of the key. Before Larry Sanders and all-arms Giannis Antetokounmpo could even get set in the paint, there he is, dunking on everyone and bringing the entire crowd—a certain team owner among them—to their feet.

Born Ready? Maybe not quite. But he’s sure as hell ready now. For anything.

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Julius Randle wasn’t even 2 years old yet when the Lakers made a Draft-day trade for a high schooler named Kobe Bryant. He was 5 when Kobe and Shaquille O’Neal won their first title in Los Angeles. And in the next 14 years, as he grew from little kid to Lottery lock, much in the NBA changed. Kobe though, he didn’t.

Randle watched older generations retire and newer ones supplant them. He was 8 when LeBron James went first overall to the Cavs, 12 when the Seattle SuperSonics got Kevin Durant. This was how things went. Kerry Kittles retired, Stephon Marbury went to China, Allen Iverson finally retired.

But Kobe just kept going, eventually joined by fellow Class of ’96 member Steve Nash. Dwight Howard got pushed out of town. It didn’t seem like the old timers wanted to make room for the next generation. But there was Randle on the board at No. 7, and the Lakers were on the clock, and that was that. So in his first pre-season game, Julius had a decision to make. Would he step aside as so many Lakers had done before, or would he step up? It was really no choice at all.

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This is what 1992 has wrought. Not just Spain winning gold in the 2006 FIBA World Cup, but the fact that nearly any international matchup features at least a few NBAers. Gone are the days when a national team’s best player—think Oscar Schmidt or Arvydas Sabonis—would be satisfied playing in the best pro league his country had. Even Sabas eventually found his way to the L.

So, this. In a tiny arena in Southern Spain, one NBA player dunking on another, Spain showing their might in a 30-point W over Iran. In fact, Spain is playing something of a Dream Team role now, featuring not only the Gasols, but also Rudy Fernandez (whose pass made the above possible), Sergio Rodriguez, Jose Calderon, Ricky Rubio and Serge Ibaka, who didn’t even play against Iran. Not that they needed him.

This team may be even cooler than the Dream Team. First, both Pau and Marc wear their full names on their jerseys. And Marc finished off this dunk with the Carlos Boozer-patented “I’m being electrocuted by the rim!” twisting shake. Sorry, Hamed. Maybe Iran’s time will come. But, um, don’t count on it.

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When AND 1 first started out as a company in 1993—founded by three Wharton Business School classmates with a penchant for streetball—it didn’t have a spokesperson or an endorser. Instead, the fledgling t-shirt company had “The Player,” a bulked-up, racially ambiguous character with a blank face and baggy shorts meant to represent the whole of streetball. This was fine for a while. But in 1995, when they sought to enter the ultracompetitive basketball sneaker market, they needed something more. They needed a real player. They needed Stephon Marbury.

And make no mistake, it wasn’t the other way around. The Brooklyn-born Marbury entered the 1996 Draft as a Lottery lock and a possible first-overall pick. And with plenty of companies looking to enter the sneaker market, everyone was getting deals.

Reebok picked up Georgetown guard Allen Iverson, adidas inked high schoolers Kobe Bryant and Jermaine O’Neal as well as Kentucky forward Antoine Walker, and Karl Kani of all brands signed the 18th and 24th overall picks, Syracuse forward John Wallace and Arkansas-Little Rock guard Derek Fisher (yes, that one). Marbury, who wore adidas at Lincoln High and Nikes at Georgia Tech, had no shortage of suitors. He chose AND 1.

So AND 1’s first basketball sneaker would be a signature sneaker, the Stephon Marbury Mid. It featured The Player, of course, performing a Stephon-esque low-to-the-ground crossover on the ankle, with Marbury’s own logo, an S with arrows at either end and a basketball in the middle, on the heels. Durable leather construction, a high-density rubber outsole and 3M piping allowed for outdoor use. And at just $80, it was affordable. Thanks in large part to Marbury’s presence (and some nice advertising campaigns), AND 1’s transition from streetball to the NBA was as easy as Marbury’s own. And don’t be fooled by the controversy that surrounded the end of Marbury’s NBA career, the beginning was easy, like 16 and 8 per game while rolling with an equally well-adapting Kevin Garnett.

Steph’s second sneaker, the Stephon Marbury II, was sleeker and shinier, with even more 3M trim and his logo transferred to a jewel on the tongue. A silver mesh version echoed the Nike Air Max 97, a futuristic runner that had major off-court appeal from Coney Island to Minneapolis. An extra lace loop way down the side allowed for a crazy lacing option that technically offered more support. Those were the shoes he wore for his second—and final—full season in Minnesota.

Neither of Stephon’s first two AND 1s have been retroed, and maybe they never will be. AND 1 has been through multiple owners since then, Marbury has since moved on, and the shoes themselves weren’t as iconic as others from the same period.

But their significance goes far beyond their construction. Because without Marbury, maybe AND 1 never becomes a viable sneaker company at all. Without Marbury’s success, there’s no Latrell Sprewell “American Dream” commercial, no Vince Carter winning the Dunk Contest to end all dunk contests in AND 1’s most beloved sneaker, the Tai Chi Mid. The Player wasn’t going to take them that far.

As for Marbury himself, he wore AND 1s on and off (taking a notable break as a New Jersey Net when he wore Nikes a lot, including a stint in Nike Air Penny IVs) until his early days with the Knicks, when he founded a whole new venture.

He partnered with discount retailer Steve & Barry’s in 2006 to introduce Starbury, an ultra low-budget line of sneakers. His game shoe, the Starbury 1, retailed for an absurdly low $15. While clearly not on the same level as shoes costing 10 times more—despite claims to the contrary—the Starbury 1 was still revolutionary in its own way. The Starbury 2, which he’d debut the following season, retailed for the same price. There was also a line of casual running shoes that looked like New Balance and cost less than $10. Marbury showed his dedication to his new brand by getting the logo, a stylized star and 3, tattooed on his head.

Steve & Barry’s wound up going under, but that wasn’t the end of Starbury. And, much like the brand that bears his name, Marbury wasn’t done either. His career didn’t end when no NBA teams picked him up in the summer of 2009. Instead he headed to China, where he finally won a championship and was immortalized with a bronze statue in Beijing. As of right now, the 37-year-old Marbury is still playing, still wearing Starbury sneakers, still spreading his message worldwide via his @StarburyMarbury Twitter handle.

And as AND 1 rises once again with another Brooklyn-bred former Lincoln Railsplitter—new Hornets guard Lance Stephenson—it would only make sense for them to finally revisit the Stephon Marbury line. Let history repeat itself in more ways than one. At the very least, in 2016 recognize the 20th anniversary of the first shoe, the one that made the rest of AND 1’s history possible.

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On the home end, 37-year-old Vince Carter sticks to jumpers, high-arcing ones with picture-perfect backspin. He engages 5-11 rookie Shane Larkin in a bit of one-on-one and tries a couple of effortless 40-footers from the AIRLINES in “American Airlines” on the right side by the scorer’s table. No good. As a video promo airs that pushes him for Sixth Man of the Year—complete with #VInceforVI hashtag—he’s busy shooting a corner fallaway. It doesn’t appear that he’s paying attention.

But he did see Green’s aerial display. “Easy stuff. Easy,” he says after the game. “I remember when—I was like, ah fuck, I remember I could do that. Now it’s just like, Yeah buddy, take care of your body. Take care of your body.”

The thing is, Carter can still do that, just not as often as he used to. “It’s actually amazing how athletic he still is for 37,” says Dirk Nowitzki. “Once in a while he drives in there and just hammers on somebody.” Carter agrees with his teammate’s assessment but acknowledges he has different priorities now, ones that didn’t concern him a decade ago. “Now I just think let me get it in and get back [on defense]. Because it’s not even the going up, it’s coming down now. That’s the problem.”

***

When Vince Carter talks about his own past, there’s almost a sense of wonder in his voice, as if he’s talking about a different person entirely. And in a way he is. The 37-year-old Carter is very different from the 22-year-old rookie who dropped 22 in just his third game and tried to dunk on every big in the League en route to a Rookie of the Year season with the Toronto Raptors. He played in all 50 games of that lockout-shortened season, starting 49, and put the fear of being on the wrong side of a SportsCenter highlight in everyone he faced. And, for a League that had once again gone Jordan-less, there was another heir apparent.

It’s hard to describe exactly what watching Carter in his prime was like. For those of us who grew up watching Jordan and Dominique Wilkins destroy opposing defenses it wasn’t entirely unfamiliar, but there was something more. Carter’s dunks seemed to shift into slow motion even as they were happening, that half-beat of pause making the dunk itself that much more powerful. He flew like Jordan and crushed like Dominique or Shawn Kemp, the ball going through the hoop so hard it would hit the floor long before he did. He’d break out contest-worthy dunks in games—windmills, double-clutch reverses, 360s the wrong way. And once he did find himself in a Dunk Contest, well…let him tell it.

“I was looking forward to that, that was my moment,” he says. “I wanted to—I used to watch it, tape the dunk contest, just study it. They didn’t even have to ask me, I was gonna ask them if I could be in the Dunk Contest for one. I was excited about the All-Star Game on Sunday, but I thought, mmmm, Saturday baby. I was just like, I can’t wait. I’m ready. I wanna show the world what I can do. Yeah, people think they know, you’ve seen some stuff, but…” He pauses. “It’s funny, all of the dunks that I thought I was gonna do that night I didn’t do. I didn’t think I was gonna win.”

Excuse me? Did you just say…

“Yeah, I didn’t do it. I made that stuff up. The only dunk that I was gonna do was the 180 under the basket. The 360 windmill? I was barely making that dunk when I was trying it, so I was like, there’s no way I’m gonna do this. But when I got out there in that layup line, and see all the people—friends and teammates, Antawn [Jamison] my former college teammate, my former roommate and all that stuff, celebrities and just the buzz in there for it, and I just feel like in the layup line I was just puttin’ it in easy and I was like, those dunks might not work, let me just dribble back. I wasn’t sure [about the 360 windmill], and then I was like, Well, if I’m gonna do it, I’m gonna do that on my first dunk so at least if I miss I’m gonna mess up on my first one but hopefully everybody else doesn’t do too great and I have a chance to catch up on my second dunk, maybe third dunk. And when I took off, it felt like—I just powered up, I don’t know, but when I took off, I was like, Oh man, it’s over for these people.”

Understand, while today’s Dunk Contests may have devolved into prop-filled spectacle, in 2000 they were about sheer athleticism. And in that particular contest, guys were bringing it—from Carter’s Toronto teammate Tracy McGrady to Rockets rookie guard Steve Francis, whose career may have reached both its figurative and literal apex that night. It didn’t matter.

“Once I got that first one, I was just in another zone,” Carter says. “I was just like, If someone’s gonna beat me tonight, you’d better come up with somethin’. Because after that [first dunk] I was just sitting there thinking about some stuff that I could do. Like the arm in the rim stuff, I had never done that in my life. I thought about that right then and was like, Well, I’ma try the arm in the rim. That’s how good I was feeling.”

It was plenty good enough. Carter signaled it was over walking back from his first attempt, while Kenny Smith hysterically declared the same thing on TV. Carter would wind up with perfect 50s on three separate dunks, the first to do so since Jordan in ’88. It wasn’t absolute perfection, but it was close enough to where no one could really tell the difference.

I was in the building with current Ed. Ben Osborne, and trust me, the excitement was palpable.

The afterglow lasted surprisingly long. In fact, Carter’s high-wire act didn’t actually peak until that summer, at the Sydney Olympics, where an ill-advised pass turned a potential France fast break into one of the most-watched videos of all time. Carter picked the ball off in the backcourt, took two dribbles with his left, switched the ball to his right and went right at 7-2 French center Frederic Weis, who cringed in anticipation of a blow that never came.

“I never, I never, ever ever imagined jumping over a player in my life,” Carter says. “I didn’t even know it until after the game. I saw it on video.”

The following season may have been Carter’s best. He was named a starter on the All-Star team again, and although he chose not to defend his Dunk Contest crown, he still managed to throw down the defining dunk of the weekend in Sunday’s game. Finally extricated from the Puma deal he signed as a rookie, VC did it all in his signature Nikes, whose brand-new Shox he had debuted in the Olympics. He averaged a career-high 27.6 ppg, along with 3.9 assists and 5.5 rebounds, and led the Raptors to 47 wins, a single-season total they wouldn’t top until 2014. And while he had impressive games in the regular season—48 points on the Bucks, 45 on the Pacers, 46 on the Suns—he’d save his best for the Playoffs.

That was the year the young Raptors finally grew up. They won their first-ever Playoff series, beating the New York Knicks—who were just two seasons removed from their own Finals trip and had home-court advantage—in five games, before moving on to face the top-seeded Philadelphia 76ers. Led by MVP Allen Iverson, the Sixers were a blue-collar team assembled as complementary pieces around their unquestioned leader. Fans anticipated a showdown between Iverson and Carter, and they wouldn’t be disappointed.

In the very first game, the Raptors wrested the Sixers’ hard-earned home-court advantage away with a three-point win in Philadelphia, with Carter scoring 35 to Iverson’s 36. The Sixers—and Iverson—responded with a Game 2 victory, spearheaded by Iverson’s 54 points. Fortunately, the series was moving back to Canada.

Game 3 was probably the pinnacle of NBA basketball in Toronto, at least so far. It’s easy to forget now, with Carter long gone and even the mention of his name still drawing the ire of select Raptor fans. But if it wasn’t for Carter’s high-flying game and his global popularity—he was one of only three players, along with Jordan and Julius Erving, to be the leading All-Star vote getter three times—maybe the Raptors are playing their home games in Las Vegas or Oklahoma City now.

Instead, they’re still in the (since renamed) Air Canada Centre, the home of Game 3. And in front of his adoring home fans, Carter played the game of his life, scoring 50 points of his own and leading the Raptors to a dominating 24-point win. The tug-of-war continued. Iverson scored 50-plus again in a Game 5 Sixers blowout, putting the Raptors on the brink of elimination. But Carter responded again, scoring 39 in Game 6 as Iverson struggled, scoring 20 points but shooting just 6-24. This set up Game 7 back in Philadelphia. There was just one problem.

Carter, who left the University of North Carolina following his junior season, had finally earned enough credits to graduate, and his commencement was on the morning of Game 7. He chose to attend, knowing he could easily make it back for the 5:30 p.m. tip. Given that athletes are often excoriated for their topsy-turvy priorities, this should have been seen as a heroic moment, a superstar choosing to show what was truly important. It wasn’t.

The game itself was a slugfest. Neither team broke 90, only the Sixers managed to score more than 25 points in a single quarter, exploding to a 31-21 lead in the first. But behind Carter and Antonio Davis, the Raptors fought all the way back, holding the Sixers under 20 in each of the remaining three quarters. With two seconds remaining, Toronto had the ball out of bounds, trailing by one. Carter fought free to receive the pass, put up a long two from the left wing…and missed. The Sixers moved on to the conference finals; the Raptors went home.

Carter would stay in the purple and red for three more seasons, but that shot was the beginning of the end. He was not only betrayed by fans and media, who used the missed shot to question his decision to attend graduation, but by his body, which was finally beginning to break down. After missing just seven games over his first three seasons, he missed 22 in his fourth, then 39 in his fifth. There were times when he must have felt like the oldest 26-year-old on the planet. He adjusted his game to ease some of the impact, but that decision wasn’t lauded either. “I felt like I was always a pretty good shooter,” he says, “but everybody wanted to see me dunk the basketball.”

Traded to the Nets early in the 2004-05 season, he found some new life playing alongside Jason Kidd, and Nets PA announcer Gary Sussman found a new catchphrase in “DID YOU SEE…VC!” But these were the post-Finals, pre-Brooklyn Nets, and even as Carter rebounded to play 79 games in his first full season, averaging nearly 25 points and leading the Nets to a 49-win season and the conference semis, he still had a tendency to shoot rainbow threes instead of charging hard to the rim and emasculating shotblockers. It only made the dunks he did throw down—like one that utterly destroyed Alonzo Mourning in front of his home Miami crowd early in that 2005-06 season—all the more poignant. Why couldn’t he do that all the time?

Regardless, Carter was still a star, posting some of the best games of his career, including an absolutely absurd 46-point, 16-rebound, 10-assist triple-double in 2007 (in an overtime game where Kidd posted a triple-double of his own). He also drew further ire from Toronto fans in 2008, as he responded to their boos with a three-pointer to send the game to overtime and a game-winning reverse alley-oop in the extra session. He’d finish with 39 points. But it appeared his popularity at least was waning. His eight straight All-Star selections ended in 2007. And upon being traded from the Nets to the Magic in 2009, he was clearly entering the second-star stage of his career.

Things went downhill rapidly from there. He had a 46-point game in Orlando and served as an able lieutenant to Dwight Howard. But he only lasted a year there, before being dealt once again, this time to the post-D’Antoni Phoenix Suns. He looked old and played older, and in 2011 the Suns bought Carter out of the final year of his contract, paying him $4 million to just go away. For all intents and purposes, his career looked to be reaching its end. At 34, Vince Carter was done.

Or maybe he wasn’t.

***

Carter ended his third year in Dallas this May in a seven-game first-round loss to the San Antonio Spurs, a series in which he dropped 28 points—on the road, no less—in a Game 5 loss. He played out his initial three-year contract and seems set to receive another. “I think he has at least two or three years if he wants it,” says Mavs teammate Brandan Wright. “He could easily play ’til 40.”

Even if Carter retires tomorrow, he’s long since silenced the naysayers and accomplished more than most. He’s played in more NBA games than Jordan or Chamberlain and passed Adrian Dantley to become one of the top 25 leading scorers in NBA history. (He’ll have to do it all over again next year, unfortunately, as LeBron James is just 20 points behind.)

But most of all, Vince Carter is content, happily discussing his past in a way that wouldn’t have been possible 10 years earlier. There’s even a tiny Lego figure in a purple Raptors No. 15 uniform above his locker. He’s somewhat noncommittal about his legacy—“I hope one day that it happens, Hall of Fame, jersey retirement. I’m just gonna keep doin’ what I’m doin’, and hopefully it’s clear-cut when it’s time”—but he’s absolute in his desire to keep playing. Well, somewhere anyway. Told that the 26-year-old Wright hopes to have an equally long career, Carter smiles.

“I won’t be playing [in the NBA],” he laughs. “I’ll be playing in a men’s league somewhere, best believe that. I know I won’t be able to sit still. I won’t be able to play in the big leagues, but I’ll be in somebody’s league tryin’ to drop 30 every night.”

Russ Bengtson is a senior staff writer at Complex. He tweets @RussBengtson.

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Here’s what I remember most about writing the Allen Iverson cover story for SLAM 32: The whole interview took place in the back of a limo over the course of a NYC morning, and we made one stop at Jacob the Jeweler on 47th Street so he could get his diamond and platinum cuff fixed. Given the recent stories this plays tragic, but back then it’s just how things were. And besides, this was when Iverson’s prime earning days were still ahead of him—as were the All-Star appearances and scoring titles (he’d win his first that lockout-shortened ’99 season) and his lone Finals appearance and MVP. There was no thought of legacy, of how any of this would seem a decade and a half down the road. In fact, aside from the bling, Iverson was a purer practitioner of Zen than Phil Jackson, forever living in the moment, playing each game like it could be his last. He was also one hell of an interview, even on a sleepy morning. Enjoy.—Russ Bengtson

Originally published in SLAM 32 (March, ’99)

by Russ Bengtson / portraits by Clay Patrick McBride

Shut up.

All of you who have been talking, writing, miming about Allen Iverson’s posse, his hair, his Benz, his jewelry, his clothes, his music. Stop for a minute—just a minute—and listen. (The previous sentence should have read “Stop for a minute—just a minute—and watch,” but since the NBA seems intent on killing itself, listening will have to do.) Listen to the one person who has any real stake in Allen Iverson’s life.

Listen: Anything that has anything negative to do with my name, negative people will bring it back up, and they’ll try to tear me down. But it’s going to be like that for the rest of my life, you know?

Allen Iverson says this from the back of a black stretch Lincoln, slowly rolling through New York City traffic, Primo-blessed All City flowing through the speakers. Draped in his signature Reebok fatigues and enough ice-dipped platinum to ensure Patrick Ewing’s family’s “survival” for countless generations, Allen Iverson sounds like a hypocrite. Just another young superstar with an attitude. Look at the 23-year-old with the jewels and the shady friends and the arms full of new tattoos, worrying about getting torn down. Isn’t he doing that himself?

Listen: I dress the way I want to dress, I look the way I want to look— people don’t understand. “He wanna wear the cornrows, and all that, it’s supposed to be some thug image.” It’s not that. It’s I’m tired of being on the road—I go out and I have a game and I wanna get my hair cut, the barber pushes my hairline all the way to the back of my head. I’m tired of that, so I get my hair braided and I can wear my hair like this for two weeks and play two, three games. I’ll never cut my hair again. My son, I’ll never cut his hair. He’s gonna wear cornrows—is he a thug? You know it’s not about that. I guess I am hip-hop, but I’d rather be like that right now. When I get to 30 or maybe—well, I’m 23, and maybe when I get to 24 I’ll want to change.

Explanations can be awfully simple when you let them come out. Allen Iverson isn’t trying to be a gangster—he just never had the chance to be a kid. He grew up poor, spent his 18th birthday in prison on trumped-up charges that were later dismissed. After that, two years under John Thompson’s lock-and-key at Georgetown, then, at the ripe old age of 21, introduced to Philadelphia as the Savior. Black Jesus, Part II. When your name’s been in the headlines since high school, your life is no longer your own.

Listen: You know, people just make mistakes; everybody makes mistakes. The people that write them negative articles, they make mistakes—if not every day, every other day. The same person that’s bashing you on TV, whether it’s a commentator or reporter, that same person has made mistakes in his life but was never in the spotlight, so people didn’t hear about it, you know what I’m saying?

Allen Iverson spends a lot of time defending his life. Too much time. People forget what it’s like to be 23—and will never understand what it’s like to grow up the child of a 15-year-old mother in a crowded house with raw sewage on the floor, and then be given a ticket out. Not only a ticket out, but the ticket—virtually unlimited riches, millions of adoring fans. Success came quickly. Iverson scored 30 points in his first game on 15-19 from the floor; last year’s stats (22 ppg, 6.7 apg and 3.7 apg) were All-Star numbers on any other team. But for every person who wants to see him succeed, there are two hoping he’ll fail. Charles Barkley, who in his illustrious career has spit on a little girl and thrown a grown man through a plate-glass window, called him “playground Rookie of the Year.” Yet through all of this, AI’s remained the same—true to himself, true to those who’ve stayed true to him. Doesn’t this mean something?

Listen: I’m confident, not cocky.

Over the course of four hours, Allen Iverson repeats this phrase many times in many forms, as something of a mantra. It is unclear who he is trying to convince, me or him. The truth is this—whatever it is he’s got, Allen Iverson has earned the right to it. After all, who else has gone from prison to NBA Rookie of the Year? Who else, once touted as the best football prospect in the land, has emerged instead as one of the best basketball players on the planet? Who else has a crossover that broke off Michael Jordan, not once but twice?

Listen: If I played the two-guard position, I know for a fact—and I put that on everything I love—I would lead the League in scoring every single year. But the picture’s bigger than that. I’m a point guard and I want to be the point guard. I want to learn the point guard position, and that’s more important to me than having the scoring title and all that. I want to be a point guard, and that’s that. You know, I want to score and get assists and and steals rebounds and blocks—I want to do every single thing there is to do on the basketball court.

Confidence—or cockiness? Know where this is coming from: ever since AI was a shorty, his dream was to play in the NFL or the NBA. Everyone told him it was a one-in-a-million, a one-in-a-billion chance. “I always told them, ‘Not me, man. I’m different,’” Iverson says. “I always used to feel like that. I’m not sayin’ it to be big-headed or anything, but I had that much confidence in myself.” He still does. He’s earned it.

Listen: I want to be a Sixer for the rest of my career. I don’t want to play for no other team. I don’t think that’s fair to kids and fans, man, to see a guy be here and then jumpin’ around to different teams. I just don’t.

The cover is no joke. Even though he did roll in seven-plus hours late to the photo shoot, AI’s got a lotta love for Philly—a lotta love for the game. The Sixers went 31-51 last season, and A.I. wants to stay? What kind of modern-day power move is that? We won’t go so far to call him a throwback—Nate Archibald 2000, The Funk Doctor—but he’s got roots. Followed Jordan as a kid. Magic. Bird. Because underneath all the perceptions, all the lies, damn lies and headlines, Allen Iverson is a basketball player. This interview probably won’t change your view of AI—as a matter of fact, it will probably just reinforce whatever way you’re leaning. But still, do yourself a favor. Do Allen one. Listen.

SLAM: What’s your definition of a true point guard?

Allen Iverson: Someone that just understands the game, knows how to get people involved with the game. Knows when to go and when not to go. The leader on the court, the vocal leader, the leader by example. The guy who plays every game like it’s his last.

SLAM: Do you want to meet the definition or redefine the position?

AI: No, I want…I trust my coach to teach me how to be a true point guard, whatever that definition is, the real definition. Not out of my eyes, but John Stockton’s eyes and Magic Johnson’s eyes. You know, guys like that. I think my coach will teach me how to be a true point guard, the best I can be at that position. I might never be a John Stockton or a Magic Johnson, [but] I want to know the point guard from John Stockton’s perspective. I think I have more physical talents then John Stockton, but I think he knows it mentally better then me, so I’m leaving it up to my coach to teach me how to be a true point guard from his perspective and with my ability.

SLAM: I know Coach Brown has a rap for being kind of tough on point guards. Is he?

AI: Yeah he is, he is. I mean it was tough in the beginning with my coach, because I didn’t understand him and he didn’t understand me, but eventually just playing together and learning from him and him learning how I feel about different things, we got tighter. That’s what makes me look forward to this season even more, because me just putting my pride aside and listening to how he wanted me to play and run the team—it worked out. I became a better player by listening to what Larry Brown had to offer.

SLAM: Has part of it been you changing after being in the League for two years?

AI: I haven’t changed. I think my game has changed, because I have learned…you know, my first year at Georgetown, I was just reckless, because I was trying to make a name for myself. I was trying to show myself and everybody else that I could be successful on the college level and that I was a good basketball player, and I went through the same thing as a pro. I was young and I didn’t know the game and I still don’t know it like I want to know it. But I haven’t changed, I’m just learning. I guess I have changed but I’m learning—it’s not because I want to change my image; I want to change my style of play.

SLAM: At Georgetown you were the Big East’s defensive player of the year both years. People don’t really talk about that since you’ve been in the pros. Have you been paying more attention to offense?

AI: Well, they might not notice—I was fifth in steals, but people just talk about my offense. I’m not a great defensive player; I know I have to get better—and Coach Brown lets me know that every chance he gets. I gamble too much, ’cause I’m always trying to get a steal. In this league, if you go for a steal and you don’t get it, nine times out of 10 you get hurt for it, they exploit that. I’m always trying to make something happen on both ends of the court, and you hurt the team gambling a lot on defense, because once you miss a steal, the defense is on their heels.

SLAM: Do you think you can become a great defensive player?

AI: I think so. I think all that is mental. That’s like offense. Once you start believing you can become a great offensive player and you feel that way, then your body and your mind are going to respond. So, that’s that same thing with defense. There’s a lot of people that just concentrate on trying to be a great offensive player when you’re supposed to be concentrating on being a great defensive player, too.

SLAM: It seems the offense wasn’t that big a switch, though. You scored 30 your first game in the League.

AI: Offense just—I mean, whether it is good or bad, offense is just the most exciting part of any game—football, baseball, basketball. Defense, you know, you have to be really talented to be a great defensive player, because there are so many great offensive players. And to be a great defensive player, that’s special because you stopping a great offensive player. That’s like a linebacker—if you a great linebacker, that’s serious, man, to able to get to Barry Sanders every time you want to. That’s crazy, that’s talent.

SLAM: Can anybody stop you one-on-one?

AI: No, I don’t think so. And I really believe this in my heart. I respect Derek Harper, because I think he is the greatest defensive player I ever played against and I ever watched, but I don’t think he can stop me. I don’t think nobody in the League can stop me—and I know that there’s a lot of guys in the League that feel the same way I feel, so I don’t think that’s no big-headed or conceited comment. I don’t really think nobody can stop me. Maybe in college, when they ran box and ones on me, but in the NBA, where it’s just man to man? No one can stop me. A team may be able to do something with me, but no one man can stop me from doing whatever I want to do on the basketball court.

SLAM: Do you think you deserve $100 million?

AI: Do I deserve it? Yeah, I think I deserve it. I don’t know if that’s what I’ll ask for, but I think I deserve it. I think I deserve more, you know, that’s just who I am. I feel everybody deserves whatever they want, really. Whatever the franchise feels they need or want to give you, they should give it to you, you know? And that’s real. They got enough money to give people whatever, you know what I’m saying?

I think the crazy thing about this lockout [is] when you look at guys like Kevin Garnett’s salary, pshhhh, Kevin Garnett—I think—should have gotten more than what he got. And they’re able to pay him that, you know. All that money the [owners] got and they’re getting off of us, it shouldn’t be no problem—nobody’s salary. They pay Kevin Garnett what they know they can pay him. They give him this money, and everybody’s beefing, when number one he deserved it and number two they felt like he deserved it. And they felt like they had to give it to him, so what’s wrong with that? I don’t see anything wrong with that.

SLAM: Who did you start out watching when you first followed basketball?

AI: Zeke. Michael [Jordan], of course, but Zeke was always my man. I loved Isiah.

SLAM: Did you like the Pistons?

AI: Nah, I was always a Bulls fan, ever since Michael got there. I remember one time the Knicks beat ’em, and I damn near cried—I had tears in my eyes.

I was a Bulls fanatic. Because I love Mike, I love Pippen, I love Horace Grant and B.J. Armstrong and Paxson, Luc Longley, Cartwright and I just loved the Bulls, and now that I play them I hate them. Because I remember Scottie Pippen when the Knicks used to beat him all up—and you know they used to try to treat him like he was puss—and then now, for them to talk shit to me on the court while I’m playing? I still love Pip today and Mike and Dennis Rodman, ’cause they great basketball players. Then to hear the way they talk shit on the court, I’m like, “Dog, I remember when you didn’t say shit on the court, you know you was so humble and you wouldn’t say nothing on the court and now even you talk shit?”

SLAM: When did you start playing basketball?

AI: I think I was like nine or 10 years old. I always thought basketball was soft. Now I come to find out I was outta my mind, playing against Shaq and Barkley and Kevin Willis. Charles Oakley. Serious. I never wanted to play it, when my mom bought me some Jordans—I came home from school, she was like, “You going to basketball practice today,” and I was like, “I ain’t playing no basketball, it’s soft. I don’t want to play no basketball, I don’t like basketball.” I’m crying all the way out the door, she pushing me out the door. I got out there and seen kids that was on my football team and, um, I just enjoyed it. I came home and I thanked my moms, and I’ve been playing basketball ever since.

SLAM: What was your home court growing up?

AI: Newport News [VA]—Anderson Park, that’s where like it first started. And then Hampton [VA]—Aberdine Elementary School, ’cause that’s where I watched my uncles and my uncles’ friends, the people I thought that were sooo nice, so cold on the court. I watched them, and I had to play right after school—in the 8th grade or 7th grade—when it was blazing hot, like 105 or something like that. Then they came at five, six o’clock when the sun is going down, and they ran. I could never play with them, ’cause they would never let me. I guess they thought I wasn’t good enough, I was too young. And then, ninth or tenth grade, they want to pick me first—“Yo, I got AI.” It was just a great feeling, man, because that’s where I always wanted to play. [Before] they hollering at me to get off the court and they screaming at me because I was trying to play while they were playing. And then to go back and be able to play against them and kill them.

SLAM: Is there any one who you really learned the game from?

AI: Coach [John] Thompson. He the one that really taught me how to play basketball. I still don’t know it like I want to know it, but he gave me a clear picture of how to play it.

SLAM: Are you up on your NBA history? I know your rookie year was the NBA at 50, so you were at All-Star Weekend with all those guys…

AI: That was crazy, playing the rookie game and looking in the stands and seeing Bill Russell, Wilt Chamberlain—I was like, oh my god. Doc—Doc! It just felt crazy. I was like, I’m gonna show in front of these cats tonight. It ain’t gotta be scoring, it could be everything else, but I just want to perform for those guys. I was so hype, it was showtime and it was fun. It’s something I’ll cherish for the rest of my life. Red Auerbach—my coach—during the [rookie] game at halftime, he was like, “I don’t know what you out here doing, Allen. People came here to see you score; you ain’t have to prove no point. I understand you out here passing—and I respect that—but put the ball in the hole, too. Everybody want to see the whole game.” ’Cause I wasn’t trying to take over the whole spotlight and shine and score 30 points and all that, I was just dishing crazy, and he was like, “This half I want to see you score.” I was like, “A’ight,” and that’s what I did. In the second half, I started scoring.

SLAM: So he was actually coaching out there?

AI: Coaching. Really coaching. He was talking to me during the game, and at one point I just blacked out, I couldn’t believe he was coaching me—it felt so good man. I wanted to, right there, scream up in the stands—“Mom, did you see him talking to me? Did you see him coaching me?” I mean, he was one of the greatest coaches ever, and just for him to say something out of his mouth to me was enough. Even if it was not coaching me, even if he was just speaking to me, it would have made me feel good, but he was coaching me. I felt like crying, because I felt like I really did something in my life for me to be on the sidelines with him coaching.

SLAM: Talk to me about Doc a little bit.

AI: Doc was Mike in his time. Everybody was like—there will never be another Dr. J, da da da. That’s how crazy this thing is. Nobody ever thought there would ever be anyone better then Doc or like Doc. Or Magic, and then come Mike. It’s crazy, Doc started all that. Mike did some shit that Doc never did and vice versa, but Mike took it to a completely different level.

SLAM: What was it like playing against him for the first time? How different was it from just seeing him play?

AI: It was just wild. I can’t even remember the feeling. Just me being on his court, playing against world champions and the greatest basketball player in the world. I wasn’t out there crazy in awe or anything like that—’cause that’s just not me. I’m in the same profession you are and I respect you and what you did for your family and team, but once we get on the dance floor, I’m in a whole ’nother mode. I might feel different if I meet you before the game in the hallway, but once we get on the dance floor, I’m a do my thing and I’m not going to be in awe of nobody. But it was a crazy feeling just playing against him.

Really the only guy that flipped me out when I was on the same court with him was Sprewell. ’Cause if I could be any other basketball player, I would be Sprewell. What he did was foul, everybody know that, and I would never do no shit like that. I mean, I guess he just flipped out and snapped and he’s going to learn a lot from it and he’s a good dude, ’cause I know him as a person. But as far as talent, if I could be any other player, I wouldn’t be Michael Jordan, man. I wouldn’t take Michael Jordan’s game, I would take Latrell Sprewell’s game. I love the way he play. I love the way he play and he hard, hard on the court. You know, he might talk shit to you, he might not. He might give you 30 or 40 with a regular look on his face, like, “Whatever. This is what I do. That’s the way I play. I don’t gotta talk shit, ’cause I do this. I do this nightly. I don’t have to talk no shit to you to prove nothin’ to you.” But Spree, man. Spree’s something else.

SLAM: What is it? What is it about his game?

AI: Energy. He can play the whole damn game. He got pride with his game, you know, And he just hard. When I look at him I see myself, ’cause he don’t care who you are, he just go at you. He go right at your chest, crazy, hard. He can shoot, he can run, he can dribble, he can jump. He’s smart, he know the game.

If not Sprewell, if I had a choice, it would be Shaq. I don’t think nobody could beat my team 10 to 15 times if Shaq was on my team. Never. I mean, that guy has talent that’s just unbelievable. He’s unbelievable. If I played with him, I don’t think nobody could beat me. I don’t know if you beat me in a series, but you won’t sweep me. That’s why I look at [the Lakers] and I’m like—Utah was a great team, Karl Malone, John Stockton did great, but you got Shaq on your team. How can you live with yourself knowing you got swept and you got Shaq on your team? Shhhh…

SLAM: If Mike steps and the Bulls are no more, who’s the next squad?

AI: Who do I think? Really, in my heart? Philly. I’m not gonna say nobody else, ’cause I don’t believe that. I just believe it’s my time. I believe it’s our time. Philly was always one of the great teams. I think it’s time for that to come back.

SLAM: How bad do you want that?

AI: More than anything in the world. [Pause.] Anything. I think that’s the only thing that gonna separate me from a great player. Great players win, man. I’m not a great player. I’m nowhere near a great player now, ‘cause I don’t know the game mentally like I should. But I’m learning, believe me—I know so much more then I knew when I was a rookie, and great players win. You can be a great player, [but] if you lose, you lose. You can have the greatest stats ever, but if you lose, you lose. Ain’t nothing better than winning. When I win, then I get the respect I deserve. Until then, I’m just another basketball player. The average player, you know.

SLAM: What do you want your NBA legacy to be?

AI: Titles. I gotta have titles. Hopefully I can play, like, Robert Parish years, Kareem Abdul-Jabbar years. Hopefully. I don’t wanna go until I get some titles. And not just one. I want titles. Plural.

SLAM: Add some gold to that platinum?

AI: No doubt. Add some gold. I need it, man. I’m hungry—I’m starvin’—I’m starvin’ for success. That’s what I want now. I love lookin’ at my mom and sayin’, “You made somethin’. You made somethin’ outta me.” I love that. So I’m starvin’ for success. I mean, I wanna be good. I want to be somebody.

SLAM: How important is the individual stuff—MVP, scoring title, that sort of thing? You wanna be remembered as the best player in the game? The best point guard?

AI: I wanna be remembered as the best player in the NBA. I want to be the best, the very best. And with the company I’m keeping right now? With the guys I’m playing with? Boy. That’s a huge statement. With the talent that we got right now in this league, with the Shaqs and Grant Hills and Latrell Sprewells and Gary Paytons and Tim Hardaways and Penny Hardaways. [Pause.] That’s a big statement, but I’m willing to try and back it up. I want to be the greatest basketball player. With Michael Jordan, that’s some big words, but that’s the challenge of my life. Maybe people won’t consider me to be the best, maybe some will. Who knows? I mean, the sky’s the limit.

The post Can’t Knock the Hustle appeared first on SLAM.

Originally published in SLAM 159

by Russ Bengtson | @russbengtson

In 1985, before Ron Harper’s senior season at Miami University of Ohio, the Dayton native wrote DEFENSE on one shoe and DUNK on the other because, as he explained to Sports Illustrated, “those are the things I do best.” Apparently so, as he did them both well enough—he averaged 24.4 points, 11.7 boards and over 2 blocks and 3 steals a game that season—to play himself into the ’86 Draft Lottery, where he went eighth overall to his hometown Cavaliers.

At the time, Harper was a 6-6 high-flyer who could create his own breaks by playing the passing lanes. Nike noticed, signing him up straight out of college and making him one of the faces of their new Flight campaign. That first season, he finished runner-up to Chuck Person for Rookie of the Year, and joined teammates Brad Daugherty and John “Hot Rod” Williams on the All-Rookie First-Team.

It didn’t last. Traded to the Clippers in ’89, Harper promptly blew out his knee and wouldn’t be the same player again. But while the DUNK part faded, DEFENSE came to the fore. When his deal with the Clips ran out, Harp signed with the then-Michael-Jordan-less Chicago Bulls, and through will and work, transformed himself into an indispensable player for Phil Jackson. (Phil loved big guards? No, he loved Ron Harper.)

After Chicago, Harp followed Jackson to Los Angeles, where he just kept winning titles. And along the way he influenced a young guard by the name of Kobe to start diversifying his game while he still had it all. “Oh, absolutely,” Bryant responds when asked whether Harper was a role model. “He made the most of what he had.”

SLAM: Growing up in Ohio, your high school numbers were crazy, but you didn’t really get recruited.

Ron Harper: See, the problem was I really didn’t play until my last two years of high school. I was kind of sheltered. But that’s OK, because it turned out good. One day I came home and told my mom, Mom, I really want to go to Arizona State. My momma said, “No. Miami of Ohio’s about 45 miles from the house.” And I said, Fine.

SLAM: And then the Cavs drafted you. Was that a dream come true?

RH: Well, sure. I can recall my third year of college, I call home, I tell my mom, I think I may go hardship. My mom says, “Hardship? Hardship, hell! You’re goin’ to school.” I said, But mom, we’re poor! She said, “No, we’re not. I work extremely hard. You’re not goin’ pro, you’re goin’ back to school.” So I stayed at school, and every team said, “If you come to New York [for the Draft], we’re going to take you.” I said, I’m gonna stay home, be around my mom. So I stayed home with her, and we get picked to the Cleveland Cavaliers around 4 in the afternoon—and I had a summer league game at 7 p.m. We played in front of a full house. They was like, “Man, you got picked in the NBA today!” I was like, Man, I don’t care. I’m gonna play.

SLAM: And when you joined the Cavs, you were joining guys who had the same background as you. You had so many rookies on that team—between you and Brad Daugherty and Mark Price, who you got in a Draft-day trade. Could you tell right away that he could do something?

RH: When I got Mark Price my first year, we had a guy named John Bagley, and John could damn hoop. But Mark was in that gym every day. When he got his chance, he just took over. I can recall a game, we played Detroit up in the Palace, he ate Isiah [Thomas’] ass up. Isiah was maaaaad! He almost tried to fight him. I told him, don’t get mad ’cause he’s lightin’ your ass up—Mark can play.

SLAM: The All-Rookie First-Team that year included you, Brad and Hot Rod Williams—plus Mark was coming on. Were you surprised that team didn’t stick together longer?

RH: Yes, that’s for sure. I always tell folks, we got beat by MJ on one bad shot, and next year they traded me.

SLAM: What do you think happened?

RH: Wayne [Embry, Cleveland’s then-GM] had his ideals, and I had mine. I was a young kid who came to play every night. You could see all my stats—I was in the top five in scoring, I was in the top-five rebounding guards, I was top-three in steals, I played more minutes than any first-year guy. Wayne said, “You need to go home and go to bed more.” I said, Well, if my stats show my being the same basketball player, what’s wrong?

SLAM: I think something people might not remember from those days is that you were in that Jordan mold.

RH: When I played against MJ, he always gave me my respect and I always gave him his. But he had the ultimate green light. I always had guys on my teams who were great, too. I had a Brad Daugherty, a Mark Price. I played with Hot Rod. So it’s not like I could shoot as much as him. I’m not saying if I did shoot as much as him what would have happened. I always told my teammates, MJ gonna score 32-35, and I’ll be within 10 points. So I need one of you guys to outscore his teammates.

SLAM: Things had changed a whole lot by the time you signed with the Bulls in ’94. You weren’t really the same player at all.

RH: The thing was, I was still able to be a smart guy who knew how to be a part of a team. My first year in Chicago, I had a hard time there. After my first year, me and Phil sat down, and he said, “How can you be a part of this basketball team?” I said, Well, I’ve got MJ here, I’ve got Scottie here, I’ve got Kukoc here. I’m not gonna get but five shots. If you trust me, I can play point guard. I can play defense. I can get us in all our plays. And you know what Phil said to me? He said, “If you had come in here and said to me you needed 10-12 shots and you needed to do all of this, I would have traded you.” I said, Naaaaah, I’m not goin’ nowhere. Shit, this team’s gonna be good!

SLAM: But you didn’t know that when you signed there, right? Mike was off playing baseball…

RH: I did know MJ was gonna return—MJ, he was there more than me! MJ, he came in about four days [a week] to hoop. I said, Man, you have to be comin’ back. “Nah, nah, Ron.” I said, Man, stop lyin’, man. And then he said he’s comin’ back. Then I was gettin’ no more time. And then in the Playoffs, we played  Orlando, and we had BJ Armstrong and we had Steve Kerr. And Orlando had Penny Hardaway. Phil said to me, “You got  Hardaway.” I was like, You can’t just go from not playing to guarding Penny. He’s like, “You got Hardaway, that’s all you need to know.” I said, All right, cool. So that’s how all that formed, me, MJ and Scottie.

The post No Regrets appeared first on SLAM.

by Russ Bengtson

It’s 11:25 a.m. in New York—9:25, Salt Lake time—and whichever way you look at it, it’s far too early for Chris Morris. The Jazz forward is minding his own business, sitting quietly in the visitors’ locker room of Madison Square Garden, lacing up his purple-and-white And 1s. Answering inane questions is the furthest thing from his mind. He just wants to rub the sleep from his eyes, get his warmups on and go shoot a couple of 30-footers. So when he’s asked whether he’s ever seen teammate Jeff Hornacek dunk, it catches him completely off-guard.

“No,” Morris says slowly. “I wish he could, you know? I mean, he can shoot, now he’s just gotta put another thing to the top of his game. We don’t know how long he has.”

Morris is serious. Does he actually believe a 6-4, 34-year-old with bad wheels (four operations and counting on the left knee alone) can learn to dunk? “But Chris,” I plead, “isn’t it getting a little late for that?”

Morris looks up. “Yeah,” he agrees. But you never know. You can always bring out something.”

The normal reaction is to laugh and walk away. Cautiously. Because Morris means every word he’s saying.

As if to illustrate the ridiculousness of Morris’s last statement, Hornacek himself walks out of a (closed to the media) back room. He stops at his locker, grabs his logo-free white socks and a pair of nondescript white Nikes and returns to the privacy of the back. He doesn’t say a word.

Hornacek, dunk? Yeah, right.

In his civvies—a pale yellow Hilfiger button down, decidedly un-baggy black jeans and low cut black boots—standing an unassuming 6-4, he looks more like the accountant he almost was than the NBA starter. Look at him in uniform, that Coors-Light lookin’ No. 14. This guy’s an NBA player? Maybe at a fantasy camp. Or maybe in the late ’50’s, when everybody ran around in shorts with two-inch inseams, shooting 30-foot set shots and dribbling out the clock to preserve 29-26 wins. Yeah, Horny’d be right at home in grainy black-and-white film, runnin’ the break with Russell and the Cooz. But the NBA in the ’90s? In Mike’s house? This guy? Get real.

Look at Hornacek’s stats, and you might think you understand. Through 70 games this season, he was averaging 14 points, 4.3 assists and 3.4 rebounds per. Shooting 47 percent for the field, 43 from behind the stripe. He even won the three-point shootout at All-Star weekend this year. “Oh,” you say to yourself. “he’s Mark Price.” Wrong again.

What you see—the dorky haircut, the scrawny physique, the goofy smile, the three-point precisions—is not all you get. There are no records kept for “picks set,” no rewards for passes that would surprise even Dionne Warwick’s friends. I could tell you that Jeff Hornacek is the most complete two-guard in the league, and I’d be lying. But if you can name one other NBAer who has made the most out of so little—one other player who does so much and get absolutely no recognition—I’ll be waiting. Horny may look like a YMCA weekend regular, but he’s as much a warrior as anyone else in the league. Remember that.

“The guy’s incredible to me, man” Jazz center Greg Foster says. “He shoots the ball better than anybody I’ve seen. And it’s not just his outside shot—he’ll go to the hole and give you some schoolyard shit, too.” Foster laughs. “That’s what really messes us up—we’re like ‘Damn, did you just see that shit?'”

Oh yes, that’s another element of Horny’s game the stat line won’t tell you about. He may be on point from 23-9, but let him drive to the hole, and he’ll lay something on you that wouldn’t be out of place at Rucker. Haven’t seen that part of his game? Feel free to ask the Blazers about it. They’re probably still reeling from an April 1 loss when Horny poured in a season-high 31, mostly on off-balance runners—straight schoolyard shit.

“Hornacek was at another level,” Portland coach Mike Dunleavy said afterward. “He makes shots people shouldn’t even shoot. Damon Stoudamire agreed: “He wasn’t even looking at the hoop on half the shots.”

Horny’s teammates see that stuff every night, and even they get startled now and then. “Aw, shhhhhh, everybody is [surprised],” Shannon Anderson says. “I think sometimes he’s surprising himself—you see him comin’ down the court smilin’. But you know, that’s the nature of his game—his game is to make those crazy shots comin’ down the stretch.”

Always has been. “It started in grade school,” Hornacek says. “I went into high school at 5-2, so I’ve always had to shoot it up high, and I’ve always just done that.

“I might be one of the worst practice players in the world, ’cause I shoot all those shots in practice—you gotta shoot ’em in practice before you ever shoot ’em in a game. I may miss a bunch in practice, but all of a sudden, in a game, it’s not that difficult a shot.”

Maybe it was the height, maybe it was the practice habits, maybe it was just the fact that his sweet J was still a long way off—but Hornacek didn’t get much burn his first two-and-a-half-years at Lyons (IL) Township High. [Editor’s note: Can you imagine going through high school nicknamed “Horny”?]. It took a teammate’s suspension to land him a starting spot. He grew to a whole 6-2, 150 by his senior year. And while the increased PT got him some local recognition, and he even made some state all-star teams, no major DI schools acknowledged his existence. Then again, neither did any minor ones.

“We played in a system that was a slow-down game,” Hornacek says, “and I think that people believed I couldn’t play the up-pace game, man-to-man and stuff like that. I wasn’t recruited.”

What he did get was an invitation from an Iowa State assistant who knew his father. “He said, ‘Hey, if you want to come out and practice with us, and basically try out, come on up,'” Hornacek remembers. Having no other offers, he accepted. “I practiced with ’em from the end of January to the end of their season, and they they decided to give me a scholarship.”

The next year, he averaged 5.4 ppg as a freshman. He went on to become the school’s fourth-leading all-time scorer, despite running the point his final three years and never averaging more than 13.7 per. Hornacek led the Cyclones to two straight NCAA Tournament appearances. Still, he was a low profile players on an low-profile team. No one was dying to draft him. And, despite his consistent play, he was certainly no lock for the League.

“[I started to think about the NBA] about three-quarters of the way through my senior year,” Hornacek says. “I had never planned on it, and even after that, when coaches said that ‘teams are calling for films,’ and ‘you’ll get drafted in the second or third round’—I knew even then the odds of making it were still slim. So I actually had two job interviews in Des Moines, Iowa, at accounting firms, and I told ’em, ‘Hey, are you gonna let me go try out, and if I don’t make is it still offer me a job?’ Both of ’em said yes, so I knew if I didn’t make it, I’d just head back there, and I’d have a job set up.”

The post The Professional appeared first on SLAM.

Originally published in KICKS 13

by Russ Bengtson / @russbengtson

All you really need to know is this: Whatever your favorite player has done or will do, Kareem Abdul-Jabbar did it first. And that’s not even getting into the things that he did that no other basketball player will likely ever do: get the NCAA to ban the dunk, master the sky hook, score 38,000 NBA points, win six MVPs, win two Finals MVPs 14 years apart, be named to 19 All-Star teams in a 20-year NBA career. Ah yes, and fight Bruce Lee on film.

He was born Ferdinand Lewis Alcindor in Manhattan, the only child of two working-class parents. He attended Power Memorial High School, where he scored over 2,000 points and won 79 of 81 games, including a little streak of 71 in a row. In the age before the internet and ESPN and the 24-hour news cycle, word of the dominant seven-footer spread the old-fashioned way, all the way to the West Coast, where he came to the attention of John Wooden at UCLA.

UCLA was a rising power at that point, led by the old-school Wooden and his pithy aphorisms. In 1964, the Bruins became just the third team in NCAA Tournament history to finish the season as undefeated national champions. The following year they won again. In the fall of ’65, however, the UCLA varsity suffered a terrible, 15-point loss. Fortunately for their pre-season No. 1 ranking, if not for their pride, the loss came at the hands of the UCLA freshmen. Alcindor scored 51 points. That season, they wouldn’t make it back to the NCAA final.

As it turned out, ’66 would be just a minor blemish on UCLA’s record. Once Alcindor qualified for the varsity as a sophomore, they were untouchable. Alcindor won more NCAA titles and Most Outstanding Player Awards (three) than he lost games (two). He was the no-brainer first overall pick of both the NBA and the ABA in ’69. The Harlem Globetrotters offered him a million dollars to skip out entirely, but he chose the NBA’s Milwaukee Bucks. NBA defenses were about as successful as the New York schoolboys and NCAA men in stopping him, as he went on to average 28.8 ppg and 14.5 rpg (good for second and third in the League respectively), led the Bucks to 30 games above .500 (after they finished 28 under the year before) and win Rookie of the Year.

As it happened, Alcindor’s emergence in the NBA coincided with that of another giant. German sneaker company adidas, best-known for its track spikes and soccer boots, had introduced a revolutionary leather hightop called the “Pro Model,” and in ’69 were ready to change the game again. The result was a low-cut version of the Pro Model called the Superstar—and what better superstar to introduce it to the basketball-playing universe than Lew Alcindor?

If there were any doubts, they should have been swept away in ’70. Teamed with Oscar Robertson, Lew won his first NBA scoring title, his first MVP, his first NBA championship, and his first Finals MVP. Not bad for someone who was yet to turn 25 years old. The day after the Bucks won the title, having converted to Islam, he changed his name to Kareem Abdul-Jabbar. The following year, he repeated as NBA scoring champ and MVP.

Other than his numbers, Jabbar was hardly the ideal endorsee. He was often aloof and could be hot-tempered on the court. He missed 20 games of the ’77-78 season after breaking his hand punching Bucks rookie center Kent Benson—in the season opener. But none of it deterred adidas from pushing him as their face of basketball. It didn’t hurt that, following the ’74 season, he was traded to the L.A. Lakers. Eventually, of course, Cap mellowed. He discovered the benefits of yoga and meditation, even poked fun at himself in a small role in Airplane! Perhaps he was most transformed by the arrival of a buoyant young point guard in 1979, one Earvin “Magic” Johnson. And the championships continued.

Over the course of Jabbar’s career, adidas’ basketball supremacy waxed and waned. He received signature shoes when Michael Jordan was still in high school, was the Muslim-American face of a German company. As for the end of his career, when Cap wore L.A. Gears—well, your favorite player probably won’t do that, either.

The post If The Cap Fits… appeared first on SLAM.

Originally published in KICKS 12

by Russ Bengtson / @russbengtson

If you trace things back far enough, the history of the modern athletic shoe started with a single phone call. The call came from a design employment agency in New York, informing of a job opening in Exeter, NH, with a company called Blue Ribbon Sports. The call’s recipient was a young industrial designer named Bruce Kilgore.

Kilgore had arrived in industrial design via the fine arts—a sculptor, he changed his career path when a helpful professor informed him that if he wanted to do things like pay the rent and eat, sculpting probably wasn’t the way to go. He changed majors and schools, transferring to the University of Bridgeport.

As a senior, Kilgore worked with a company called Richard J. Reilly, designing platform tennis courts, an oddity mostly limited to the New England area. After graduation, he went on to design household appliances. “That was interesting,” he says. “but figuring out how juice cans can come out of a freezer gets a little bit old after a while.”

After that, the car companies came calling. He moved to Detroit, did some work on the K-Car for Chrysler, as well as sculpting for a Pontiac “skunkworks” project that would eventually become the Fiero. Still, when that phone call came, he was ready for a change. He went in for the interview—a rather informal process—found out that Blue Ribbon Sports manufactured Nike shoes, and took the job. Afterward, they all went out to Pizza Hut, the only restaurant in Exeter that was still open.

Kilgore was teamed up with Jeff Johnson, Nike’s first employee, working on track spikes. Old Bill Bowerman had some ideas about spike placement, represented by a folder full of annotated foot X-rays. Kilgore’s job was to get the spike plate positioned properly. The result, the Zoom series of track spikes, were what Carl Lewis wore in the 1984 Olympic Games. “Then,” Kilgore says, “my next project was this Air basketball shoe.”

Nike had first used an Air sole in the Tailwind, a 1979 running shoe. That was an immediate success. The basketball project wasn’t. “There was another designer,” Kilgore says, “but it wasn’t moving in a positive direction. The shoe as I recalled it looked like the Michelin Man. They were really poochy, and the sidewalls…it wasn’t something that you could play basketball in. You could stick an airsole in it and say yes, it’s got a basketball silhouette, but to be able to play a game in the shoe, it wasn’t that. So I kind of took that project over.”

The result was the Nike Air Force 1, the granddaddy of all modern basketball shoes and one of the most iconic designs of all time. Kilgore may have left sculpting, but he still designed something that would endure. Not that he sees it that way. “I generally take a very minimalistic approach to everything. It’s only what you need. If you don’t need it, don’t put it in the product.”

“My nature is to focus on the performance aspect and let that define what the aesthetics of the shoe will be. Once you’ve done that, there’s some refinement that you have to do, you’re gonna make the thing look as aesthetically pleasing as you can, but for me the form follows function. So I start there, I get the base of it done, and when I know I have a product that works, then I can start detailing off and finishing it.”

Now Nike’s Director of Advanced Research and Development, Kilgore went on to design other forward-thinking products like the Air Jordan II, the Sock Racer and the Air Pressure (which, while remembered for its clunky air bladder, introduced the concept of a lower-profile midsole to basketball). Kilgore also spent a long time working on a little project named Shox. “Shox,” he laughs. “I spent 17 years screwing around with that.”

One thing he hasn’t done is looked back. Even as the revolutionary Air Force 1 turned 25 back in 2007, even as it was lauded and celebrated by everyone from athletes to entertainers. “Once you’ve done the product, I tend to move on. I’ve got a lot of other things on my plate,” he says. “I’m not good at looking at myself, actually. In fact, I try and play it down, probably.”

That’s OK, Bruce. We’ll do it for you.

The post Show Of Force appeared first on SLAM.

Originally published in KICKS 11

by Russ Bengtson / @russbengtson

There’s something you need to understand before we go any further, and that is this: As legit as KICKS Hall of Fame is, Allen Iverson should have been inducted already. We’re talking first-ballot, unanimous vote. We’re talking Michael Jordan, Clyde Frazier, Tinker Hatfield, Chuck Taylor and AI. That would have been right, that would have been just. But here we are, a couple of years in, finally hanging AI’s plaque, at last recognizing the one Question and the many Answers. For now, let the question be this: What the hell took us so long?

I can’t remember what sneakers Allen Iverson was wearing when he first appeared on the cover of SLAM. Nikes, undoubtedly. Jordans, probably. AI was at Georgetown then, slicing up the Big East as if it were just another playground. Big John Thompson, the Hoya employa, had a close eye on his personal charge, but there was no need for alarm. The fit was perfect.

Iverson turned 33 years old this summer. Is that even possible? It’s honestly hard to believe. He looks different than he did on that first cover—hair twisted into braids, long limbs gnarled and tattooed, that big-eyed, youthful face a little more drawn and worn. But he looks the same, too. He’s aged, but hasn’t grown old. There’s still a lot of kid in AI, but even when he was a kid, he had to be a grown-ass man. And even on the day he retires, a day that’s as hard to imagine as the end of time itself, he’ll look ready to run for 48 and score 30. Disdain for practice aside, can’t you see AI dropping 50 at 50? Me too.

As a rookie in 1997, AI averaged 23.5 ppg. As the MVP in 2001, he averaged 31.1 ppg. Last season, he averaged 26.4 ppg. Rules have changed, players have come and gone, Iverson continues to score. His career average of 27.7 ppg trails two players, and two only: Michael Jordan and Wilt Chamberlain. This will not be his only plaque.

But to the matter at hand: I’ve lost track entirely of how many signature shoes Allen Iverson has had at this point. The Answer XII is coming next, I know that much, but if you include the original Question and the Question II, plus the Playoff shoes, the off court models, the practice—you get the point. The second-most signature shoes in NBA history behind some guy named Mike. Not bad for a poor kid from Hampton, VA.

When he held that first shoe in his hands, after he moved from DC to Philly, from Nike to Reebok, Allen Iverson was floored. Stopped, maybe for the first time. You can look up that first season’s commercials on YouTube, see him taking the pearlescent-toed shoe from the blue box, turning it over in his hands. Realizing a dream, that of wearing his own signature on his feet, following in no one’s footsteps but his own. The Question was designed for him, not with him, yet it seemed to capture the essence of AI better than any that followed. The Question was a statement.

His shoes, his League. That first year, crossing up a flummoxed Michael Jordan—not once, but twice—before depositing a feathery mid-range jumper. A couple years later, in the Finals, handing a juggernaut Laker team their only Playoff loss, dropping 48 points in the series opener, stomping over a fallen Tyronn Lue like a soldier advancing against impossible odds.

One Question, many Answers. It’s been the story of Allen Iverson’s life. For his second SLAM cover, we asked, rhetorically: “Who’s Afraid Of Allen Iverson?” Slight frame, big jersey, gold chain, defiant look. In the mainstream, words flew. Playground. Street. Hip-hop. Thug. But in the end, who changed? In the end, who won?

That’s the thing, though, it’s not the end. Far from it. And when you think of Hall of Fames, you think of endings. Eulogies for the living. And maybe that’s why Allen Iverson, long deserving, is only being inducted now. Because we don’t want to think about the end, don’t want to think about the NBA without him, don’t want to think about who will attempt to carry on his legacy when he’s gone. Actually, that last non-question is easy enough to answer.

Nobody.

The post Questions and Answers appeared first on SLAM.

Originally published in KICKS 8

by Russ Bengtson / @russbengtson

Before he was an entrepreneur, before he was an innovator, Philip Hampson “Buck” Knight was an athlete. As a skinny, sandy-haired kid, Knight ran middle-distance events and ended up at the University of Oregon competing for legendary track coach Bill Bowerman. Besides being an excellent coach, Bowerman was also a trendsetter, always seeking an edge for his runners, right down to modifying track shoes.

Something about that must have stuck with Knight. As a Stanford grad student assigned a paper outlining the creation of a new business, he came up with the idea of importing running shoes from Japan to compete with adidas, whose products were both expensive and difficult to find. Later, on a trip to Japan, he discovered Onitsuka, a Japanese shoe company that was already manufacturing low-cost, high-quality running shoes under the name Tiger. Upon his return, Knight and Bowerman—who each contributed either $500 or $550 in either 1962 or 1963, depending on the account you read—made the project a reality. Knight called the new company Blue Ribbon Sports and started by selling Tigers out of the trunk of his car. That first year they made $364.

It was while working with Onitsuka that Bowerman began to develop some of the innovations that would make Nike the giant it is today. One, a foam wedge for the heel, would eventually lead to the development of the Cortez—which became one of Nike’s earliest successes. The other, the waffle sole, would be the source of one of the most oft-told stories in footwear. Seeking a design that would provide more traction than the usual herringbone, Bowerman poured rubber onto his wife’s waffle iron. And a young company had a sole.

Knight spent much of the early days of Blue Ribbon in the Far East, connecting with Onitsuka execs and quickly learning that he could simplify things by dealing with factories directly. This was a delicate situation—he didn’t want to lose his Onitsuka contacts right away, but he realized for the company to grow, he would need to be selling his own product. He also knew that Bowerman’s improvements were good ones, and that the market was there. In 1971, he paid a local artist $35 for a logo that would eventually be known as the Swoosh. Jeff Johnson, Nike’s first employee, suggested the name of the Greek goddess of victory. Knight’s idea, Dimension 6, was thankfully shot down.

If there’s a common thread through Phil Knight’s career, it’s been trust in others. The most impressive accomplishments on Nike’s résumé—the development of its Air cushioning, the signings of athletes like Michael Jordan and Bo Jackson, the creation of the “cross-trainer”—weren’t implemented by Knight alone. Often, he reportedly didn’t even express much of an opinion one way or the other. But it was he who put the right people in place to make those decisions.

Basketball wasn’t what Nike started with—their first hoop shoe, the Blazer, was just worn by, well, the Blazers—but it was what saved them. In the mid ’80s, running was dead and aerobics was hot, and an upstart named Reebok was supplying the proper shoes. They were lightweight white shoes made out of soft, supple leather—a product Nike couldn’t understand. They eventually produced aerobic shoes of their own, but their salvation was the Air Jordan.

And all the first Jordan—a garish black-and-red high-top with a virtually nonexistent Air unit—did was permanently reinvent the marketing of sneakers. That, more than the fact that it sold millions, is its enduring legacy. The Air Force, introduced in 1982, laid down Nike’s foundation as a basketball brand. The Air Jordan built the mansion. The idea of teaming Mike with a young filmmaker named Spike Lee and an architect-turned-shoe-designer named Tinker Hatfield gave them the world. With LeBron James, they have a shot at the rest of the universe.

These days, Phil Knight isn’t nearly as involved with the company he created. He finally retired as CEO earlier this year, and the only Nike title he retains is Chairman of the Board. And even after 40 years as the head of what became one of the world’s best-known brands, the 66-year-old Knight remains something of an enigma, his office closed to all but a select few, his eyes hidden behind a pair of omnipresent shades. For our purposes, all that needs to be known is this: the old middle-distance runner turned out to be pretty good at the longer runs as well.

The post Knight Moves appeared first on SLAM.

Originally published in KICKS 6

by Russ Bengtson / @russbengtson

When you think of Nike, what names come to mind? Michael Jordan, sure. LeBron, of course. Maybe Tiger, Griffey, Jr. and Michael Vick. Basically, the athletes. If you’re paying even a little bit of attention, you should know Phil Knight. And if you get deep, maybe even Bill Bowerman and Steve Prefontaine—and Lil’ Penny and Mars Blackmon, of course.

But did you think of Tinker Hatfield? If you’re a regular KICKS reader (or an aspiring shoe designer) you probably recognize the name. Still, you probably don’t realize just how important he is. In the words of Mars: Do you know, do you know, do you know?

Tinker Hatfield might just be the most important sneaker designer ever. Seriously. At this point, he’s a cross between Willy Wonka and Don Corleone. “We joke and call him the Godfather, kiss the ring,” says fellow designer Aaron Cooper. “Most people just see him as a Jordan guy, but he’s the career innovator, actually.” Need proof? Let’s do the list.

Air Jordans? Tinker is responsible for the vast majority of ‘em, from the III, back when Michael was actually considering leaving Nike, to the XV. And he’s recently come back on board with Jordan, despite being Nike’s VP of Special Projects, to design the Jordan XX. But that’s just the beginning. Cross training? He invented it. Yes, the whole concept. Air Max? That was his. Huarache? Yep. Name any big-time Nike innovation of the past 15 years, and it’s likely Hatfield had his hand in it.

And if you pay attention, you’ll notice the aesthetic that shines through every Tinker shoe, from the Air Raid to the original Air Max runner, from the Air Trainer I to the Air Jordan VII. Every Tinker shoe may not look alike, but they definitely share a certain feel. “It’s that 50-yard read,” says Mark Smith, another Nike designer who has collaborated with Hatfield for years. “How does it look from a long way away? I don’t think you’ll find a lot of details and extemporaneous fluff in Tinker’s designs. They speak to the function of the athlete through the form of the shoe.”

Function determines form. This is an old concept for Hatfield, who joined Nike in 1981 as an architect. He designed buildings for the company’s Beaverton campus before flipping to shoe design in 1986. He may be working on a smaller scale now, but many of the traits that served him well in his original job still hold true today. And it shows. “With all of his designs, you can put them up on the wall and there’s a consistency,” says Smith. “It’s like looking at a Frank Lloyd Wright house; there’s differences in all of them, but they all stand together. The style is very consistent.

“There’s a thing that speaks to Tinker in every pair-from cross trainers to the Jordans to the Huaraches,” Smith adds. “Consistency is probably his most key trait: well-crafted performance design.”

When working with top athletes, designers need to not only be able to share their vision, but to be able to interpret their performance needs into a marketable product. In this, Hatfield has been untouchable. “Tinker is just even-keeled with the ability to draw inspiration through conversation rather than a list of 50 questions,” says Smith—and nowhere is this more clear than in his relationship with Jordan. Mike is obsessed with style and performance when it comes to sneakers, and in Hatfield, he has a partner-an equal partner-in who he has ultimate faith. “They seem to co-exist in superstar status with each other-that’s what keeps them even,” Smith says. “Tinker defers to MJ in basketball, Michael defers to Tinker in terms of shoes. But somebody has to make the final call, and Tinker takes the lead on that.”

It’s a partnership that hasn’t done either of them wrong. “It’s really about the athlete,” Smith says of the design process. “It’s really about the function, rather than style for this year or this month—what the athlete needs.”

That’s what Tinker Hatfield understands better than anybody, possibly ever. And that’s why you should know his name.

The post The Architect appeared first on SLAM.

Of course, for this piece I didn’t get him one-on-one at all. There was one group session with all the Boston media in the universe at Celtics media day (where players face the masses one-by-one) and a strikeout at Madison Square Garden pre-season game where he got tossed in the first half and (as per usual) didn’t speak at all pregame.

No matter. Even in group settings he’s terrific, and when he’s not around, teammates new and old are eager to big him up. Er, literally sometimes. “We both have the same aspirations,” Shaq said before the Knicks game. “I’m on the last two steps, and he’s probably three steps above me goin’ out the door. Know what I’m sayin’? We know this time is special, and we’re gonna take advantage of it, and do what we can to fulfill what needs to be fulfilled.” —Russ Bengtson

by Russ Bengtson / @russbengtson

Kevin Garnett is old. He doesn’t look it, he sure as hell doesn’t act it, but nevertheless, Da Kid ain’t a kid no more. KG turned 34 on May 19, and his 41,694 regular-season minutes played heading into this season placed him ahead of Shaquille O’Neal, Bill Russell and even Michael Jordan on the all-time list. Two more seasons of 2,500-plus minutes—not inconceivable, given his history—would put him ahead of even the ageless Robert Parish and the tireless John Havlicek. There’s a lot of miles on those skinny legs.

A lot of years, too. And, as hard as it is to believe, the once-revolutionary Garnett (remember when 7-0 perimeter players were an oddity?) has become almost as much of a throwback as his No. 21 Timberwolves jersey. One only needs to look at his highly emotional game, which has been damn near legislated out of existence by the NBA’s new technical foul rules—evidenced by his first-half ejection in a pre-season game in New York.

The ironic thing is that said rules were instituted to make sure players respect the game. Respect the game? Garnett should be Exhibit A of why the new rules are so foolish. It’s hard to believe anyone could possibly love and respect the game more than KG. Just look at him before a game starts, while the anthem plays. Garnett’s in constant motion, shifting his weight from foot to foot, rocking his head from side to side, occasionally bringing a hand up. He’s damn near boiling over, ready to go. While the last note still sounds, he spins and heads to the bench, the first Celtic to do so.

Garnett’s pre-game ritual doesn’t end there. He has his own talc process that rivals (and pre-dates) LeBron’s, offers a fist bump to Celtics PR man Jeff Twiss, and goes to stand alone, head bowed, in front of his own basket stanchion. After his moment of violent reflection—banging his head into the stanchion—he stalks back down the court, offering the same fist bump—fist extended, elbow bent at a 90-degree angle—to all opponents. He ends in the backcourt where he pounds his chest twice and glares into the stands, before turning back and individually acknowledging all three officials. What is that if not respect?

Rewind. It’s a dreary early fall day in the Boston suburb of Waltham, Garnett’s 16th NBA media day—and a busy one at that, with multiple photo and radio setups, along with a slavering media scrum and a long table of items to sign, polo-shirted Celtics assistants and interns hustling players from spot to spot to spot—yet KG is already in mid-season form, trading quips with Shaq and yelling loud enough during a promo taping to interrupt Rajon Rondo’s interview in an adjacent room. Stillness is not in his nature. “You guys know KG,” Danny Ainge tells the assembled media. “He’s like a 12-year-old going back to school—he brings a great deal of enthusiasm to the gym every day.”

The post Holding You Down appeared first on SLAM.

—

In his playing days, Patrick Ewing was an enigma cloaked in a scowl wrapped in 47 bags of ice, more often than not dripping with ungodly amounts of sweat. He was a man of few words-his legendary three-minute postgame interviews began with “all right” and ended with “that’s it,” and if you didn’t get him then, better luck next game-who always preferred to let his play do the talking.

It spoke volumes. Growing up in Jamaica (the Caribbean, not Queens), Ewing didn’t discover the game of basketball until he moved to Cambridge, MA, as a 5-11, 12-year-old. But he learned fast. After four stellar years of high school ball at Cambridge Rindge & Latin School, he moved on to Georgetown in 1981, causing disappointment in Boston and Hoya Paranoia across the land. “They wanted me to go to Boston College,” he says of the hometown fans. “But you know what? If I was gonna stay home, I would have gone to Boston University, because of [then-coach] Rick Pitino.”

The Hoya Destroya led Georgetown to three NCAA title games, winning one (in ’84) and losing the other two by a combined three points. He also played in the ’84 Olympics, teaming up with Michael Jordan, Chris Mullin and a whole mess of other All-Americans on the last great collegiate Olympic team. “You know,” Ewing says, “we smashed everybody.” He’d later win gold again with the Dream Team in ’92.

NBA-wise, the allegedly fixed Draft Lottery landed Ewing with the Knicks, for whom PE would go on to play for nine coaches and with an entire media guide’s worth of
teammates. He was a model of consistency, making 11 straight All-Star teams, but he could never quite push the Knicks over the hump. They made the Finals twice, in ’94 and ’99, but were beaten both times. Not having an NBA championship may have had something to do with an old rival and close friend from North Carolina.  He can laugh about it now. “With Michael Jordan gettin’ all the damn calls, what did you expect?”

When the end came, it wasn’t in New York. He spent his last two years in Orlando and Seattle, a footnote on a stellar career that saw him pile up 24,815 points, 11,607 rebounds (for career per-game averages of 21 and 9.8) and 2,894 blocks.

“You could not have done more for an organization,” former Knicks coach Jeff Van Gundy once said. “Unfortunately, he didn’t win a championship. But he conducted himself like a champion and put more into trying to win a championship than anyone.”

After his retirement, Ewing served as an assistant coach for the Wizards and Rockets. Currently an NBA TV analyst, he’s destined to return to the sidelines. And perhaps one day get that elusive ring.

SLAM: It seems there’s a lot of concern from players over their own images nowadays. You, on the other hand, never seemed to really care what anyone thought.

Patrick Ewing: I was of the philosophy you’re not gonna change people’s image of you. People are gonna think what they wanna think, or just think whatever they read or whatever they hear from the media. But I felt that as long as my friends and family-people who were close to me and knew the real me-knew what I was, I didn’t really care what other people think about me. But the bottom line is you still have to go out there and produce, and I thought that’s what I did-I went out there and I produced.

SLAM: Going back to the beginning, you grew up in Jamaica and moved here when you were 12. You weren’t playing too much basketball there.

PE: Nah, I didn’t even know what basketball was. They had a thing called netball, which I guess that was similar, and I saw that being played once. Basically all I played was soccer-we called it football back then-and cricket. But those-with track and field-were the three most popular sports in the Caribbean back then.

SLAM: So when you moved here, how did you discover basketball?

PE: Well, we moved to Boston, Cambridge, and went on the playground, saw these guys playing this game, basketball, and I was standing there watching them, and they asked me if I wanted to play. I told ’em I didn’t know how to play. They didn’t care because they just needed another body. I played it, I liked it, took me a while to become good at it. But like any other kid, you go through trials and tribulations, people teasing you because you’re not that good and because I was very tall. But you know, I just said, I’m not playin’ for them, I’m playin’ for myself. I enjoy doin’ this thing, so I’m gonna continue to do it.

SLAM: You were coached by Mike Jarvis in high school, and I read a quote from him saying you were gonna be the next Bill Russell-but a scorer on top of that. Was he telling you stuff like that?

PE: [Laughs] He was tellin’ me stuff like that. Bill Russell was the greatest center ever, especially up in Boston-not taking anything away from Kareem or Wilt, but in Boston, Bill Russell is God. So naturally when you’re a center and doing the things that I could do-I was a great shotblocker-and I guess that reminded a lot of people of what Russ did. So they wanted me to emulate my game after him.

SLAM: What influenced you to go to Georgetown?

PE: Of all six schools I visited, I could have gotten a great education at all of them. But the reason I went to Georgetown was John Thompson. John Thompson played my position, so I just felt very comfortable there. UCLA was my second choice, but I was very happy I chose Georgetown.

SLAM: People still talk a lot about the whole “Hoya Paranoia” thing-you guys staying quiet and just coming in and killing people. Was that a very deliberate thing?

PE: I think it was just something that grew. Pat Riley or Jeff Van Gundy, they do a lot of the same things that John Thompson did, in terms of they keep people away. If it’s not positive energy, you try to keep it away. And you can only do so many interviews. If I did every media request back then that was asked of me, when would I have time to do my work or even have a social life? So we picked and chose what I did. And naturally I probably could have done more, but I didn’t want to. Coach Thompson was pushin’ me to do a lot more, but I was like, “Coach, this is all I choose to do,” and he took the hit for me.

But it was-yeah, we were the Hoyas, Hoya Paranoia. But like a big quote I remember back then said: “It ain’t paranoia if they’re really after you.” And everybody was after us. The media, the other schools. But you know, we just kept it, “Hey, they’re gonna think what they want, they gonna write what they want, we’re a great family, we’re doing extremely well, so let’s not worry about that and let’s just go out and play. And kick ass.”

SLAM: Did you relish being the intimidator back then?

PE: I enjoyed just being good. Being great. Blocking shots, scoring when I had the opportunity to, runnin’ out on the fast break, getting dunks. I mean, I just had fun. My whole college experience, it was great.

SLAM: Did you ever consider leaving school early?

PE: I thought about it after my junior year, but I had one more year and I wanted to finish my college career; enjoy it for one more year before entering the real world.

SLAM: And then they put the Lottery together when you did come. Do you think it was fixed?

PE: [Laughs] Everybody says that. They still say it. Oh shit, I’ve heard a lot of stories. That the end of the envelope was bent, or they had it in a freezer so it would be colder than the other ones. You hear a lot of different things, man. But hey, I was very happy that I wound up in New York. The only regret I have about being in New York is the fact that we never won a championship. But other than that, it was a great experience for me.

SLAM: Had you actually been to a Knicks game before?

PE: No. I mean, I didn’t grow up in New York, I grew up in Boston, so I went to some Celtics games. But I wasn’t a Knick fan growing up, I was a Philadelphia 76ers fan, with Dr. J, Dawkins and those guys. But you know, going through college, I was watching Bernard [King] doing his thing, scoring 50, 60 points, so they were at a point where they needed a few more pieces to get to the next level. And if Bernard hadn’t gotten hurt…well, if he hadn’t gotten hurt, I probably wouldn’t have gone to New York. But it would have been great to have played with him when he was rollin’.

SLAM: Yeah, it was an unfortunate twist. He was probably the most talented guy you ever played with, and it was only for six games.

PE: Actually, I never played with him. When he came back, I was hurt. I practiced with him once. I had gotten hurt, but I thought that I was healthy enough to practice. I  practiced with him that one time, and the doctors almost had a heart attack. They were like “Pat, are you crazy? You could have tore your knee or worse!” [Laughs]

SLAM: You went from becoming “the next Bill Russell” to being the best jump-shooting center in NBA history. What inspired you to add that part?

PE: Well, I’ve always been able to shoot. But in college, Coach Thompson wouldn’t let me take my jump shot. He was like, “Son, get your ass in the post. [Laughs] They pay you from the inside out. Stay your ass in there.” So I stayed in there. But I’ve always been able to shoot. It’s funny, I remember when I came to the Knicks I’m sitting around with Dick McGuire, who was the Knicks great scout, and he’s like, “Patrick, where the hell did you get that jumpshot from? I thought all you could do was block shots and rebound and run on the break and dunk?” I was like, “Dick, I’ve always been able to shoot.” It’s not something that you’re just gonna develop overnight.

But in the NBA, I mean, the offense was opened up. And when I came in, everybody was bigger than me. I was tall, but I wasn’t as strong as a lot of those guys, so they were beatin’ the hell out of me. So I stepped out on the block a little bit, developed a pump-fake drive move. But first you gotta be able to hit that shot to bring ’em up. So I started consistently hitting my jumpshot and when they came up, I tried to go around ’em, use my quickness. So that’s where my game developed.

SLAM: You did have that revolving door of teammates when you were with the Knicks. What do you think your best group was?

PE: I thought the best chance we had at a championship was the year when we got in the fight. The year we got in the fight with Miami-’97. We were just clickin’ at the right time, everything was goin’ well for us, thought we would have beaten the Bulls that year and would have beaten Utah. But we got in that fight and [laughs] we all got suspended.

SLAM: Do you have any regrets at all about your career?

PE: Nah. There’s some things you’d do differently, and I guess one of ’em would be to open up more to the fans and the media. But that’s it. I thought I had a great career, a great life in New York, and I probably should have ended my career in New York instead of going elsewhere.

SLAM: I saw you said somewhere you kind of felt like you were being marginalized.

PE: Well, I asked to be traded. I just got tired of hearing all the rumblings that “The team is better off without him,” “He’s holdin’ ’em back.” After hearing that for 15 years, at some point you get tired of it. You feel like you did your best to help this team or help build this team to what it is, and if your services are not required anymore, you go to greener pastures.

SLAM: Do you have a single best memory as a Knick?

PE: Tippin’ in that dunk and beatin’ Indiana [in the ’94 Conference Finals] to finally make it to the Finals. [Ewing finished that Game 7 with 24 points and 22 rebounds.]

SLAM: Did you feel that in ’94, if you had just one more piece…

PE: You know what? Not even one more piece, just if things were different…it’s like, I stopped playing, I coached in Washington for a year, then I go to Houston with Jeff [Van Gundy]. And every day for three years I’m sittin’ in the players’ lounge eatin’ breakfast or lunch, and they have this big-ass picture of John [Starks] shootin’ that shot [at the end of Game 6] and Hakeem blockin’ it, and I’m wide open, no one on me, just runnin’ down the lane. When I first got there I called up John, like, “You mother-, I’m fuckin’ wide open! And you shot!” [Laughs] No, you know, I just joke with him, because I loved playing with John, I love the man. He’s a warrior. You know, people always call me a warrior, but John, you always know he’s gonna have your back. He’s a person when you’re going to war, you want to go with a person like him, because you know he ain’t gonna wimp out or punk out. John’s always gonna have your back.

The post Original Old School: King of New York appeared first on SLAM.

by Russ Bengtson

There will never be another Michael Jordan. Sometimes it’s best to get the obvious out of the way right out front, and this feels like one of those times. So, there. “The Best there Ever Was, The Best there Ever Will Be”? Yep. It’s right there on his statue in front of the United Center, literally carved in literal stone, and thus inarguable. So that’s that. Right?

Maybe. Michael Jordan wasn’t the best at everything, and he didn’t do everything first. Bill Russell finished with double fistfuls of rings, Wilt Chamberlain averaged 50 points a game, Dr. J dunked from the free-throw line. In a sense, Jordan was the ultimate aggregator-he took the best of everyone who came before and rolled it up into a ready-for-prime-time package. He threw down ridiculous dunks, scored bucketloads of points and won championships. Even played defense and practiced. And fortunately for him (and for us), his rise coincided with the NBA’s. They lifted each other to heights never before reached. Jordan was the right player at the right time, and the world conspired to make him a god.

Not to say it was all manufactured. Far from it. Jordan’s unedited NBA career spooled out like the most implausible of movies, from dropping 63 points on the 1986 Celtics (in their house, no less) to that last, hanging jumper over Bryon Russell. Even the Wizards epilogue, jarring in its entirety, provided moments to savor. Scoring 50 as a gimpy 40-year-old? Who does that? Not to mention two more All-Star Games and the priceless gift of allowing countless more fans to say they saw him play live. In the meantime-even while the real Jordan was still in his prime-a fruitless search for the next Jordan went on.

Paradoxically, there has been no next Jordan, there can be no next Jordan, for the simple reason that there was a first Jordan. “If I could be like Mike”? No chance. His career was structured in such a way that it can never be duplicated, only imitated. It wasn’t perfect-after all, his teams did get taken to two Game 7s (which they, um, won)-but it was so close that it may as well have been. The comparisons will always be there, and everyone who strives will always fall short. Fall too short, and you’re Harold Miner. Come too close, and you’re Kobe Bryant. The greatest tragedy of Kobe’s career-if you can find tragedy in a five-times-and-counting NBA Champion and certain first-ballot Hall of Famer-is that it cannot be viewed except through the Jordan filter. (It doesn’t help that his championships were all won playing for Michael’s old coach.) Five rings? Sure, but he’s only been Finals MVP twice. And he was only regular-season MVP once. Better than Jordan? Yeah, right.

Here’s the thing: Jordan built his career on the foundation laid down by those who came before him; Dr. J and David Thompson among them. This is how it always worked. Others who came after were expected to do the same. But Jordan didn’t leave much room for future players to build a legacy of their own. While those he emulated had fallen short or left things unfinished, Jordan didn’t. How do you build on a mansion? The game itself changed, and Jordan was the one who changed it. It’s hard to believe that any one player will ever usher in that sort of change again. Jordan defeated all the archetypes, expanded the game, created an archetype of his own (the basketball Terminator-a relentless cyborg covered in a thin human shell). It’s not even a question of whether anyone can equal his greatness-rather, is his greatness even one that can be equalled?

It might not be possible to follow in his footsteps at all. The fragmentation of the media has taken away the chance of having that mythology built up. The fragmentation of the NBA (and the apparent willingness of even the biggest stars to leave their teams) has taken away the chance to battle and battle before overcoming a particular challenge. And the battles aren’t the same anyway-teams like the Bad Boy Pistons and the Riley Knicks are as much of an anachronism as set shots and underhanded free-throws. Beat a team now, and another rises to take its place. There are no clear-cut heroes, no unmistakable villains, just an ever-changing pool of challengers. It’s hard to be king of the mountain when the mountain itself is gone.

It goes both ways, of course. In a way, Jordan was fortunate to have played when he did. We don’t know what the effect of a 24-hour news cycle would have been on MJ’s career, how he would have been seen filtered through the eyes of hungry bloggers, pop-culture-addled columnists and Rachel Nichols. When Sam Smith wrote The Jordan Rules, it was a radical act-the unmasking of a superhero. Now? Re-reading it 20 years later, what are the shocks? That he was vulgar? That he was competitive? His Hall of Fame speech was more damning. But for the first six years of his career, the public perception of Michael Jordan was shaped by fawning beatwriters, Sports Illustrated profiles, the NBA on NBC, and Nike’s ad agencies. By the time The Jordan Rules went to press, his perceived personality was more or less set in stone.

Compare that to someone like LeBron James, who’s been a highly scrutinized public property since he was in high school. Unlike Jordan, he wasn’t allowed to grow within that protective umbrella, to just play basketball while the rest was taken care of. Now? Controlled access has become a thing of the past, what with the emergence of Flipcams and camera phones and Twitter accounts. No longer do we need to wait on the Curry Kirkpatrick stories and the Walter Iooss photos and the Wieden + Kennedy campaigns to get the filtered truthiness. Like HBO Sports says, nothing is out of bounds.

So what happens? Let’s say LeBron averages a triple-double for a season (although it seems highly unlikely), or 40 points a game, or wins eight NBA titles (forgetting for the moment that just equaling Jordan would require him to win at least one Finals game, then-appropriately enough-23 more). Would he be viewed as Jordan’s better then? Maybe not. Leaving Cleveland and teaming with Dwyane Wade in Miami took him off the One True Path-and all it takes is a single misstep to fall. Not to mention being just like Mike, only better, simply doesn’t cut it. You have to change the game.

But who knows? Maybe things will be viewed differently in the future. Maybe the LeBron/Wade/Chris Bosh Heat team does change the game in some fundamental way. Maybe 100 years from now, when the topic of the greatest is debated by people who never saw Michael or Kobe or LeBron play live, there will be a sense of objectivity that doesn’t-that can’t-exist in our time. After all, historians love to revise. Maybe when emotion is stripped away and careers are judged simply by the numbers, someone else will be viewed as the best there ever was, the best that ever will be.

But probably not.

The post The Blueprint appeared first on SLAM.

by Russ Bengtson

It’s probably for the best that Team USA couldn’t hear Marv Albert’s remarks before the nationally televised start of the 1994 World Championship gold medal game. Given what took place in the game itself, it’s unlikely their “us against the world” attitude could have grown any nastier, but you never know.

“Over the past two weeks in Toronto, the world basketball spotlight has been on Dream Team II,” Albert intoned. “And while they’ve failed to match the dominance of Dream Team I, this second set of NBA stars has shown flashes of brilliance.”

Whoa, whoa, whoa. Team USA’s average margin of victory heading into the final was 36.6 ppg, which compared quite well to the original Dream Team’s 43.8. And while head coach Don Nelson had not been able to duplicate Team USA predecessor Chuck Daly’s feat of not calling a single time-out throughout the entire tournament—in fact, Nellie called one in the very first half of the very first game—the outcome of the tournament was never in doubt. “There was no pressure on ‘were we gonna win a gold medal?,’” Dream Team II guard Steve Smith remembers. “It was just how we were gonna win a gold medal.”

The problems, as they were, began with the name. The original Dream Team, of ’92 vintage, featured the reigning MVP, as well as the winners of the previous eight (they’d go on to win six of the next seven as well). Between them, they had 12 championship rings and seven Finals MVPs. Dream Team II? Discounting the injured Isiah Thomas who was selected but unable to play, the count stood at zero, two and one, respectively. And all of those were the property of one player, 31-year-old Pistons guard Joe Dumars. Dream  Team II? This was the equivalent of a record company naming a promising but not particularly accomplished band “The Beatles II.” Right. Good luck with all that.

The elders of the group were Dumars, 30-year-old guard Mark Price, and Dominique Wilkins, 34. (Wilkins was gleefully dubbed “Grandpapa” by Larry Johnson and “Antique Dominique” by everyone else.) Reggie Miller, Dan Majerle and Kevin Johnson were 28, Derrick Coleman was 27, Smith and Larry Johnson were 25, Shawn Kemp and Alonzo Mourning were 24, and Shaquille O’Neal, the baby of the bunch, was 22. This was clearly a far less accomplished squad.

So when Nelson brought them together that summer for a short training camp at Chicago’s Moody Bible Institute, it wasn’t about to be all fun and games. The players expected a carefree Nellie who would let everyone run, but got a taskmaster instead. “It wasn’t a lackadaisical camp where he threw out the balls and let us scrimmage,” Majerle says. “I think that would have been a lot of fun, but it was more like a training camp where we went out and ran through the drills and did defensive things, a lot of shooting. He was out there to make sure we won.”

Nellie was hoping that success in Toronto would result in his being named Olympic coach in ’96—a job which wound up going to Lenny Wilkens. But he had to make sure he succeeded first. “The pressure was great because everybody expected us to win,” Nellie says. “I expected us to win, we just had to make sure we didn’t make some mistake and not be ready to win every game. And not to be in any close games where a referee could make a call and beat you.”

Still, Chicago wasn’t all wind sprints and diving after loose balls. Guys found time to go up against each other—primarily O’Neal and his ’92 Draft mate Mourning. Nellie, at the time 54 and a three-time NBA Coach of the Year, had never seen anything like it: “My first couple days of practice, I remember Shaq and Mourning going at it, just to see who was the best. Holy criminy, I thought those guys were gonna kill each other.”

The tournament began on August 4, in Copps Coliseum, in Hamilton, Ontario. Outside, Team USA (and the paying customers) were greeted by a giant inflatable version of Larry Johnson’s “Grandmama” character. Converse and Coca-Cola were major sponsors, the Phoenix Gorilla provided entertainment, Kris Kross and Public Enemy blared through the arena sound system. They felt at home. They were heavily favored. And then the first pass of the first game was picked off, leading to a Spain layup. The crowd roared. Team USA pulled ahead, but Spain wouldn’t go away. Inconceivably, they even took a 42-41 lead with just over five minutes to go in the first half, before fading in the second and losing by 15. But the damage had been done.

“I played the bench and they screwed around,” Nellie recalls, “and all of a sudden that game was at 14 points on us, and it was like we had lost a game.” He laughs. “And the media killed us. But that was our only close—it wasn’t even close—our only game that was a negative.”

This was the fine line the second Dream Team had to walk. How do you respect your opponents, yet blow them out at the same time? “It seems like we can’t win,” Mourning told Sports Illustrated. “If we don’t win by a ton of points, everybody says we’re not as good as the Dream Team. And if we do win by a lot, people say, ‘Yeah, but it was more fun when the Dream Team did it.’” (SI‘s post-Gold Medal coverage of an imaginary World Series showed what they thought of the whole thing.)

Against China in the second game, winning by a ton of points seemed likely. Thanks to leakouts, the absurd 20-7 three-point line (Miller and Majerle regularly shot from 10 feet behind it), and the fact that China only had one player over 6-10, the USA stormed to a 71-38 halftime lead en route to a 132-77 blowout. They kept shooting and pressing all the way to the final horn, seemingly trying to erase the first result from everyone’s collective memories.

Five days later, against Australia, the game played out in a way that would become familiar. After the first game, where Wilkins and Smith only saw garbage time, Nellie started to experiment with different starting lineups, moving O’Neal to the bench. And for a while, the Aussies were able to play with Team USA, even building a small lead. Enter Shaq-Fu. The end result? A 56-point USA victory. “He actually asked to come off the bench,” Nellie says of Shaq, “which solved any sort of problems that I had with egos. Because then I could start Mourning and bring him off the bench, and everybody else just got right into line.”

“I knew I was the young guy on the block, and I didn’t wanna hear no veterans talk,” O’Neal says. “So hey, I’m gonna come off the bench, you guys do what you do and I’m gonna do what I do. And then I’d come in and change the whole thing.” Of course, by then, Nellie realized he was facing a bigger challenge than just doling out minutes. “You have to understand that it’s not cool to disrespect people or other members of different teams from different countries,” he says. “It means a lot for those guys and to do something on the court that would embarrass ’em or something like that, that was my biggest challenge. I had a group that liked to do that, and it was quite a battle to keep them under wraps.”

This is Dream Team II’s enduring legacy, and it was well-earned. Watching the games now, with the chest-bumping and chest-thumping and yelling and dunks after the whistle and arguments with the refs and glares at opponents, it’s readily apparent. It didn’t help that those opponents were a far cry from what they are now—most teams were filled with anonymous highlight-reel fodder. But it’s equally difficult to imagine that the Team USA selection committee—which Nelson played no role in—didn’t know what they were doing. Were they expecting a team composed of Miller, Kemp, Larry Johnson, Mourning, Coleman and O’Neal to be model citizens? To not only win, but win with dignity? “That was just a lot of the personalities that we had,” says Majerle. “That’s the way Shawn played, and Larry Johnson, those guys were boisterous guys, that’s the way they played the game, and that was just the reputation we got.”

And of course some of it was entirely calculated. “Marketing, baby,” O’Neal says. “You gotta understand that makes for good entertainment. Some teams didn’t like that, you know, the ones that got demolished—‘Oh, they’re embarrassing our country.’ But if you come out there, that’s what happens.” The original Dream Team demolished everyone with one hand extended in peace. Or at least that’s how people chose to remember it. Dream Team II? They had a hand somewhere else. “I remember Kemp would do a thunder dunk or something,” Nellie says, “and he’d grab his testicles or some stupid thing, make a bit of a fool of himself. I had a couple guys do that.”

Gestures and jesters aside, they played team ball, finding the open man and the hot hand, whoever it was. There may have been some disagreements over minutes, but never shots. “We were very unselfish,” O’Neal says. “I remember one time Joe shot eight times in a row. He hit six of ’em, nobody said nothin’. It was all good. We didn’t care.”

Most times though, the ball went to Shaq. The new tattoo on his bicep read “The World Is Mine,” and every monstrous dunk underlined it. While he didn’t intend to become the team’s focal point, he wasn’t about to turn the chance down, either. “I didn’t really go in with the mindset ‘Hey, I’m taking over. I’m the new shit. Michael left, Magic left…’” O’Neal says. “I never had that, I just always know as a player, as a person, I want people to remember me. There’s only one way to make them remember you, and that’s to do something spectacular. And that’s what I did.”

It reached a point where even the announcers could only sit back and laugh. At the end of the first half against Puerto Rico, Team USA held for the last shot, and Majerle buried a long three. “It’s very sound basketball,” observed Daly drily, “especially when you’re leading 57-25.” Early in the second half, as the USA continued to build their lead, Daly noticed that the Puerto Rico coach had taken a seat. “When you’re in this situation, you just want to get out of the building,” he mused. Fellow announcer Gary Bender took the bait: “Alive, right?” Daly didn’t hesitate: “It’s too late for that.”

By the time the gold medal game rolled around, there wasn’t much left to say. The only other unbeaten team, Croatia, which featured Toni Kukoc and Dino Radja, lost in the semis, so Team USA would face Russia, whom they’d beaten days earlier.Nellie assembled the team for a 45-minute film session that morning, then kept it simple before the game. “I didn’t give them any rah-rah speeches or ‘win one for the Gipper’ or any of that kind of stuff.” Not that the players needed any motivation. “We were just amped up and prepared and ready,” Smith says, “just looking forward to walking on that platform and receiving our gold medals. We came out and it was unbelievable. Every shot was going in.”

In fact, the first 10 shots went in. By the time O’Neal entered the game, Team USA was up 42-17. And despite some hot second-half shooting from the Russians, the game was never close. Finally, Nellie could sit back and relax. “When you’re up 40 in the second half, I kind of felt that way, yeah. We weren’t gonna screw it up.”

Team USA hadn’t won gold at the World Championships since ’86, hadn’t gone through the tournament undefeated since ’54. Forty years later, it finally happened again. A perfect result from an imperfect team. “I don’t think it posed much of a challenge for any of us as far as the basketball,” Price says, “But being on that team meant a lot to me, and I got to be part of that.”

The post Original Old School: The Dream appeared first on SLAM.

by Russ Bengtson

Kobe Bryant extends his right hand in greeting, , you reach out your own, and before you get there, you hesitate.

Whoa. Hold on. Just look at that thing for a second. The fractured right ring finger swollen, wrapped from tip to palm in black tape, the pinkie stiffly extended. In medical terms, it’s totally fucked up. You take it gently and think, “He hit a game-winning shot less than 24 hours ago with this?”

True story. Just ask the Milwaukee Bucks, who withstood a misfired Kobe turnaround at the end of regulation only to go down on the same exact shot at the end of overtime. “I have to remind myself sometimes, like throughout the game, shots might go short because I got the old grip that I’m used to shootin’ with,” he says nonchalantly. “So, a couple times muscle memory will go back to the old way.” Right. Nothing to it. If my hand was that messed up? This story would have been written by somebody else. Less than two weeks later, he buries another game-winner, this time against the Sacramento Kings, this at the end of a game he plays primarily using his left hand.

But that’s just the way Kobe Bryant is, how he’s wired. He’s been the ultimate basketball machine, forcing himself to perform through injury, through literal trial and tribulation. And every year he adds something new. The best player in the game still looks for an edge anywhere he can, right down to obsessively working with Nike designers to shave millimeters and grams off his signature shoes. And he’s constantly re-engineering his game, not waiting for age to slow him down, for gravity to catch up. He’s only 31, but he got old young.

“He’s still able to go out and play at a high level and do things athletically that he could do when he was young, but it’s almost like he knows to pick and choose his spots,” says Grant Hill. “It’s not like he’s trying to come down and beat you every time. He’s beatin’ you more now with his mind.”

At this stage in his game, Kobe is straight-up Training Day—he’s surgical with this bitch. When he wanted to get stronger, he hired Tim Grover to be his personal trainer. When he wanted to get better in the post, he went and saw Hakeem Olajuwon. Kobe’s arrogance may still be unmatched, but it’s balanced with a certain humility—he understands that there are others he can learn from.

SLAM: I’m sure you remember that fable, the ant and the grasshopper. Middle of summer and the grasshopper’s just chillin’ while the ant’s piling stuff up for winter. In the League today and especially from your Draft class, you’re one of very few ants with a lot of grasshoppers. Do you watch what’s happening with AI, or with Steph, or with Toine? Does that validate your process?
KOBE: It validates my process for me. This is what’s worked well for me. You know, it’s—I take a lot of pride in the longevity that I’ve had. Because I’ve seen a lot of great players hit that really hot mark. And I just kind of hover around, hover around, a decade goes by and I’m still here. So I take a lot of pride in being able to do what I do at this level for so many years.

SLAM: I talked to Grant Hill about getting older and playing as you’re older, and he talked about how the game slows down, and it gets simpler. Has that been the case for you?
KOBE: I don’t know if it’s slowed down any more. I think I understand my game more. I know what I want to do, I know what I do great, I know what I do well, you know what I mean? I know exactly where I want to go and what to do, and how teams play me, because I’ve seen them so many times now. So I think that’s what happens, for me anyway. I have a better understanding of what I like to do.

SLAM: What do you take from that, is it a matter of refinement every year?
KOBE: Yeah, it’s a matter of wanting to figure things out, it’s a matter of experience. But there’s players who play for years and years and years and still don’t figure that out—it’s a process that you have to kind of go through yourself and want to figure that stuff out. When I first came into the League, I could post, I could play on the perimeter, I could shoot threes, I could definitely wind up doing everything all over the place. So it’s about fine-tuning things, sharpening up a little bit, figuring out exactly how you want to play, and then everything else kind of takes care of itself.

SLAM: Another thing that’s struck me is that you’re willing to give credit to those who came before and seek out help from those guys. Is there anyone on that level whom you haven’t had a chance to speak to yet?
KOBE: Honestly, no. Because I’ve been very fortunate to be able to get through with a phone call to just about anybody. The one person I’ve never ever met is Larry Bird, I’ve just never met him. We’ve never crossed paths for anything. But I’ve been very fortunate, I can pick up the phone and call just about anybody. And they’ve all been very gracious.

SLAM: Who was the first guy you talked to?
KOBE: Um…probably MJ. Probably MJ. He helped me out when I was younger as well. I spoke with—sh, if I went down the list of all the players I spoke with. Jerry West, he’s an easy one, I’ve talked with him many times, Oscar Robertson, I spoke to him, Hakeem Olajuwon, I’ve spoken to him, Jordan, I’ve spoken to him, Clyde Drexler. The list of guards right there, that’s some of the all-time great guards to play, and in my opinion the best post player of all time in Hakeem.

SLAM: Was there any one particular lesson or piece of advice from anyone that seemed totally out of left field that wound up working out?
KOBE: No, not really. I’ve always gone in expecting the unexpected. So when they tell me things: Oh, OK, that makes sense. I could see how you would want to use it that way, looking at your body and your frame and what you like to do. So now it’s, OK, how do I use that for what I got? How does that make sense for me, how can I incorporate that, if at all? So I just kind of take it and, it’s kind of like, Oh, OK, I see.

SLAM: Is that the sort of thing you’re starting to see from the other side, where young players come up to you? “Kobe, can you tell me this, this or this?” How much are you willing to share when someone asks you?
KOBE: I share it. Because it’s not what you share, it’s at the end of the day you still have to try and perfect that. Because I went to spend time with Hakeem, but that would have been worth nothin’ if once I left there, I left it there. You know what I mean? So I had to do my work as he did his to get to where he was.

SLAM: You’re in—I think it’s your ninth season—with Phil, which was as long as he was in Chicago. Are you still learning things from him every day?
KOBE: Ummm…no, not really. Not really. We’ve been together for a long time, so much so that we’re virtually on the same page. Phil’s biggest thing is, his advantage is, consistency in what he teaches. He’s not all over the place. Coaches are all constantly trying to think of motivation techniques and all sorts of stuff. He doesn’t stress out about that. He just sticks to the script, and I think that’s why he’s been such a great coach for so long, he doesn’t divvy from that. He teaches you the game the way he wants it to be played. He’s not coaching your personality, he’s not trying to change you as a person. He just wants you as you are, as you develop, however you choose to develop as a person, wants you to fit into the continuity of the offense. [dusts off hands] That’s it. And I think that’s what’s genius about him.

SLAM: How has that relationship changed?
KOBE: Well, I just think the dynamics of our team has changed. So as a result, our team—our relationship has changed. He no longer has to cater to Shaq. You know what I mean? So he can come to me, and talk to me, and have a close relationship with me, and I think that’s made a big difference.

SLAM: I wanted to ask you about statistics. As a guy who is pretty thorough in his knowledge of his own game…
KOBE: [already shaking his head no] At all.

SLAM: …do you look at like, percentages of how many times you’re in the post or…
KOBE: At all. At all. At all. I look at—and a lot of it has to do with growing up under Phil’s system—I look at the momentums of the game, and how you affect the game. Statistics can’t tell you that, can’t teach you how to feel a game. Statistics are just for fantasy buffs or something, I don’t know.

SLAM: When you thought about going into the post more this season, was that something you talked to Pau about, or to Drew?
KOBE: Not at all.

SLAM: Did that really change the whole look?
KOBE: Not at all. Not at all. The offense is so versatile. It’s not like other offenses where you have to call sets, this person goes into the post, that person goes into the post. It’s such a versatile and flexible offense that there’s adjustments for everything. Anybody can go into the post and then everybody fills in the spots behind that, so it’s so easy, playing in the system gives me so much more freedom to be able to do what I need to do.

There’s an anecdote in Chris Ballard’s excellent The Art of a Beautiful Game where a young Kobe Bryant approaches then-Lakers coach Del Harris. He tells Harris that he can post up anyone who happens to be guarding him, so why not let him go into the paint and do it? Harris, taken aback, informs Kobe that they have this guy named Shaquille O’Neal who’s also quite adept at that, and they should probably keep things running the way they are.

Has Kobe really changed? His mindset hasn’t. Kobe outlasted Shaq, he outlasted Harris and now he’s doing exactly what he wanted to do in the first place. In the end, he got his way. He always does.

But at the same time, it’s all about the work. Tim Duncan gets all the props for the fundamentals, but the fundamentals are pretty much all he has. Kobe’s different. He could have easily relied on his athleticism early and his shot late, retiring to the perimeter like a certain other former Slam Dunk champion. He didn’t. Instead he submerged himself fully in the game.

“It’s what sets him apart,” says Spurs coach Gregg Popovich. “There are a lot of people with a lot of abilities, both physical and intrinsic basketball abilities, intelligent people, but he has what Michael had. And that’s not just an unbelievably competitive desire, but a real feel for the game, to know what has to be done at what point in the game. When he’s gotta insert himself into the mix, whether it might be an offensive rebound, a steal, a three-pointer—whatever it takes. He seems to understand what the game demands, and there are very, very few people in the League who can do that, and he does it better than anyone.”

So far, so good. He’s played more than 35,000 minutes, scored more than 24,000 points, chasing down the legends. He’s passed Patrick Ewing on the total points list at the time of this writing, Jerry West at the time of your reading. He’ll be top 10 by the end of the year. And if those four titles become five, and five become six, who knows? Meanwhile, the best player in the game is still having fun.

SLAM: Did you have an understanding of what this would all be like when you first came into the League?
KOBE: Mm-mm. No. Not at all.

SLAM: What’s been the biggest shift for you?
KOBE: It’s funny because the more years I spent in the League, like to where I am now, it just feels like I’m back in high school. Because in high school it’s a similar situation, you just have to try to get your team to the state championship. Same responsibilities, same leadership role. It’s just playing with insanely more talented players and competition. Everything else is the same.

The post The Road appeared first on SLAM.

Kobe Bryant sits before a group of journalists in L.A.—on the Forum floor, no less—and he’s talking about SLAM covers. Not this cover of this issue that you’re looking at now, seeing that we hadn’t shot it (or even set up the time to shoot it) yet, but a SLAM cover for that other guy who has had more covers than him, the one who retired but didn’t. No, the other one. “Y’all gotta do one with him in Philly now,” he says. “It’s a good look.”

What’s that? Is Kobe Bryant sounding…content? A little while later, someone asks him straight-up about his competitiveness. Does it carry over off the court? His answer is exaggerated, delivered with that familiar half-smirk: “Noooooo, why would I do that? Not at all.” The laughter comes from everyone, most of all Kobe himself. It’s pushed further—someone suggests the original questioner challenge Kobe to a game of NBA 2K10. And just like that, playtime is over: “Yeah, you talk to Melo,” Kobe fires back, “ask him what happened with that game.” Well, that about covers that.

Last night Kobe passed mentor and friend Jerry West to become the Lakers’s all-time leading scorer, dropping 44 points on the Memphis Grizzlies. He’s reaching new milestones daily, at the point in his career where each accomplishment is something else for the Hall of Fame plaque. When he laces them up on February 8th to take on the San Antonio Spurs, he’ll play in his thousandth regular-season game. Sure, it might not happen on that night. He could miss a game between now and then to rest his fractured fingers and sprained right ankle. But that’s not what Kobe does. That’s not who Kobe is.

A long time ago, some idiot wrote the following words in the pages of this very magazine: “I’m not sure if anyone really understands Kobe Bryant. In fact, I’m not even sure if Kobe Bryant really understands Kobe Bryant.” We ran them twice, actually—the second time in our 10th Anniversary issue—and went so far as to dub him “The Enigma,” like he wore a question mark instead of a number eight. Yes, some things about Kobe were hard to understand. But his center, his essence, that should have been clear even then: Kobe Bryant wanted to be the best player to ever play the game of basketball. We were missing the tree for the forest. What idiot, what moron, what brainless hack would even suggest that Kobe didn’t even understand himself? Yep, that would be me.

If anything, Kobe can be too easy to read sometimes. Like Mike, he’s polished and prepared in interview settings, but also like Mike, he can’t keep that competitive fire tamped all the way down. He just can’t help himself. It’s funny too—the first time I sat down with Kobe for an extended interview, he insisted he was nothing like Michael Jordan. I believe the words he used were “totally different.” He was 21, just coming off his first championship, and it was clearly untrue even then, but the way he said it left no room for arguing.

Now, 10 years later, he seems not only willing to accept the comparison, but he’ll even be the one to bring it up. Near the end of our Q&A session in New York, which took place after we did get him shot (by world-renowned photographer Martin Schoeller, no less) I ask him whether there are inherent conflicts between the career-long goal of becoming the best player ever and the year-to-year goal of winning championships. He doesn’t even hesitate:

“No, I think the trick is to win. For all of Michael’s individual brilliance, he never would have been considered arguably the greatest of all time had he not won. It’s just as simple as that. And to do that, you have to have some kind of luck, because you have to have teammates around you. I mean, he played with one of the all-time greats in Scottie Pippen. So you have to have a support system around you to help you accomplish those things. So I don’t think those lines are blurred at all. You have to win. There’s been a lot of great individual players in the past—Dominique Wilkins, Bernard King—these guys were talented individuals. But they couldn’t get over that hump.”

Kobe’s been over that hump four times now, placing him neatly between Magic Johnson and Larry Bird, and tied with Shaquille O’Neal. The championship question has been answered. He’s won. But he’s still two behind Jordan and he’s only been named Finals MVP once and despite all the accomplishments there’s so much left to do. After the cover discussion dies down in L.A., I ask whether winning the title last year refreshed him:

“It made me hungrier. It made me hungrier, if that makes any sense. It’s like, OK, we’ve got it. I’m in the party now—before I was outside in the street, like begging Phoenix and them to let me in. Now we got in, kicked them out, now you can’t come in. We gonna hold our house down.”

The post SLAM 136: On Sale Now! appeared first on SLAM.

Of all the places I’d expect to be at 10 on a December morning—still in bed, sitting bleary-eyed in front of my computer, waiting bleary-eyed in line at Starbucks, waiting bleary-eyed in line at Best Buy, or perhaps still in bed—courtside at Venice Beach didn’t even rank in the top 4,593. Yet here I was, rubbing the sleep from my eyes and the lint from my camera lens, listening to local announcer/heckler “Mouthpiece” hype up the Venice locals. It was a beautiful, sunny, Southern California morning—all the more surprising after a dreary, rainy, cold Southern California evening—but I’m not sure whether any of us, players or journalists or Nike reps, were fully awake yet. Well, except for Mouthpiece. He was plenty lively for all of us.

The whole reason I was in California in the first place was for the official release of the Zoom Kobe V. As Ben was committed to a prior engagement, and I’ve had much prior experience both with shoes and with Kobe (I believe Ryan is on a watch list of some kind), I was selected to represent the SLAM fam in So Cal. All I knew before I embarked on the Gang Starr (JFK to LAX, what) flight was that we were staying Santa Monica, would take bus rides to various locales including Venice Beach, the Forum and the Staples Center, and would no doubt receive enough information on the new Kobe V to be able to make a pair myself out of common household materials. What I’m trying to say is that they had me at hello.

Anyway, back to Venice. I didn’t mean to imply I had a problem with being on the Venice Beach courts in the morning. For starters, I love West Coast time. In fact, I love it so much that I try to stay on it at all times, despite the fact that I live in New York. It sounds much better to say “yeah, I woke up at 9 a.m. L.A. time” than “I got up at noon.” Plus, ever since that scene in “White Men Can’t Jump” where Woody Harrelson pillowed himself on a basketball under the hoop and woke up to a fiercely fought game going on right over his head, I’d wondered what a morning in Venice would be like. Now I knew. The only tragedy was that lunch would be at a place called “Gjelina” (no doubt named for Angelina Jolie and her new secret boyfriend Gjeff) and not Sizzler.

I’ve gotten in the habit of bringing my old Canon AE-1 on any trip I go on, and shooting as much black-and-white as possible. Here you can see the fruit of my labors—a from-the-corner shot of Kobe’s commercial stand-in throwing down a mean two-handed dunk on the baseline. He wasn’t the best player on the court that morning—that honor would go to streetball legend Bone Collector, who added a few more fibia and tibia to his collection despite the early hour, getting to the basket with ease and, if it wasn’t obvious enough, exclaiming about how easy it was each and every time. Cue Flight and Willie.

But rather than get bogged down in the minutia—I should save some things for the magazine—let’s jump forward to the introduction of the actual shoe. We were bussed over (no pun intended) to the L.A. Forum aka The Great Western Forum aka The Fabulous Forum aka The House That Jack Kent Cooke Built And The Faithful Central Bible Church Bought. From the bus, we were escorted straight to the legendary Forum Club, which, if it could speak, would probably be pleading for copious amounts of industrial cleaners. Frequented over the years by the notorious likes of Jack Nicholson, Wilt Chamberlain and Magic Johnson, it’s a wonder that the Faithful Central Bible Church folk didn’t immediately have it torn out and burned, or at least boarded shut. There, we were plied by a lamarodious post-lunch spread of candy and other foodstuffs, including some caper-topped deviled eggs that may very well have been left over from the ’87 Finals. The walls were covered in framed action shots of giant Lakers past, from Wilt and West to Cap and Magic. No Mike Smrek, though. I checked quite thoroughly.

Eventually, we were escorted out into the Forum bowl itself, where championships were won, records were set, and the 1981 NHL All-Star Game took place. Some of us first noticed the court, which while flanked with regulation NBA baskets, was half covered with real grass and just white-lined like a basketball court (ideally, you’d want to shoot on that basket in the FIRST half). Others’ eyes were drawn skyward, where they were flabbergasted to see exactly zero luxury boxes. To the modern basketball fan, this was like seeing peach baskets instead of breakaway rims, making it doubly hard to believe that the Lakers played in the archaic facility until 2001.

When we were finished ogling all there was to ogle, we took seats on office chairs set on the hardwood and waited. This wasn’t all bad, as the DJ was spinning Lil Wayne, and it’s been proven scientifically that waiting is much more palatable when Lil Wayne is involved. The DMV should look into that. Finally, the lights went down, a short introductory video played, and Kobe Bryant himself emerged from behind the video screens. (Again, I was hoping for Mike Smrek, and again, my hopes were dashed.)

Rather than recap exactly what was said by head designer Eric Avar, researcher Matt Nurse and basketball player Kobe Bryant—although I’ll eventually touch on several of these things—allow me to give my own impressions of the Zoom Kobe V first: What I appreciated most of all was the consistency from the IV to the V. All too often, a company will design a distinctive signature shoe, come up with all sorts of highly technical explanations as to why detail X or midsole Y or criss-crossing Velcro support strap Z is the penultimate development in basketball shoe design, and how everything you thought you knew was wrong. Then, the following year, they produce something entirely different for the same player and try to sell you the same bill of goods regarding a completely different set of design elements.

This isn’t what happened with the Zoom Kobe V. The Zoom Kobe IV was low, the Zoom Kobe V is lower. The Zoom Kobe IV was light, the Zoom Kobe V is lighter (10.6 ounces in a men’s size 9, Nike’s lightest basketball shoe to date). It represents a refinement rather than a complete re-think, which makes sense. The way Avar tells it, Kobe asked for “the lowest and lightest basketball shoe ever.” And seeing that Avar was already interested in achieving much the same goal, it wasn’t hard to get started.

The design inspiration was the modern soccer boot, hence the grass half of the court. Kobe’s long been a fan of the beautiful game and a fan (and friend) of Ronaldinho, so it makes sense that this thought would have struck him while watching Barca. Soccer players (pardon the American term, but it makes things easier) pivot and cut as often and suddenly as basketball players, in cleated boots, no less, and they don’t feel the need to wear clunky high-tops. Why should basketball players?

Revolutionary as this thought was, this isn’t the first time a Nike athlete has gotten a signature shoe based on a product designed for another sport. Jason Kidd’s Zoom Flight V, which is still being worn by Nets forward Chris Douglas-Roberts, was designed after a track spike. But the Zoom Flight V was still recognizable as a basketball shoe. The Zoom Kobe V takes things a step further.

As Nurse points out during the presentation, you can’t make a low-top basketball shoe by simply cutting off the ankle collar of a hightop. (Which didn’t stop companies like Nike from doing exactly that for decades, but I digress.) You have to start from scratch. Fortunately, for years they’d been working on design elements that would allow for a low-cut basketball shoe. There was the low-profile cushioning afforded by Zoom Air, forefoot outriggers to prevent rollover, and the lightweight suspension-bridge like support provided by Flywire. A proprietary TPU material developed exclusively for this shoe allowed the pliable one-piece upper to be half the thickness and half the weight of the Kobe IVs Flywire panels. Leather was done away with entirely, as were stitches. Fewer pieces, fewer problems. Additional support and structure is provided where it’s needed (the toecap and the eyestays) by lightweight heat-applied overlays, not stitched-on pieces of leather. Even the outsole is lightened as much as possible, with the heel decoupled (i.e. split) to allow for a smoother footstrike and more stable base.

Listening to Kobe speak, one gets the feeling that this is the shoe he’d been waiting for all along, or at least what he wanted when he first broached the idea of a high-performance lowcut. It’s a basketball shoe designed like a runner—all that isn’t necessary has been stripped away. “You lose seconds,” Kobe says of unnecessary weight. “That’s one of the things I stressed to them—I don’t want to lose those seconds.”

Fortunately, even with all the stripping away, there’s room for Nike’s traditional detailing. There’s a morse/Braille like “Kobe Code” (not to be confused with “Tha G-Code”) on the forefoot outsole; hints to its translation will crop up over the course of the season. The herringbonesque outsole pattern is based on an EKG (as Avar says, at one of the brainstorming sessions, “[Kobe] just wrote ‘heart’ on [a piece of paper] and slid it across the table.”). There’s the Kobe “sheath” logo on the tongue and outsole, and his signature on the exposed heel counter. Plus, on the ID versions of the shoe (which you can design now and order starting on Christmas day), there are four different patterns for the upper that reflect back on a different element of Kobe’s persona.

But hold on a second, you long-winded moron, how does it play?

Ah yes, that. Well, we had to leave something for Part East, didn’t we?

To be continued.

The post Nike Zoom Kobe V Official Intro: Part West appeared first on SLAM.

I’ll have much more on this later in the week, but for now, a brief introduction. Nike was kind enough to fly SLAM (along with a select group of national and international media) to Los Angeles for the introduction of Kobe Bryant’s latest on-court shoe, the Nike Air Zoom Kobe V. It was presented on the floor of the old Forum by Kobe himself, along with designer Eric Avar and senior researcher Matt Nurse.

Lower and lighter than the Zoom Kobe IV, the Zoom Kobe V is Nike’s lightest basketball shoe ever. It weighs in at just 10.6 ounces for a mens size nine, thanks to new materials, including a super-thin, mostly one-piece TPU upper, as well as a minimalist outsole. More telling, it doesn’t FEEL like a basketball shoe.  Designed with soccer boots in mind, the sleek lowcut has all the heft of a high-end running shoe. Otherwise, much carries over from the previous model—Zoom Air cushioning front and rear, Flywire support on the sides, and extra support (and design elements) provided by heat-bonded overlays. “Kobe wanted the lowest, lightest basketball shoe ever,” says Avar. “That happened to coincide with my own philosophy, but I didn’t tell him that.”

We’ll give you a complete rundown on the trip later—it’s 7:25 a.m. here in Santa Monica and there’s still more to come—but for now, here’s some new photos of the ZK5 from the event. What’s with the grass, you ask? Check back soon.

The post Nike Zoom Kobe V Premiere: Los Angeles appeared first on SLAM.

A few weeks ago, I landed at LAX, picked out my Hyundai rental at Alamo (one with Cali plates—I ain’t stupid), and was in the In N Out Burger drive-through on Sepulveda within a half-hour of deplaning. My priorities might be crooked in other areas, but I know exactly what to do when I find myself in Los Angeles.

But if this is about double-doubles, it’s not about the one I ate (Animal style, with fries and a Coke) on the grass directly under the LAX landing pattern. Rather it’s—warning, awkward transition ahead!—the 10 double-doubles the Chicago Bulls’ Derrick Rose stacked last year en route to winning the Rookie of the Year in a rout. Derrick was out in Cali for adidas’ annual Super Shoot, and we followed close behind to get our own shots for the cover you see here.

Why, you may ask, are we putting someone on the cover of KICKS who doesn’t even have a signature shoe? A fair question. Were this a different time—and were adidas a different company—D. Rose would undoubtedly have his own model. But somehow this seems more right. More fitting. Derrick readily admits to not even wanting to watch his own highlights dating back to his Memphis days, and apparently feels more comfortable discussing his failures than his successes.

For example, check out these two exchanges from our post-shoot Q&A:

KICKS: What was the switch like from the regular season to the Playoffs?
ROSE: A whole other level. Every possession counts. Turnovers, everything counts. In the Playoffs, you can’t mess up, really.

KICKS: And you were going against the defending champs.
ROSE: Yeah, it was fun. It was real fun.

Compare that with this:

KICKS: Who were the toughest guys you went against?
ROSE: Everybody. Oh, growing up? You’re talking like in high school? AAU? Something like that?

KICKS: Yeah, high school, AAU, even playground.
ROSE: Who was the toughest player? Man, the only person that really served me, like really really served me, I don’t even know this boy name. I just know he go to Montana. He probably a senior this year, he probably a senior, and I was young and playin’ up, that’s what you’re supposed to do. It was some boy, he was from Minnesota, he played for a Minnesota team, they came into Chicago, and I was playin’ up. And he served me, I can’t lie.

KICKS: He was another point guard?
ROSE: He had to be a two guard the way he was shootin’. I wanted to check the best player on the floor, so I was checkin’ him. It seemed he wasn’t missin’. He had to have 30-somethin’, 40 points or something like that. I don’t know his name, but I know he goes to Montana.

This was literally the most animated Rose got during our whole talk—speaking about some unnamed kid who busted him up a long time ago. Playing the defending champion Celtics in the playoffs? Meh. Getting lit up by some nameless kid from Minnesota? He’d talk about that all day if you let him.

Well, and if he didn’t have to go get ready for the ESPYs. (For the record, I looked up the current Montana AND Minnesota rosters when I got back to my hotel, and couldn’t find anyone who fit the description. So, if you’re a guy from Montana or Minnesota who lit up Derrick Rose a long time ago, let us know.)

The question of whether or not Rose would want a signature shoe went unasked, but still got answered. In every sense, Rose seems happier being part of a team. There’s probably a part of him that feels uncomfortable just being on this cover alone.

But we’re glad he’s there.

[For so much more from Derrick and Russ, not to mention great features on the likes of Brandon Jennings, Nate Robinson and the Jordan Brand’s new retro plans, as well as hundreds of great shoes, pick up your copy as soon as you see it! Or, if you aren’t already a SLAM subscriber, sign up now and we’ll send you KICKS for free.—Ed.]

The post KICKS 12: On Sale Now! appeared first on SLAM.

Kid Rock got a banner hung in his honor the other day. It happened in Detroit—Bob Ritchie’s stomping grounds since conception. The number on the banner was 18, representing each of his Palace sellout shows. Bruce Springsteen has a similar banner hanging in New Jersey. Presumably other artists have other banners in other arenas. What I’m saying is this is not unique.

You may wonder why, the night after Kobe Bryant scored a building-record 61 in Madison Square Garden, I’m blathering on about Kid Rock and banners. The reason is this: Last night was Kobe Bryant’s 12th Madison Garden sellout.

A dozen games.

That’s all.

The finest player of his generation (presuming that LeBron belongs to the next generation, neatly sidestepping THAT argument) putting on a virtuoso performance in the last building from previous generations. The only survivor of the old NBA, when men were men and those men had to get real jobs after they retired. Boston Garden is gone. Chicago Stadium is rubble. The Fabulous Forum, not so much. Yet Madison Square Garden endures, the World’s Most Famous Arena: a cramped, smelly, outdated, and absolutely glorious place. The best place to watch basketball on the face of the earth. And last night, the finest player of his generation making his annual appearance. His 12th ever. Not a great business model, but it does wonders for mythmaking. And Kobe played his part.

There has already been speculation whether this scoring outburst was good for the Lakers. Whether he will ever soar to such heights again (and, if so, whether it will decimate the Lakers and possibly tear a hole in the very reality of time and space). To all of this I say: who cares? Were you watching? Sometimes you have to live in the moment, cherish what’s happening, stop yourself from turning everything immediately into a “what if?” If Wilt Chamberlain had scored his 100 in this time of blogging and instant media, someone would have written a column asking a) Was this good for the Lakers?, and b) 100 was nice and all, but when will he score 120?

You get tired of it all after a while, don’t you? The constant quest for what’s next. Let me tell you something, there will ALWAYS be a what’s next. That doesn’t change. Sometimes you need to sit back and appreciate what is.

A dozen games.

That’s all.

Barring a severe shift in the Knicks postseason fortunes—or a re-location about as likely as the Pope shifting his base of operations to Bangkok—it’s likely that Kobe will only play at Madison Square Garden five or six more times. Ever. Which means he’ll have played at the Garden roughly as many times as Kid Rock sold out the Palace. The virtuoso on the world’s biggest stage.

That is why last night was unique. That is what made it special. Yes, Michael Jordan owned the Garden, did everything but paint its ceilings like Michelangelo. But he came twice a year, then again for the inevitable playoff stretch. He was something of a regular visitor. LeBron? Twice a year as well, and then there’s the summer of 2010, when they’ll change the name of Central Park and offer him the Empire State Building to have him play 41 home games there. And they’ll no doubt remodel the old dump to create the proper setting for their zillion-carat jewel. Changing everything. Destroying those last links to the past.

So, last night. Nineteen of thirty-one from the floor. A perfect twenty of twenty from the free-throw line. An utterly inexplicable zero rebounds (the flaw, perhaps, to make the other facets shine all the brighter). Sixty-one points. A gift. To the people of New York, to the creaky old arena, to the game of basketball, to me.

I’ll take it. No questions asked.

Pregame

The locker rooms are, not surprisingly, somewhat empty. Lamar Odom answers the usual questions about coming back to New York, Andrew Bynum answers the (unfortunately now) usual questions about his blowed-up knee. A pair of Beats by Dr. Dre headphones, as ubiquitous in NBA locker rooms as Gatorade and Secret antiperspirant, rest on his head. He holds a single Farmar-tall aluminum crutch. Over to one side, Masheen answers questions about, I don’t know, pierogis and snow.

Chris Jackson sings the national anthem. To some of you, the preceding sentence will be the funniest thing you read in this entire recap. You guys are old.

The Knicks pre-game historical highlight reel has been shelved—perhaps in order to find some Bernard King clips—in favor of a Successories-like string of quotes from, well, Mike D’Antoni, mostly. And this one, from David Lee: “Whatever it takes for this team to win is what I’m going to do.” Inspiring stuff right there.

There are smoke machines behind the basket that I don’t think I’ve ever seen before and the PA blares what seems to be an endless loop of The Scorpions’s “Rock You Like A Hurricane” and I’m looking over my shoulder for Satan who must be around here somewhere.

An aside—Khalid and I are in the upper press box, which is right at halfcourt, only 7,000 rows up. Which means we’re right in front of the drunkest, rowdiest fans. I half expect to have a beer poured down my back before introductions. There’s also a small, but very vocal contingent of Spanish fans. Five guys. I know this because they’re wrapped in the Spanish flag. At some point, a paragon of virtue and right will yell “SHUT UP! THIS AIN’T A SOCCER GAME!!!” America the beautiful. Her amber waves of barley and Cascade hops.

It strikes me that this game is almost exactly like the ’73 Finals—only the uniforms and the players inside them have changed.

First quarter

David Lee has two points and two rebounds while other starters are still looking for guys on the other team to hug.

Kobe Bryant, from 20. The cheers start almost immediately. Seriously? In New York? I thought fans at MSG were supposed to RESPECT the opponent, not cheer him on.

Kobe Bryant, for three. It’s going to be that kind of night. You can’t see his face from Section 78347563923, but it’s obvious he’s not looking to pass. People in space could see that.

Lee badly misses an 18-footer. The difference between last year and this year is that last year he wouldn’t have even THOUGHT of taking that shot.

Kobe, again. Seven points.

Jared Jeffries knocks down a 19-foot (or 20-foot, if you believe the official scorer) jumper, a miracle that might just fast-track him for sainthood.

Kobe heads to the line for the first time to the chants of “MVP!” Again, I wonder where the f*ck I am. And, if I’m in Los Angeles, where the closest In N’ Out Burger is.

David Lee runs the screen and roll to perfection, right up to the point where he gets swatted by Lamar Odom. Funny, Stockton-to-Malone never included that part.

Kobe has 13 points. Yes, already.

On the scoreboard, they announce David Lee as the Eastern Conference Player of the Week. He’s just averaged 19 points and 15.8 rebounds for the last three games, all wins. The response is…underwhelming.

Jared Jeffries knocks down a 20-foot (or 23-foot, if you believe the official scorer) jumper, a miracle that when combined with the first actually gives him a slight lead over Jesus for Eastern Conference Deity of the Week.

A Duhon drive pulls Odom away from Lee, who dunks with both hands and thrusts his chest out a wee bit dramatically. You can probably find the highlight on “Animal Planet.”

Pau Gasol comes back and scores over Lee, which prompts a long-suffering Knicks fan right behind us in Section 4325563672356 to yell “GO BACK TO YUGOSLAVIA!!!!” We in the press section all think this is the funniest thing we’ve heard in a long time and turn to ask who said it. The guy grumpily says that he knows Pau’s from Spain. We know too—it’s what made it so funny. Hopefully he yells for Kobe to go back to France next.

Gasol again, ahead of the pack—well, in the pack, actually, only the pack consists of Duhon and Nate Robinson and other relative Liliputians. And again, baseline, fouled by Lee.

Nate throws an entry pass, presumably intended for Lee, that misses everyone on the court by at least 20 feet. This may seem impossible, given the dimensions of an NBA basketball court, but it still happens.

Enter Danilo Gallinari and Tim Thomas. Kobe again steps to the free-throw line, MVP chants ringing in his ears.

Nate layup, Nate steal, Nate laid out. He’s a human Pop Rock.

Wilson Chandler hits a three to cut the Laker lead to two. No one chants “MVP” at him. Kobe comes right back with a three of his own over a decidedly overmatched David Lee. That’s 18.

And with the quarter winding down, Kobe holds the ball up top, isoed with Chandler. The clock ticks, Kobe drives, and he’s blocked cleanly by Chandler to end the quarter. Picture-perfect defense. The Lakers lead 31-26 after 1, and Kobe and Pau have 30.

Second quarter

I look up, and Nate Robinson is rolling down the lane with the ball clutched to his chest. Unless there have been some major rules changes, this is either a trip or a travel. It’s the pick and drop, stop and roll.

Al Harrington, quiet to this point, hits his first basket of the night and gets the inevitable snippet of “You Can Call Me Al.” And Danilo Gallinari complained about HIS music?

It’s a one-point game until Trevor Ariza throws down a predictably spectacular dunk and it isn’t.

Jordan Farmar buries a three and Pau gets an easy dunk off Masheen pass. They should both go back to Yugoslavia.

You could tell this was a Laker game simply by looking at the photographer’s celebrity cheat sheet. There are more celebrities at the game than there are players. (That is, if you count NHL players as celebrities—a point which is hotly contested.) Whoopi Goldberg is in the house, as are Cheech & Chong. And Spike Lee is in his customary seat, wearing an enormous white Dave Debusschere throwback jersey. Funny, I thought those went extinct five years ago.

Trevor Ariza uses a simple spin move to dunk the hell out of the ball.

You’ll notice a certain absence over the past couple of sentences and that’s because, yes, Kobe Bryant is on the bench. A Gallo triple cuts the Laker lead to three with 7:25 to go, though, and he’s right back in there. Almost immediately he’s fouled on the floor by Tim Thomas. He shoots it anyway and it goes in. It’s that kind of night. Chris Duhon checks in for Nate, and Kobe drills a three over Wilson Chandler. That’s 21.

Kobe catches in the corner, uses Josh Powell as a moving screen twice, shoots a 20-footer over Chandler. Whap. 23 points. That’s um, five in 11 seconds.

David Lee checks in for Jared Jeffries. As if that matters.

Kobe holds. Kobe shoots. Kobe has 25.

Kobe leaks out on the break. Kobe dunks. Kobe has 27.

Another spontaneous MVP chant breaks out.

Jared Jeffries gets fouled, converts the layup. If he hits the free throw, the world might end.

Still here.

Kobe finds Lamar Odom underneath with a bullet pass. Dunk. 51-44, Lakers.

Derek Fisher, who’s done bunches of nothing up to this point, falls down near Al Harrington. Foul, Al Harrington. Um, I guess?

Kobe, double-clutch, of course. That’s 29, and I really wish I could hear Marv Albert calling this game.

Pau follows that with a dunk, Lakers by 11 with 3:04 to go in the half.

Kobe misses a three out of a time out. We’re all surprised. Nate hits a runner, Luke Walton gets fouled, Wilson Chandler gets blocked, Kobe gets another runout dunk. That’s 31.

He misses an open shot, but gets an and-1 off a Nate foul, up to 34. Again, isoed with Chandler at the end of the quarter, is forced into a tough baseline fallaway, not blocked but misses. Lakers up 65-54 at the half, Kobe with 34.

Third quarter

Al Harrington for three over Lamar Odom. Just some tall tri-state boys made good. Again. Harrington with a steal, fouled by Odom. That’s a clear-path foul, which means two shots and the ball. Lee scores on the inevitable screen-roll, and the Laker lead is cut to four, 65-61.

Lamar gets a dunk from Pau, Jeffries catches an alley-oop from Quentin Richardson, Al Harrington comes back and bangs one in from the corner. Two point game, 10 minutes to go in the third.

Kobe’s first shot of the third quarter comes with 8:35 to go. He misses.

David Lee hits a pair of free throws, Kobe responds with a floater past Jeffries. That’s 36.

You know the term “bad pass turnover”? Jared Jeffries singlehandedly makes it necessary to insert “bad catch turnover” into the lexicon. Actually, he does it with two hands, too.

Kobe hits over Lee (38) who comes right back with a big ol’ dunk straight down the gut. Derek Fisher splashes in a corner three, and Al Harrington drives through four seemingly disinterested Lakers for a layup.

Kobe, fouled. Kobe, lauded with more MVP chants. Kobe, with 40 at the 5:32 mark in the third. Kobe, pretty good at basketball.

OK, it’s getting silly. Splits the double team, slashes across the lane, fires up a line-drive J while floating. Who? Right. That’s 42.

David Lee would like you to know he has 15 and nine.

Al Harrington goes glass, and Kobe goes up to swat it. Um, that’s a goaltend on any level there, Kob. Also, maybe get a rebound tonight.

Free throws get the total to 44. Time passes. Kobe goes glass, Gasol catches a putback dunk, Farmar buries a three. Kobe fouls Chandler on the drive—his first foul—and he’s pulled lest he commit five more in the next 40.3 seconds. At the end of three it’s Lakers 96, Knicks 86, Kobe Bryant 46.

Fourth quarter

Trevor Ariza makes it a 12-point Laker lead, and maybe this is one of those games where Kobe isn’t needed in the fourth quarter.

A Tim Thomas corner three gets it back to 10 with 8:19 to go. Pau Gasol dunks on Danilo Gallinari. That’s 31 and 13 for Pau. You get the feeling the Lakers would miss Andrew Bynum more if they didn’t already have an All-Star center.

Kobe’s back at 7:51 and waits for roughly three seconds before scoring his 48th point.

(It’s at this point where I run out of notebook and start writing on the back cover.)

Kobe misses a jumper over a double team, then misses again the next time down. Third time’s a charm as he’s fouled, hits both. That’s 50 with 6:04 to go. Next time down, same thing, and the Knicks are over the limit with 5:42 to go. With proper clock and possession management, he could catch Wilt.

The game gets sloppy. Turnovers, offensive fouls, travels, terrible passes. A Lamar Odom pass actually goes directly to Spike Lee, who theatrically runs out of the way. He should consider acting.

Kobe draws a foul on Chandler while hoisting a three, and breaks the speed limit with 3:56 to go. His 57 points is a new Garden record for an opponent.

Tim Thomas comes back with a meaningless corner triple, and Kobe spins around Chandler for points number 58 and 59. Chris Duhon hits a three, as does Trevor Ariza. Kobe is fouled attempting a 360 layup, and goes to the line with the chance to break the all-time Garden scoring record of 60.

But wait, first we need to have a time out so people can shoot cheap little balls into the crowd. You know, because there’s nothing going on to hold their interest otherwise.

OK, we’re back. And that’s 60 and 61. There’s still 2:30 to go.

Other things happen. Misses, mostly. And Kobe’s pulled with 1:48 to go. He gets a standing ovation and more MVP chants. Acknowledges the crowd. It’s a masterful performance, yet you can’t help but wonder why everyone’s so accommodating. This is New York, right?

Everyone leaves.

Holy hell, Sun Yue is in the game. He and Kobe combine for 61 points. Final score, Lakers 126, Knicks 117.

Postgame

This is where I make mistakes. I don’t get in either locker room, for starters. This is because I patiently sit in the interview room, listening to Phil Jackson and then waiting for Kobe. Not realizing that I could watch this stuff on MSG when I get home. In between the two, as I realize the scope of my error, I hear another reporter talk about how Nate said he just turned into a fan after a while, watching Kobe launch shots off the wrong foot while spinning the wrong way. I am Jack’s shame.

But since we’re here.

Phil Jackson: “Well, this is all about Kobe tonight, other than the fact that we won. He came out on fire and finished the same way.”

The tone is proper. Yet he still brings up Game Six against Boston almost immediately. The fact that Kobe started hot in that game as well. Before the roof caved in. This night was different. “His mood was very determined, very somber.” He mentions when he tried to take him out with 43 seconds to go in the third, to get him a few extra minutes of rest, he didn’t want to come out.

Someone inevitably asks about the Jordan double-nickel comeback game, the record eclipsed. Jackson says that Jordan wasn’t totally himself as a player yet, how he just stuck him in the post, how he’s not even sure whether Michael hit any 3s.

I looked it up. He went three of four.

Jackson says they were both remarkable performances. This, I can agree with.

He expresses surprise over the pro-Kobe crowd. The MVP chants. “His popularity has grown, no doubt about it.”

Jackson leaves, media in his wake. This is where the main mistake is made. I wait. Five minutes. Ten. Fifteen. When Kobe finally arrives, the rest of the media in tow, I realize I could have talked to any number of players. Too late now. You’d think I’d never done this before.

Preface: “It’s a blessing to do what you love and have moments like this.” Truth.

Many of his quotes are elsewhere. You’ve probably already read them. About how he was inspired in part by Bynum’s injury, in part by old chatter between himself and D’Antoni, in part because he’s editing a documentary with Spike Lee and wanted no part of any gloating. He expresses love for D’Antoni, love for the Garden, love for the crowd.

Someone asks him about his first-ever game at the Garden. “I sucked,” he says flatly. Laughter all around. “I remember coming in here 80 pounds soaking wet, having to guard John Wallace.”

I don’t remember this, so I look it up. Nov. 5, 1996. Kobe Bryant’s second-ever NBA game. He plays three minutes, takes one shot, scores 1 point. Wallace had 12 points. There have been 11 more such games since. This one, everyone will remember.

The post Game Notes: Lakers at Knicks appeared first on SLAM.

Stephon Marbury.

Good, got that out of the way.

I arrived at the Garden fashionably late (and fashionable!) for the Knicks’s Tuesday tilt with the NBA’s lone Pacific Northwest representative, and in my rush to get to the Blazers’s locker room, I almost ran into one. When I turned the corner leading from the Garden’s bowels to the—I don’t know, the Garden’s esophagus, I came face to elbow with guard Rudy Fernandez, who was in the hallway doing some sort of plyometric exercises. Later on, whilst in the media room, Lang and I watched on MSG Network as Greg Oden stood in the same hallway, balancing on one foot on some sort of tilty block. All in all, it seemed a bit risky for the—if not injury-prone, injury-accomplished big man.

Incidentally, in person, Greg doesn’t look a day over 37.

Unfortunately, I don’t have much for y’all from pregame. Donnie Walsh was surrounded once again, talking about God knows what. Probably his schoolboy days at Fordham Prep, or maybe Rik Smits’s grooming habits. Or which Ray’s Pizza is actually the original Ray’s. Can’t imagine what else there’d be to discuss. And the Knicks locker room was relatively player free, so I just noted the new positioning—Tim Thomas has occupied Jamal Crawford’s old corner digs, with fellow newbie Al Harrington right next door. Al wasn’t there, but there were a pair of unspeakable orange P.F. Flyer hightops in front of his seat. David Lee, whose locker is on the other side of Harrington’s, made a cameo appearance and eyed them somewhat warily. Jerome James’s locker was occupied by an enormous Sean John vest, and Anthony Roberson’s was home to an even enormouser (take that, Merriam-Webster) Polo polo. Given their respective sizes, this came as something of a surprise.

After the whole balancing thing, I stayed the heck away from the Blazers.

Anyway, yes, there was a game. Rather than do the ol’ play-by-play, I figured I’d just run down some players and give my impressions. (Not do impressions, mind you. Very funny.)

BRANDON ROY: I hate to use the word, because it’s such a cliché, but Trouble B-Roy is an absolute stud. Finishes around the basket with either hand, will drive on absolutely anybody, has as good a mid-range game as anyone in the L. I was shocked he only finished with 23—I was watching the game closely enough and figured he had at least 30. You know how some guys can score 34 or 35 and you only notice when you look at the box score afterwards? Brandon Roy is more or less the opposite of that. It’s also worth noting that the No. 7 embroidered on the medial sides of his kicks were almost as large as the one on the back of his jersey.

GREG ODEN: Hm. At this rate he’s not going to be rookie of the year. And if you take Nate McMillan’s words as gospel, that seems to be just fine with him. But still, Oden looked rusty. He missed his first two shots—the second being a wide-open two-handed dunk from right under the rim—and finished with just two points and seven rebounds in 19 and change. What was more worrisome is that Oden never seemed to be looking to score at all. He was content to just catch and redirect, not even glancing towards the basket. At one point he received the ball on the baseline just outside the paint, Quentin Richardson guarding him solo, and he kicked it right back out. He could have at least faced up first. A funny thing, though—at one point the Knicks were doubling Oden on the catch, despite the fact that he was scoreless and obviously not looking to change that. Afterwards, Oden sheepishly explained that “I kinda stopped shooting after that [second] one, because I don’t usually miss dunks.”

TRAVIS OUTLAW: The real-life Patrick O’Brian. At one point late in the game, Sergio Rodriguez drove the lane and kicked an errant pass that was sure to soar out of bounds. Nope. Outlaw just casually leapt-stretched and snared it. No sweat. Note to defenders: don’t even bother going after his jumpers.

JOEL PRZYBILLA: Oden can afford to slum it for 20 minutes a night as long as Ghostface keeps contributing. Dude’s solid. (His presence led to an almost-discussion about who the rest of the NBA-Wu would be. A topic for another time. I also found myself wishing he would marry one of Mike Krzyzewski’s daughters and she would hyphenate her name and become a WNBA player just to torment some poor equipment manager. Yes, I probably need help.) At one point Tim Thomas tried to yoke one on him, got fouled, and they wound up exchanging what appeared to be genuine pleasantries. I thought maybe they’d played together in the McDonald’s game, but they were two years apart. In fact, Przybilla played in the same McDonald’s game as Al Harrington, and merely spent four seasons in Milwaukee with Thomas. Silly me.

RUDY FERNANDEZ: Not shy. The way he was jacking long-range shots you’d have thought the NBA was going to outlaw the three-pointer immediately following the game. Not that they were bad shots, mind you. He (along with Rodriguez) had a large Spanish cheering section up in the 200s that occasionally was louder than the general Knicks crowd.

LAMARCUS ALDRIDGE: Runs like Forrest Gump. Seriously. Watch him sometime.

TIM THOMAS: Ah, Tim Thomas. He had 14 points midway through the second quarter, and had 14 points at the end of the game. That’s the Tim Thomas we all know.

CHRIS DUHON: Solid as a rock. He didn’t get 22 assists again—actually, the entire team managed just 20—but he posted a solid 23 and 13 with just one turnover. Sneaky layups, trips to the line, he even tied up Brandon Roy once, and took Oden off the dribble with a nifty crossover. It’s almost enough to make one forget the Knicks last starting point guard, whoever that was.

DAVID LEE: Turnovers are noted on the running play sheets as “BAD PASS TURNOVER”. Lee had a few that should have been recorded as “TERRIBLE PASS TURNOVER.” At one point I glanced up after a loud groan from the crowd to see Lee with his head down holding his knees. At first I thought he’d gotten popped one, but a replay revealed that he’d merely thrown a simple outlet pass out of bounds.

He did have the best moment of the night, though. Late in the fourth quarter, Lee got blocked by Przybilla, who simultaneously nailed him good across the face with his off arm. No call. Chris Duhon got the rebound and tossed a wild shot over the shot clock. Turnover. Lee came up wiping blood off his mouth, looking questioningly at the refs. Eddie F. Rush then tried to get him to leave the court because of the infectious whatever rule. Lee explained to him that there couldn’t be any blood, because there was no foul. Rush briefly considered this, and let play go on. (Lee told this story better than I did.)

JEROME JAMES: He was ready with his tearaways off and compression sleeves on both calves. I’m not sure what they were for exactly, but his calf muscles looked suspiciously like pork chops.

APROPOS OF NOTHING: Just three quick things. Number one, there was some sort of creepy time-out moment with the under-10 winners of some Dancing With the Stars competition. They danced to jive, apparently. Are there stars under the age of 10 involved? And if so, who? Number two, considering it’s THE NEW YORK KNICKS PRESENTED BY T-MOBILE, you’d think my T-Mobile device would get killer reception in Madison Square Garden, right? Wrong. Someone at AT&T, holla at me. Papa needs a brand-new iPhone. Number three, as usual there were a couple of New York Giants in attendance. And I decided—as impossibly wrong as this is—that on Sunday some receiver needs to do a touchdown celebration that involves shooting himself in the leg with the football, then limping off the field as another player scurries away with the ball. I know.

AND JUST ONE MORE THING: I meant to post notes on the Warriors game from the weekend, but life got in the way. Still, I wanted to mention that the little tribute video the Knicks put together for Jamal Crawford was both terrific and well-deserved. Few Knick players have conducted themselves so well (and hit so many game-winning shots) in these turbulent times. It’ll be interesting to see whether any other former Knicks (and soon-to-be former Knicks) get such treatment. Heck, they could show Jerome James’s entire Knicks career during a time-out, and still have time for a t-shirt toss.

The post Game Notes: Blazers at Knicks appeared first on SLAM.

I thought the circus had left town.

Really, I did.

When the Knicks sent Isiah Thomas off to Siberia and brought in Pacers architect Donnie Walsh and offensive guru Mike D’Antoni, I thought they were just getting started. Certainly the next to go would be Stephon Marbury, the dark yin to Isiah’s, uh, yin in the imbalanced Knick universe. Or maybe it would be 300-pound albatross Jerome James, who’s played in all of 88 games since signing on with the Knicks in the summer of ’05, and belongs in an uptempo attack the way a front-end loader belongs in the Indy 500.

Nope.

Instead, the franchise which once did everything but shoot hundred-dollar bills into the stands suddenly became frugal. No buyouts. So here we are, three games into what was supposed to be a new start, reading the same old headlines and the same old stories. Déjà vu all over again. It’s like those Frank TV ads, but 10,000,000 times worse.

So for these game notes at least, the past is literally prologue. Fantastic.

The latest word is that Walsh will sit down with Marbury and D’Antoni this week to figure something out. Wow, no one thought to do that in September? The way I see it, they have two choices. Either buy him out or play him. Because this isn’t just going to blow over. If Marbury continues to sit on the bench—and the Knicks continue to lose—he remains the focus of attention. He’ll just sit there happily earning his $250,000 a game. If they buy him out and he succeeds somewhere else, so what? At least they’ll have moved on.

Look, the biggest Knick acquisition this summer was D’Antoni, right? Thus, the best thing to do would be to give him the players he needs—or at least wants—to implement his system. Because otherwise this is has the potential to turn into another Larry Brown situation. And I don’t think anyone wants that.

Sigh, this is depressing. Let’s talk about the game.

PREGAME

Richard Jefferson is sitting in his locker sorting out tickets. He seems content enough to be a member of the Bucks—and why not? Sure he doesn’t live in NYC full-time anymore (although he kept his place here and spent a good part of the summer here), but the Bucks have as a good shot at the playoffs as his old team.

Was Tyronn Lue the founding member of the “cut off the braids and look 10 years younger” club? (Incidentally, that means Tyronn looks like he’s roughly three years old these days.) It was either him or Jermaine O’Neal, I believe. I keep waiting to see AI with a fade.

Jerome James, activated because Eddy Curry got the Mrs. Butterworth drained from his knee, is out there working hard pre-game. Seriously. He’s setting screens and rolling hard to the basket, throwing down monster dunks, then rolling out and shooting high-arcing jumpers with a surprisingly soft touch. The only clue that he hasn’t played many meaningful minutes in the past century are his shoes, a pair of archaic Uptempos that might very well be left over from his Sonic days.

Spike Lee comes in while Jerome’s working, Obama sweater in full m-fing effect.

Layup line highlight = Joe Alexander.

GAMETIME

Starters. For the visitors it’s Jefferson, Charlie Villanueva, Andrew Bogut, Ramon Sessions and Michael Redd. And for the Knicks, it’s David Lee, Quentin Richardson, Zach Randolph, Jamal Crawford and Chris Duhon. Duhon being introduced last is just plain weird.

The problems start almost immediately as Lee commits his first foul less than 10 seconds in, and on their next possession the Knicks burn 22 seconds before turning it over. What would Jack McCallum think?

Five minutes in, the Bucks are up 12-7.

Less than halfway through the quarter, Wilson Chandler, Nate Robinson and Malik Rose have replaced Randolph, Richardson and Lee.

The public address announcer is calling Luc Richard Mbah a Moute “Luc Richard Mbah a Moute,” and he’s saying it more often than you might think. He’s also the early leader for “best jersey in the L.”

Nate Robinson drives, more or less gives it to Bogut, and unnecessarily fouls him on top of it. That’s two. Exit Nate, enter Mardy Collins.

Bucks lead 27-23 after 1.

There’s a “DE-FENSE” chant less than a minute into the second.

Hey, it’s Charlie Bell! He’s wearing some nondescript New Balances and the biggest knee brace I’ve ever seen.

7:46 in, and we’re tied up at 31.

Celeb row tonight includes Roy Jones, Jr. and Michael Rapaport.

Anthony Roberson makes his regular-season Madison Square Garden debut at 3:37 and hits his first three in seven seconds or less. Who needs Patrick Ewing, Jr?

The New York Marathon was today, and all four winners (wheelchair and non) are present and accounted for. Paula Radcliffe, the women’s winner, is wearing heels. Unbelievable.

Chris Duhon has an unfortunate habit of driving the lane, stopping on the baseline, picking up his dribble, then firing the ball back out to a perimeter shooter. This is unfortunate. One of Steve Nash’s finer talents has always been his ability to dribble into the lane, curl underneath the basket, then bring the ball back out, instantly re-setting the offense. Someone needs to get Duhon some tapes.

After another Roberson three, the Bucks lead 49-45 at the half.

SECOND HALF

Three minutes, Bucks 9-0 run, 58-45. That must have been some pep talk.

Out of the ensuing time out, Crawford misses a contested jumper, and Michael Redd comes back down and slings in a three. Make that 61-45.

Richardson hits a pair of driving layups, the Knicks get it back to 10, and yet the inevitable (but small) “WE WANT MARBURY” chant starts, despite the fact that he’s in street clothes and won’t get in the game unless there’s some kind of major rules change. Then again, I have no doubt he’d shoot better in his civvies than Mardy Collins does in uniform. Some of Mardy’s shots are lucky to hit the floor.

Michael Redd fixes the whole “hey, we’re within 10” thing with a corner J and a dish to Jefferson underneath.

There’s a bit of a scrum for a loose ball where Redd comes up limping and Bogut comes up with a dunk. The Knicks respond with a three as Redd tries to walk it off on the sideline, but it’s still a 13-point game. Exit Redd.

End of three, Bucks up 75-61. The Knicks have taken 28 three-pointers and not connected on many of them. Jamal Crawford has yet to hit a field goal.

Fourth quarter! Knicks are 4, 5, 11, 21, 31 and the Bucks are 7, 12, 24, 31, 42. If you add those together, the Bucks are WAY ahead.

Lee checks in for Rose. He’s got zero points and one rebound. Q gets him a layup right away, which is nice.

Richardson hits a pair of back-to-back threes, Nate hits a floater in the lane, and all of a sudden it’s a seven-point game with eight minutes to go. Don’t get excited.

Lee misses bunny, Randolph replaces Lee.

Incidentally, the Knicks have missed roughly 483 shots from less than two feet away. They’ve also missed quite a few from 23 feet away. And they haven’t been all that great in between, either. Other than that it’s been a fantastic game.

The FUSE tune of the game is “Calabria” by Enur, a touching tribute to former Tar Heel Dante Calabria.

With 4:30 to go, the boos rain down like, uh, rain.

Q and Z-Bo hit threes down the stretch—Q actually hits a pair and winds up with 28 points—but it’s not enough. Hey, that sounds familiar! Final score, 94-86 Bucks.

POSTGAME

Scott Skiles says a bunch of stuff about forcing teams to decide whether to double or not by going inside early and that Ramon Sessions has played very, very, very well. He also bumps into me in the locker room and apologizes.

Over on the losing side, I only want to find out one thing—what state Malik Rose is registered to vote in. He’s wearing a black “I’m voting for ‘that one’” Obama t-shirt, and has a grey UNDRCRWN Obama hoodie hanging in his locker. Obviously he’s a Bob Barr supporter. (The answer is Texas.)

Jared Jeffries’s locker is filled with orange Gatorade coolers. It seems that his rehab includes a lot of rehydration. This hyperbaric chamber is making me thirsty!

David Lee more or less takes responsibility for the loss. It’s not really his fault, but it’s a nice gesture.

Jerome James, who didn’t play a single minute, is sitting in his locker, still in his uniform, knees iced, looking decidedly unhappy.

Someone mentions to Q-Rich that the Knicks only seem to play with a sense of urgency when they’re down. Q doesn’t even argue the point. “We gotta figure out how to start that way and maintain it.” Great! When?

Danilo Gallinari, chillin’ list victim, is wearing some kind of fitted white cotton jacket. How to describe it? “That’s that European sh*t!” Thanks Nate!

Chris Duhon sets some sort of cliché record by throwing out “bumps in the road,” “not gonna change overnight” and a few variations on the “aren’t going smoothly” theme in a span of less than a minute. I refrain from asking “hey, how far ahead are you guys looking these days?

Charlotte’s in town Wednesday. Maybe by then something will have changed. I won’t hold my breath.

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Someday, we’ll look back on this and laugh.

Someday soon, perhaps, when LeBron James is throwing up 39/13/14 lines on the regular and winning championships and making more money that most European nations and fielding eight-digit offers from teams from Algeria to Zimbabwe and looking like a cross between Oscar Robertson and Bo Jackson and saving General Motors and selling shoes and, you know, hitting free throws it will seem inconceivable that there was a time when LeBron James was not considered the best player in the NBA. There is, though. And we’re living in it.

Is it close? Of course. Given the choice of one player for one year to build around, it’s a pretty safe bet that a fair number of NBA GMs would gladly take LeBron. As it is, quite a few teams are doing everything but arranging “accidents” to make sure they can have a go at LeBron in the summer of ’10. (Sure, there are also other Class of ’03 prizes to pursue, but LeBron is the biggest and no one else comes close.) “NEW YORK — Knicks big men Zach Randolph and Eddy Curry were tragically vaporized yesterday when a Cablevision satellite crashed into their Rolls-Royces in the practice facility parking lot. Further tragedy was only avoided because Curry and Randolph had parked hundreds of yards away from anyone else’s cars and were dismissed from practice an hour early. Team owner James Dolan, president Donnie Walsh and coach Mike D’Antoni were unavailable for comment.”

You know how many times Michael Jordan averaged at least 25, 7 and 7 in his career? Twice. You know how many times LeBron James has averaged at least 25, 7 and 7 in his career? Twice. Now, Mike posted his in an absurd 32.5/8/8 line in 1989, and LeBron has yet to average eight of anything. But does anyone think he won’t? No one’s averaged a triple-double since Oscar Robertson way back in 1962, but does anyone think it’s outside LeBron’s reach? Just wait until he turns 24.*

There is no more sure thing in sports than LeBron James eventually being the best player in the NBA, if not the best basketball player of all time. Just let him add a few things—a midrange jumper, better touch (and better judgement) from three, consistency at the line, more focus on the defensive end—and it won’t even be close. Here’s a guy built like Karl Malone who soars like Jordan and sees the court like Oscar, who, if he is to believed, is still getting taller and bigger without losing any of his phenomenal speed. And again, because it’s so unprecedented, he doesn’t turn 24 until December 30th. Jordan’s 32.5/8/8, his most well-rounded statistical season, came when he was 25. For LeBron, the best is yet to come.

Still, why compare him to the best of the best when he apparently isn’t even quite the best of the now? Why put that all-time weight on his back when he’s still striving to the best of his own time? This is just the way it’s been. Ever since LeBron came onto the national scene, he’s been lauded as the next big thing. The next biggest thing. The Chosen One and all that. King James. And he’s come so far, fulfilling so much of that potential in only five NBA seasons. He’s been to the Finals, won a scoring title, played in more career playoff games than Vince Carter. His points-per-game average is fifth all-time, and were he to walk away from the game right now, he’d be a lock for the Hall of Fame. That said, the promise of the future distracts from the reality of the present. LeBron James is not a finished product.

And maybe he never will be. There’s nothing wrong with that. There has yet to be a perfect player in any sport—I’m sure you remember that Jordan commercial about his failures being why he succeeds. And while that message was just another way to sell shoes—hey, Mike is human!—there was an element of truth to it. No one wins them all. Losing does teach a lesson. There’s a reason the road to the top is called a climb. You don’t start at the very top.

LeBron James is number two.

Just don’t expect him to stay here for long.

* Robertson actually averaged his triple-double—30.8 points, 11.4 assists and 12.5 rebounds—when he was 23. Also, he missed averaging additional triple-doubles by 3/10ths of an assist as a 22-year-old rookie, by half an assist as a 24-year old, and by 1/10th of a rebound as a 25-year old. Oscar was really, really, really good.

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Tim Duncan is a better basketball player than you think he is.

Go ahead. Read that again.

Tim Duncan is a better basketball player than you think he is.

I offer that statement with no qualifiers. No matter how good you think Tim Duncan is, he’s better. Even if you think he’s the best basketball player who ever lived—well, OK, maybe he’s not better than that. So there’s one qualifier. Happy now? Sheesh.

Here’s the thing—it’s not what Tim Duncan does do as much as what he doesn’t do. And what he doesn’t do is make mistakes. He’s not a guy who’ll produce highlights for Sportscenter (unless you like 15-foot bank shots), he won’t be appearing in SLAMadamonth anytime soon. Yet, at 32, you can count his lifetime’s worth of mistakes on one hand.

OK, two.

Three?

April 25, 1976: Tim Duncan is born 14 minutes late.

August 15, 1988: Waits half a stroke too long before the turn in the 100-meter freestyle.

January 3, 1989: Takes up Dungeons and Dragons.

June 24, 1991: Picks up his pivot foot. Twice.

November 25, 1993: Doesn’t take shot in college debut against Alaska-Anchorage. Finishes scoreless.

April 3, 1995: Gets skeleton jester tattoo.

June 28, 1995: Isn’t drafted first overall because he doesn’t enter draft.

June 26, 1996: Isn’t drafted first overall because he doesn’t enter draft.

April 4, 1998: Fouls Erick Dampier.

May 27, 2003: Fails to set alarm.

March 14, 2005: Takes gaming magazine from Lang Whitaker.

January 31, 2007: Travels.

April 15, 2007: Laughs at Joey Crawford.

February 13, 2008: Fails to pick up screen-and-roll.

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Logic dictates that Steve Nash should not be this high on the SLAM top 50 list.

Logic dictates that Steve Nash will not be as effective this season in what will presumably be a more measured half-court offense.

Logic dictates that Steve Nash—who turns 35 on February 7th and already spends his time “on the bench” lying on his sore back with a towel behind his head—is going to fall off soon, and he’s going to fall off hard.

The thing, though, is this: Steve Nash has never had much use for logic. His NBA career has run on tape delay. He wasn’t a regular starter until his third season, didn’t play in an All-Star game until his sixth, didn’t average double-digit assists until his ninth.

That’s when things got crazy, when he teamed up with Mike D’Antoni in Phoenix and showed that run-and-gun was more than just a curiosity. His numbers over the past four seasons have been nothing short of spectacular, launched him from quirky All-Star to no-doubt Hall of Famer. He’s led the League in assists three of the past four seasons, and last season, when he finished second, he still averaged 11.1 per. On top of that 11.1, he shot over 50 percent from the floor for the fourth straight year, 47 percent from three (he’s only been below 40 percent once in his career—his career percentage of 43.1 is higher than both Reggie Miller’s and Ray Allen’s), and 90 percent from the line. He can score any way, from anywhere, anytime, off either foot and with either hand. If it’s points you want, there’s no one better—or at least more efficient—at getting them than Stephen John Nash.

That’s offense. So let’s talk about defense. Or lack thereof. The biggest knock against Nash is that he only plays one side of the ball. He doesn’t even get the glamour stats—he’s only averaged as much as one steal a game three times, most recently in ’04-05. But hold on a minute. To the best of my knowledge, a point guard’s primary function is to control the tempo. And who does that better than Nash? He pushes the ball constantly, always on the attack, getting easy buckets for whoever deigns to keep up, creating fast breaks out of thin air. And if the offense breaks down, he’s always there to bail it out with an off-balance runner (thank you, futbol) or buzzer-beating three. One could argue that his supreme offensive efficiency makes up for his defensive deficiencies. Or maybe that’s just me.

The second-largest knock against him would be his failure to reach a single NBA Finals. Which would be a bigger deal, I think, had others in the top 20 never made it out of the first round. Besides, Nash has had a pair of 20-game postseasons, in ’02-03 with Dallas and ’05-06 with Phoenix. That second one could have easily gone longer, but that’s been discussed far too often.

Let’s get another thing straight, too. Steve Nash is an incredible athlete. No, he doesn’t have Corey Maggette’s physique or Nate Robinson’s hops or Allen Iverson’s speed. But he comes from an athletic family—his father was a professional soccer player, as is his older brother. And Nash’s athleticism is more like that required for soccer, based primarily on stamina and balance. “His core strength is off the charts,” Mike D’Antoni told the New York Times a year ago. Watch him for just a few minutes and you’ll see—the wrong-footed floaters, the split-second gear changes, the ability to catch defenders leaning.

Nash is the biggest mistake Mark Cuban ever made, the one blue-chip asset missing from his portfolio. Since re-joining the Suns, the team that drafted him in ’96, Nash has missed all of 17 games in four years, played 35 minutes per, and averaged career highs in field-goal percentage, three-point percentage, free-throw percentage, rebounds per game, assists per game, and points per game. (In the interests of full disclosure, turnovers, too.) Cuban hesitated to give Nash a max contract because of his balky back and his age. Nash went on to win two straight MVPs. And in the past seven seasons, he’s never played fewer than 75 games. Fragile? Perhaps. Durable? Most definitely.

There are questions, of course, more this off-season than most. With architect D’Antoni in New York and superfreak Shawn Marion in Miami, will Nash continue to play at such a high level? Will his back finally catch up with him? Will a more traditional half-court offense expose his defense, drastically reduce his assists and shots, and push him further back into the point guard pack? Will young whippersnappers Deron Williams and Chris Paul leave him in their wake, forcing him to settle for Third-Team All-NBA (or worse)? After all, even John Stockton, who played 82 games a year like clockwork until he was 41, dropped off dramatically when he was 35.

But I’m not so sure whether Nash will fall off quite yet. There was that late start, for, uh, starters. And remember 2005-06, Nash’s second MVP season? The Suns won 54 games, lost to the Dallas Mavericks in six in the Western Conference Finals. Remember how many games Amare Stoudemire played that year? Three. Kurt Thomas started 50 games at center, and they still managed to run, still managed to win.

It’s also perhaps worth noting that new Suns coach Terry Porter sports a 71-93 career record. Meanwhile, in the four years Nash has been in Phoenix, the Suns have gone 232-96. And if you go back to his Dallas days, Nash’s teams have enjoyed eight straight seasons with 52 or more wins, three with 60-plus. It seems like if either has to adapt to the other, Porter would be the one to change. And despite his older teammates, you can count on Nash still pushing it every chance he gets.

There’s some other stuff from that Times article that’s worth mentioning (it ran in PLAY magazine—you can read the entire thing right here). Like this quote from D’Antoni: “I’ve always said when Steve retires, I’ll retire. I don’t want anyone to be able to figure out whether our success is because of my system or Steve’s ability to make it work.”

So much for all that. Looks like we’ll find out one way or another. But D’Antoni finished his thought with this: “I think Steve is one of those guys who has always lived for the game. You can have all the money in the world, but for the great players the only thing that matters is winning a title.”

I believe that. I believe that Nash realizes that, to be considered amongst the games true greats, that he needs to lift at least one Larry O’Brien over his head. And while the mix in Phoenix is no longer conducive to 130-128 barn burners, others want what he wants. Shaq wants that fifth ring. Grant Hill wants to get out of the first round. Amare wants to get in the MVP conversation. Terry Porter wants to accomplish what D’Antoni couldn’t.

Back to the PLAY story. Nash was asked about his own drive: “I don’t know. I have a lot of energy and a lot of motivation. I have a hard time sitting still. I guess in a way I can’t live with the alternative to being driven, which is sitting around being bored. If I’m going to go for something, I’m really going to go for it. I think I realized as a kid that I would keep going when other kids stopped. If my legs are there, if my quickness is there, I can have a good game. If not, I try to find other ways of making plays without being quick. Making smart plays. Making the game simple.”

This is not over, not by a long shot. Nash may not post the numbers he has the past four years, but he will remain the same player. The Steve Nash he was in Dallas is long gone. He’s come too far, accomplished too much. He’s been rebuilt—smarter, faster, stronger. At 34, he’s still very much in his prime. And who’s to say he can’t play in a different system? He excelled feeding a seven-foot sharpshooter in Dallas, he excelled leading the League’s most devastating fast break in Phoenix. You can question his MVP awards, but I don’t see how you can question the player who won them.

(Some numbers that had no place anywhere in the preceding but I think are interesting nonetheless: Nash has missed 248 free throws in his career. A certain large-boned teammate of his once missed 473 in a season. Nash has played in 108 career playoff games, while a certain predecessor at the point in Phoenix who was drafted the same year has only played in 18. Meanwhile, Nash has earned $71 million in his career, the predecessor nearly double that. Funny how things work.)

(If you don’t agree with anything I said, maybe just re-watch this.)

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paul pierce what the hell is paul pierce doing here sure he was the finals mvp but he wasnt even the best player on his own team last year yeah so kevin garnett said he was the true mvp of the celtics what did he know that was just kg being kg selfless to the end everyone else knew the truth the truth you can’t handle the truth my name is shaquille oneal and paul pierce is the motherfucking truth the truth the truth went toe to toe with lebron in a game seven and came up on top went up against kobe bryant in the finals and came up on top again but that doesn’t make him top ten now does it not gonna give you numbers cause they don’t matter and they can just get twisted

and you can go look them up if you really want because they’re out there in plenty of places you can even sponsor his basketball reference page if you want to nevermind its too late what I do know is this that pierce is big and tough and good from three and a beast in the post and terrific at getting his shot off because you’re not gonna put a body on him he survived antoine walker so he can handle himself whether hes competing with opponents or teammates drafted late hes been proving people wrong ever since stabbed multiple times in late september of two thousand he made it back that same season and played all eighty two games and had a career season but this isnt about that although he played in the eastern conference finals long before the kg resurgence carried a bad team with a brilliant legacy on his back for years before the cavalry came never trashing management or demanding an out or immediate help like certain other all-star all-timers whom i wont name and who may appear higher on this list hes been the best player on a bad team and the best player on a great team

and a scorer and a complementary player and a complimentary player and a teammate to guys like vitaly potapenko and jerome moiso and joseph forte and vin baker and jiri welsch and sebastian telfair and coached by rivers and obrien and pitino and carroll and  what does that have to do with anything nothing at all thanks for asking but just know that paul pierce is a guy who can change his game as circumstance dictates and either step down or step up depending on who his teammates are and take the fewest shots since his rookie year at thirty years old and play equally well on either side of the ball and put in on you like nobodys business

and pile up tommy points like there’s no tomorrow and be the best celtic in the whole damn playoffs not just the finals and guarantee that his number thirty four will join birds thirty three and mchales thirty two and russells six among too many others up in the boston garden rafters whoops legacy doesn’t matter here sorry where that seventeenth banner he played a major part in earning already resides and an eighteenth and nineteenth and twentieth could follow if things keep going the way they have and everyone keeps playing the way they can and pierce earns this spot and higher to the point where no one can dispute it which will never ever happen so why even mention it you idiot because jay says paul pierce is overrated so while I may be wrong still i write

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Dwyane Wade awakened with a start, nearly spilling a half-full red G2 all over his 3,700 thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets. Over on the nightstand, his Sidekick buzzed out the first few notes of an old Mike Jones song. Odd, Wade thought. That’s not what it’s supposed to be. Wade suspected Daequan Cook was the one who kept changing his ringtones, but had never caught him at it. Without lifting his head from his triple phat goosedown pillows or even opening his eyes, he reached out his arm and brought the phone to his ear.

“What, Chuck?”
“Chuck?”
“Yeah. Chuck. What?”
“This isn’t ‘Chuck’.”
“Who is it then?”
“Dr. Edmund Bertschinger, the physics department head at MIT. This is Dwyane Wade, right?”

With that Wade sat up, capping the G2 and setting it next to his iHome. Rubbed the sleep out his eyes.

“Oh right, right—Dr. Bertschinger. Thanks for getting back to me so soon. Did you figure that stuff out for me?”

“Yes, Dwyane. I had my team look into it. We went through it again and again, and no matter how many time we crunched the numbers, we concluded that there is absolutely no way you can fall down seven times and get up eight. It simply isn’t possible. I’m sorry. And as a theoretical astrophysicist, I explored EVERY possibility. Trust me. Oh yeah—can I be in your five?”

Bertschinger was still talking, but Wade had stopped listening. Crestfallen, he let the phone fall aw…

Man, I’m sorry. There I go, just using Wade’s spot on this list to be all clever and look-at-me writery. My bad. Let me try this again.

The first time we wrote about Dwyane Wade in SLAM, we spelled his name wrong. It was an honest mistake. Truly. He was still at Marquette then—not anywhere near a household name obviously—and spellcheck doesn’t help when it comes to proper names and who the heck spelled Dwayne “Dwyane” anyway? Yet in a world littered with Anfernees and Andrays we should have known better and double-checked.

Now? It’s the traditional “Dwayne” that looks wrong. And if Mr. Wade keeps playing the way he’s been playing, 20 years from now guys named Dwayne are gonna be the ones getting their name spelled wrong. Because familiarity will go the other way. All becau…

Ah, that’s no good either. Personal reminiscence and still no real reasoning as to why he’s ahead of Player A or behind Player B. Maybe I should go to the numbers?

31.

That’s how many games Dwyane Wade missed each of the past two seasons, thanks to an assortment of painful and surgically repaired reasons. It was all or nothing too—Wade averaged 37-plus minutes and 24-plus points per game in each of the 102 games he did play. Either Dwyane Wade played as Dwyane Wade, or he didn’t play at all. And in 2007 he averaged career highs in points (27.4) and assists (7.5) despite missing all of March and playing just five hobbled games in April.

15.

That’s how many games the Miami Heat won last season. In the 51 games Wade played, the Heat went 10-41, including a stretch from late December to late February where they lost 24 of 25. Yeesh. His best game of the season—a 48-point, 11-assist, seven-rebound effort in an overtime loss to Orlando—came during that stretch. He played nearly 52 minutes. Other great games produced similar results. Back-to-back December nights of 36, 10 and six against the Hawks and 41, six and five against the Nets resulted in two more losses. His last game of the season came on March 8th. He played 39 minutes and stacked up 24 points and eight assists. The Heat lost, dropping their record to 11-50. I would have taken the rest of the season off, too.

1.

That’s how many times Dwyane Wade has won Finals MVP. It’s also his number of NBA Championships and Olympic gold medals. He was the best player on the court in the summer of 2006 playing in Miami and Dallas alongside Shaquille O’Neal, and he was the best player on the court in the summer of 2008 playing in Beijing alongside Kobe Bryant and LeBron James. Olympic success doesn’t necessarily translate into NBA transcendence—see: Anthony, Carmelo—but all signs point to Wade being fully recovered from the injuries to his knee and shoulder that slowed him for so long.

77.

That’s the most games Dwyane Wade has ever played in an NBA season. It was his second season, his 24.1/6.8/5.2 breakout year. The following season he kicked it up yet another notch with a Jordanesque 27.2/6.7/5.7 line and the championship that had people wondering whether he was actually the class of the Class of ’03. Then came the injuries and the sweep at the hands of the overachieving Bulls and 10-41 and LeBron’s hey-Mike-look-at-me digits and there went the neighborhood.

8.

That’s the spot where we ranked Dwyane Wade. You probably don’t agree. His talent and career averages and Olympic performance place him higher, his injury history places him lower. His age—he turns an older-than-you-might-think 27 in January—places him right square in his prime.

So let’s see what happens next. Will he be able to resume his rugged game of controlled recklessness? Will his surgically repaired body hold up for >37 x 82? Will he mesh properly with a new coach and a new scorer and a new point guard? Will he bang and dunk and shoulder (NPI) his way right back into that LeBron/Kobe/CP3/TD/KG best-player-on-the-planet discussion?

I don’t know what the answers to those questions will be. He might come out of the gate on fire, energized by that gold, he might go down seven times and get up six. Either way, it’ll be fun to watch.

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Allen Iverson is way too low on this list.

Just look at the numbers. AI played in all 82 games last season, and was on the floor for over 40 minutes a game (leading the League in that category for the seventh time). He averaged 26.4 points, 7.1 assists and 2.0 steals, all right around his career averages. This in his 12th season, which hardly anyone expected him to even reach when he first came into the L. Playing every game like it’s your last does not promote longevity.

Yet here it is 2008, and Iverson—all 5-11, 165 pounds of him—is the very picture of durability. He gets dinged up a lot, but excluding the lockout-shortened ’99 season, he’s only played four seasons of 70 games or less. Look at the rest of the vaunted class of ’96: AI’s started more games than Kobe Bryant or Steve Nash, played in more games than Jermaine O’Neal or Marcus Camby. Shareef Abdur-Rahim retired this summer, Kerry Kittles and Samaki Walker have been gone for ages, and Antoine Walker and Stephon Marbury teeter on the brink of irrelevancy (not to mention madness). Yet AI just keeps on going. At 32, he was the leading scorer and leading assist man and leading thief and leading free-throw shooter (in both attempts—by far—and percentage) for a 50-win team in the West. If he’s lost a step, it’s hard to tell.

There is no one quite like Allen Iverson, there has been no one quite like Allen Iverson, there will be no one quite like Allen Iverson. He remains atop the list of players other players would pay to see live. He’s more than just an NBA All-Star, he’s a pure athletic marvel who would have excelled at whatever sport he chose to play. Imagine him as a roving midfielder in the Premiership, a shortstop in the majors, a d-back or quarterback in the NFL.

How is he not in the top 10?

Hmm.

Allen Iverson is way too high on this list.

If you believe what David Berri (who love Iverson like a fat kid love asparagus) and the rest of the stat-crunchers say, AI probably shouldn’t even be on this list at all. He’s—what’s the term?—a low-percentage, high-volume shooter, a guy who gambles on steals and dominates the ball too much and commits too many turnovers and doesn’t give his team much of a chance to win. This, of course, disregards the fact that he often gets off shots that no other player could even dream of shooting, and sometimes those shots go in. But that’s what you miss when you bury yourself in agate and spreadsheets. (One would think that using economic models to judge other things after the near-collapse of the economy would be frowned upon, if not openly laughed at. Guess not.)

Still, Berri’s argument has at least some merit. Iverson does control the ball too much, he does forego principles of sound man-to-man defense to play the passing lanes, he does take shots that he has no business taking, he does have a tendency to fall into the “hell, I got this” mentality when he should be looking for the open man. He’ll certainly be the only Hall of Famer to have spent more time in TGI Friday’s than practice facilities.

Most damning, perhaps, is the fact that Iverson’s teams have only won two playoff games in the past five seasons. It’s been eight years since he led the blue-collar Sixers to the Finals, and time is rapidly running out for Iverson to be the alpha dog for an NBA champion. If you believe what’s been said in the media, his value to Denver next year may be more as a large expiring contract than as a leading scorer. Imagine that. Some people seem to think that it’s time for Carmelo Anthony take over as Denver’s leader. Melo shot a better percentage than AI last season from the floor (not surprising) and from three (fairly surprising), so perhaps he should be getting the lion’s share of the shots.

Maybe Allen Iverson is right where he belongs.

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Let me tell you something about Carlos Boozer: He didn’t spend his Alaskan childhood dodging bullets sprayed by helicoptering hockey moms for this. So what if he didn’t 20 and 12 his way through the Lakers in the playoffs? Those six games didn’t negate his previous 90. (They also didn’t negate what he did against the Rockets in his first-ever playoff series back in 2007—35 and 14 in a Game Seven win.) Who cares if he served as Coach K’s human Cohiba in Beijing? Gold wasn’t portioned out according to points scored and minutes played. And yes, Deron Williams is one of the best point guards in the League. Think Boozer may have something to do with that?

Another thing: Carlos Boozer is undersized like rocks are soft. Sure, he’s not a 6-11 ogre with a 7-5 wingspan and a 43” vertical. But he’s got a soft touch around the hoop with both hands, can finish strong if necessary and shoot a deadly high-arcing jumper if not, and you can’t move him out of the paint without a case of dynamite and a Ford F-650. In his six seasons he’s never shot under 52 percent from the floor and he’s averaging 16.9 and 9.9 for his career. He’s plenty big enough, thanks.

You know what being undersized got him? Drafted in the second round. Thirty-fourth overall. Meanwhile, those cherished long and athletic types went in the lottery. Guys like Nikoloz Tskitishvili and Marcus Haislip. Remember them? In fact, there’s a whole where-are-they-now’s worth of All-Americans and workout wonders who went before Boozer—guys like Steve Logan and Frank Williams and Curtis Borchardt. Booz wound up in Cleveland, and went right to work. The next year he was joined by some high school kid and played even better, averaging 15.5 points and 11.4 boards. Then he left.

But you know what? Enough with the “he fleeced the blind guy!” stuff, too. (Um, despite the fact that Boozer’s agent dropped him immediately afterwards and Gordon Gund reacted like someone had slapped him with a month-old trout.) Two quick things about that: 1) Who was the one getting fleeced really? The Cavs shredded the last year of his rookie deal and were going to sign him to a six-year, $39 million extension, hoping to lock him in long-term before he turned into a max guy. Then the Jazz stepped in with a six-year, $70 million offer, and that was that. My math isn’t too good, but that’s roughly 31 million reasons to go West. Even LeBron told him to get that money. (In hindsight, perhaps not shocking.) 2) Then-coach Paul Silas more or less told CBooz that he’d just be a role player in Cleveland. A rebounder and defender. That’s the way Boozer explained it to me the last time we spoke, and I have no reason to disbelieve him: “I was happy [Silas] told me that, because I saw what he wanted for my future. That helped ease my decision a little bit. I couldn’t wait to come to Utah and play. I hope he can see what I’m doin’ now, I’ll tell you that.”

Do you see what he’s doing? Check the numbers, check the results. A career-high 21.1 points and 10.4 rebounds per game last year. Second straight season with 20/10 plus. Had his first triple-double, played in his first All-Star game (he was named to the team in ’07, but couldn’t play due to injury). Boozer’s a throwback, an anachronism, a guy who would have fit right into the rough and rugged NBA world of the ‘50s and ‘60s, a fundamentally sound bruiser who gets things done. Yet he can more than hold his own in the midst of high-flying wings and speedy point guards.

Top 20? You betcha.

Want more of the SLAMonline Top 50? Check out the archive.

The post SLAMonline Top 50: Carlos Boozer, no. 19 appeared first on SLAM.

What’s up, Pax? Can I call you Pax? It’s just that my strongest memories of you come from the days when you were wearing No. 5 and knocking down three-pointers and winning championships, and the thought of calling you “Mr. Paxson” or something just makes me feel old. Er. So I’m gonna go with Pax, if you don’t mind.

So, Pax. What’s the deal? You took over as the Bulls’s Executive VP of Basketball Operations back in April of 2003—bet you’ve got a nice office—and have accomplished…what, exactly? Things started out well enough. You targeted and hired Scott Skiles, the perfect coach for a young team. Came up unlucky seven in the best draft of the new millennium, and still came away with a player. You signed away the heart and soul of your most bitter division rival. And then there was the 2006-07 season. That was fun, winning 49 games and bouncing the Heat—excuse me, sweeping the defending champion Heat—in the first round. And fleecing Isiah Thomas for two high first-round picks in exchange for Eddy Curry, that was great—although, let’s face it, Isiah never really did come out on top when it came to trades. Things were looking up.

Then last year your Bulls won 33 games. Thirty-three! You went from 49 wins and the first playoff series win since the days of Scottie and MJ right back to the lottery (in a year where most of the East, for lack of a better word, sucked). Your huge free-agent signing blew up in your face. Your hand-picked coach predictably wore out his welcome. And the Bulls are no closer to having a go-to guy or low-post scoring threat than they were when you took the job.

Why are they keeping you around again?

Since 2003, you’ve managed to acquire six top-10 draft picks, including this year’s number one. So far, none of them have proven capable of carrying a team. You’ve had some bad luck, sure—it would have been nice to inherit a team featuring Yao Ming instead of a hobbled Jay Williams, huh? But what do you have to show for those picks? Three guards under 6-5 (Kirk Hinrich, Ben Gordon and Derrick Rose), two hyper-active and athletic but skill-challenged young bigs (Tyrus Thomas and Joakim Noah) and Luol Deng. Not bad, but no All-Stars as of yet either.

The signature move of your regime, of course, was signing four-time Defensive Player of the Year Ben Wallace to a $60-something million contract. Seemed like a good idea at the time—he would provide veteran leadership and guidance (along with rebounding and defense) and help pull the Baby Bulls into the present. You were strengthening a strength, but hell, defense wins championships, right? Even I bought into it.

Only thing is, did you talk to the guy first? First there was headbandgate (no one foresaw that?), then his declining the captaincy, and the whole “I want to be more involved in the offense” part when he couldn’t shoot a lick, and the fact that he only had one 20-plus rebound game that first season. Oh yeah, and the guy he replaced, Tyson Chandler? You more or less gave him to New Orleans, where he became half of the most exciting big-little combo in the League. And he turns 26 next week. Good job, thanks.

(Think about this. Obviously hindsight is 20/10, But you could have kept Chandler and not signed Wallace, and drafted Brandon Roy instead of Aldridge—or simply kept Aldridge. Bet you would have won more than 33 games last year.)

But enough about the past, let’s talk about the future, and what you accomplished this off-season.

• You won the lottery. Good deal. Congratulations. Time will tell whether you made the right choice—although who knows whether you’ll even be in a position to care at that point. For the record, I would have taken Derrick Rose too, so no worries there. Just don’t be second-guessing things if Michael Beasley comes out of the gate strong and Rose has some growing pains. At least Derrick made it safely through rookie orientation.

• You hired Vinnie Del Negro to be the next coach. I don’t know about that one. Yes, he was a part of the Spurs organization, and that’s always a plus. But he’s never coached on any level before, and it’s hard to say what his philosophy will be. Does he even have one? I hope so, because there’s plenty of other things he doesn’t have, like a track record or a current hairstyle. Which leads to the other part of the equation. Maybe Mike D’Antoni really did have his heart set on New York, and maybe Jerry Reinsdorf wasn’t willing to go any higher salary-wise, but there’s a whole lot of us who wish you could have convinced Mike D to hold off on making a decision until after the lottery at least. The chance to coach Derrick Rose may have swayed his decision, huh? I guess we’ll never know.

• You re-signed Luol Deng. That was the right move. Sure, now you’ve got a lot of money tied up in him and Larry Hughes and Kirk Hinrich and Andres Nocioni and Drew Gooden, and you still might not have an All-Star on your roster, but keeping Luol was the right thing to do. Of course if he doesn’t assume a leadership role and someone doesn’t emerge as the lead dog and you miss the playoffs you’ll probably get fired, but hey, your contract is guaranteed too, right?

Good things all. But what about what you didn’t do?

• Ben Gordon is still unsigned. Seriously? In late September? Look, I don’t have a problem with your letting Ben walk if that’s what you want to do. I’m not one of those people who thinks you can’t let someone go for nothing. Because trading for the sake of not losing someone turns you into the Knicks. But you have to do something. Ben was a top-five pick and your leading scorer last season. Is he a guy you build a team around? Probably not. And with Hinrich, Rose, Hughes, Sefolosha and Gordon, there aren’t enough minutes to go around. (The qualifying offer doesn’t qualify as a decision, by the way. Then you have a grumpy, underpaid player who’s got one foot out the door and one eye on his next contract. Terrific.) So make a decision. Please.

• You still don’t have a low-post scorer or go-to guy. Unbelievable. I won’t re-hash the list of All-Stars who’ve been traded in the past couple years, but I find it hard to believe that you couldn’t get one of them. Chicago is still a prime NBA destination, is it not? You’re still selling out games, right? It would be nice to have a main attraction—or at least a guy who could create off the dribble when the drive-and-kick offense isn’t working. Like it didn’t, um, all last season. Have you looked at those shooting percentages? Yuck.

I won’t bore you with numbers, since I’d hope you know them all by heart. But two years ago you probably overachieved, and last year you probably underachieved. It’s fairly safe to assume that you won’t shoot as badly as you did last season, and you won’t shoot as well as you did the previous season. And with a rookie point guard and a drastically younger roster (your oldest player is Larry freaking Hughes), the playoffs might not happen. Thirty-seven wins may have gotten the Hawks into the post-season last year, but it’s gonna take at least a .500 record to get there this year. If the shots fall and Rose matures quickly and Deng comes in strong after leading the UK this past summer and Vinny has a plan and you can get some solid production from the Gooden/Noah/Thomas frontcourt, sure, a return to ’06-07 standards and a playoff berth isn’t out of the question.

But I know better.

Last year I picked your Bulls to win 50-plus games, maybe reach the Eastern Conference Finals. I’ve been wrong before, but that was bad even for me. Which is why I refuse to be overly optimistic this year. Barring any major changes or trades, I think you’re looking at 42-42. Dead even, with an outside shot at the playoffs. And I’m OK with that.

But what I want from you is this—a plan. Tell me something. Anything. Are you going to try and drop salary to go after Dwyane Wade or LeBron James in the summer of ’10? (Good luck with all that.) Or are you content to keep building through the draft, hoping some combination of youngsters will eventually be able to put it all together? What are you trying to do, and by when? Just figure that out, and soon, or else I think we’re gonna be asking somebody else real soon.

Thanks, and good luck. You might need it.

—Russ Bengtson

Find other season previews here.

The post Chicago Bulls Season Preview appeared first on SLAM.

Last week, Russian author Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn passed away at the age of 89. His most well-known works, The Gulag Archipelago and One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich, exposed many to the grim life of inmates in mid-20th century Soviet labor camps. For a time, Solzhenitsyn was one of them.

While I have never spent any time in a Soviet labor camp (and given the dissolution of the Soviet Union I never will—score!), I did attend a preposterous number of Knicks games during the Isiah Thomas era. Like Mr. Solzhenitsyn, I endured my share of suffering. And like Mr. Solzhenitsyn, I choose to purge those memories through writing.

Isiah has been out of the news lately, deposed but not forgotten. We can merely speculate—or in this case fantasize—about his day-to-day activities. So with apologies to the late Mr. Solzhenitsyn, I present One Day in the Life of Isiah Thomas:

9:14 a.m. Alarm goes off.

9:17 a.m. Hits snooze.

9:27 a.m. Alarm goes off.

9:29 a.m. Gets up.

9:33 a.m. Places blocked call to Marbury residence. Gets machine. Adopts high-pitched voice. “Hey Steph, nice head tattoo. Is that your IQ?” Hangs up. Giggles.

9:36 a.m. Takes shower.

9:43 a.m. Makes breakfast.

9:44 a.m. Ruins breakfast.

9:45 a.m. Sexually harasses toaster.

10:06 a.m. Falls asleep on couch.

10:27 a.m. Dreams of trading Eddy Curry, David Lee, Wilson Chandler and eight first-round picks for Shaquille O’Neal, Boris Diaw and Steve Nash. Phone hand twitches.

10:49 a.m. Dreams of f*cking a marketing executive b*tch.

11:46 a.m. Wakes up in cold sweat screaming “DON’T EAT HIM, JEROME, HE’S GOT A GUARANTEED CONTRACT!”

12:01 p.m. Sexually harasses television.

12:14 p.m. Heads into city for lunch.

1:38 p.m. Spends entire midlevel exception on meal. Calls Jim Dolan (“the whiskered one”) to officially make it a business lunch. No one picks up—of course, it’s before 7 p.m. Bills Knicks anyway.

1:52 p.m. Drives by Madison Square Garden. Yells “FIRE ISIAH” out window just to see if anyone notices. They don’t.

2:27 p.m. Runs out of gas three miles from house.

2:36 p.m. Arrives home.

2:43 p.m. Makes popcorn.

2:44 p.m. Burns popcorn.

2:45 p.m. Sexually harasses popcorn maker.

3:13 p.m. Puts in highlight DVD of Knicks tenure.

3:17 p.m. Finishes watching entire DVD.

3:24 p.m. Hires 12-year-old neighborhood kid to mow lawn for next three summers. Agrees to pay him $3.2 million.

*3:27 p.m.: Sends Marbury text message that reads, “the D in Duhon stands for Defense.”

3:37 p.m. Stands and watches with lips pursed as kid mows over flowers, newspaper, cat. Gets rid of him after paying him the full amount. Since the newspaper still contained the sports section, this is a business expense. Bills Knicks.

3:46 p.m. Receives response from Marbury: “What the f*ck is a Chris Duhon?”

3:58 p.m. Edits Wikipedia entry on “bitch.”

4:02 p.m. Flips past Brazilian soccer match on Fox Soccer. Satisfies international scouting duty for week.

4:04 p.m. Sexually harasses couch.

4:14 p.m. Calls Joe Dumars. No answer.

4:16 p.m. Calls Rick Mahorn. No answer.

4:18 p.m. Calls Bill Laimbeer. No answer.

4:20 p.m. Calls John Salley. No answer.

4:22 p.m. Calls Vinnie Johnson. No answer.

4:24 p.m. Calls Chuck Nevitt. Hangs up after one ring.

4:26 p.m. Picks up Coach Wooden’s Pyramid of Success

4:27 p.m. Puts down Coach Wooden’s Pyramid of Success

4:28 p.m. Picks up dictionary, looks up “pyramid”.

4:36 p.m. Drives to Costco.

4:48 p.m. Looks in vain for “Bulk Max Contracts.”

4:52 p.m. Sexually harasses shopping cart.

5:06 p.m. Buys 67-inch flatscreen, Playstation 3, NBA Live 2009, case of Cool Ranch Doritos.

5:47 p.m. Hooks up PS3. Undoes Renaldo Balkman trade, swaps Gallinari for D.J. White, trades Marbury for Jermaine O’Neal. Plays game against Celtics, loses 168-3. Blames Sony.

*6:12 p.m. Forges letter to David Lee, in which he, as Donnie Walsh, threatens to make Lee a “space year compensation” player and blast him into orbit.

6:36 p.m. Updates resume. Submits to Monster.

7:10 p.m. Heads back to city for dinner.

8:12 p.m. Goes to Waverly Inn, gets booed.

9:33 p.m. Drives to practice facility by mistake.

10:17 p.m. Arrives home.

10:42 p.m. Attempts to prank call Michael Jordan. Realizes Jordan gave him wrong number. Hangs up.

10:44 p.m. Looks at own Basketball Reference page.

10:46 p.m. Sexually harasses computer.

11:13 p.m. Pours glass of water.

11:14 p.m. Spills glass of water.

11:15 p.m. Blames someone else.

11:26 p.m. Brushes teeth.

11:30 p.m. Checks smile in mirror.

11:33 p.m. Sexually harasses self.

11:34 p.m. Breaks gaze away.

11:35 p.m. Looks back.

11:48 p.m. Picks out suit for next day.

11:52 p.m. Realizes he doesn’t need to wear suit anymore.

12:06 a.m. Turns on Home Shopping Network.

12:12 a.m. Orders $36,000 worth of Bad Boys Pistons memorabilia. Bills Knicks.

12:21 a.m. Calls Spike Lee to pitch movie on Knicks tenure.. No answer.

12:23 a.m. Calls Woody Allen to pitch movie on Knicks tenure. Allen agrees only if he can cast Scarlett Johannson as Anucha Browne Sanders. Thomas agrees only if he can be cast as himself. Allen hangs up.

12:31 a.m. Calls Michael Bay to pitch movie on Knicks tenure. Makes multi-million dollar deal.

12:33 a.m. Calls Fred Jones. Signs him to multi-million dollar personal service contract.

12:37 a.m. Goes to sleep fully content. He’d had many strokes of luck that day.

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That was by far my favorite line in the wire story breakdown of the latest installment of Real World: Shaq vs. Kobe. Forget Shaq and Kobe—J.R. Rider, freestyle rapper? I wish I could have eavesdropped on some of those ciphers.

But almost right after I heard Shaq’s clumsy attempt at being a lyrical assassinator (pun somewhat intended), I thought: “How would Kobe come back at him?” Mind you, I don’t think he will. Not that Kobe’s always the most rational dude, but I think he knows that, in this case, the best response is none at all. In the words of Jeru the Damaja: “With all that Big Willie talk, hop, you’re, playin yaself”

But still, WHAT IF? And an idea started to take form. I would do Kobe’s job for him. I would put myself in his shoes, come back at Shaq as if I were 24. And finally, at long last, I would get to rhyme “Reebok Shaqnosis” and “coronary thrombosis.”

Keep in mind, THIS IS 100 PERCENT PURE FICTION AND NOT MEANT TO REFLECT MY PERSONAL VIEWS ON SHAQ. This is just my interpretation of how Kobe COULD go hard after the Diesel if he really wanted to. And if he could, you know, freestyle. According to Shaq he could, but based on what I’ve heard, I’m not sure whether he’s the best judge of hip-hop talent.

Anyway, drop an old school beat:

Your reign on the top was short like leprechauns
Sure-thing rings lost to Wallaces and Olajuwons

Nike makes me shoes and spots, I jump cars for fun
Tell you what, I’d rather hang with Jackass than be one

I got to stay home, you got displaced.
As years go by, your memories erased.
What was that, Diesel? How does your ass taste?
Shouldn’t you know? You’re the one sh*tfaced.

The post Pop Goes The Diesel appeared first on SLAM.

SLAM 119 // CONTINUED FROM PAGE 71

those skills to see them atrophy.

That’s it?

That’s it. That’s all you missed. A little anticlimactic, hey?

Wasn’t anybody’s fault. It’s happened before and it’s happened again. Someone at the printing plant re-spaces a paragraph, an extra line is created, and the end of the story drops off the page. When I saw it, I knew that only a couple words were missing. For those of you who hadn’t read it yet—or, well, written it—it could have been cut off halfway through. It wasn’t. But, seeing that you had to wait so long to read those last six words, here’s a couple more Q’s and A’s with Glide to make up for your trouble.

(Keep in mind that this conversation took place way back in December.)

SLAM: It’s been interesting times for both of your former teams. The Blazers seem to be going in the right direction…
DREXLER: They have a great nucleus of good young talent that has to develop, but certainly they’ll be much better off defensively when they get Greg Oden on the floor with that nucleus.

SLAM: I know it’s not fair, but can you see why there have been the comparisons with Sam Bowie?
DREXLER: I don’t want to do that. That town has been through that big guy problem before with Walton, Sam Bowie—to go deeper than that, LaRue Martin. They’ve had big guy problems. LaRue Martin, Walton and Sam Bowie—one couldn’t play that well, the other ones were injured. Now Oden is injured again. So that certainly has hurt their chances for more titles in the past. Sabonis, they couldn’t get him when he was healthy, they got him post-injury—so they’ve had some problems, I could name four or five instances. But hopefully Oden will have a stellar career, it’s hard to judge on the first year.

SLAM: Could you feel for what they were going through?
DREXLER: Absolutely. Because you go from euphoria, thinking you got the best player in the draft, to knowing that he’s gonna have to take a year off. But the thing is, the future is very bright, the fans up there are excited—I was up there about a week ago and there is a lot of hope for the future of the franchise.

SLAM: I was trying to think of a current player who kind of fits your mold, and the guy I thought of first was Tracy—he plays in Houston, I know he’s struggled to get out of the first round and you had a run where it took a little while.
DREXLER: I made it to the playoffs every year. We made it to the second round my second year—we beat Dallas my second year. Nah, we beat Dallas my second year, then the next two or three years we played the Lakers in the first round. [He was right, of course—they lost in the first round five of his first six years, with the exception being that second year. I misread the Blazers’s Basketball Reference page and paid the price. So of course I plowed ahead anyway.]

SLAM: But is Tracy someone…
DREXLER: Tracy is certainly one of the finer players in the League, he has a lot of talent, and a good guy, and I certainly enjoy watching him play. But I don’t like to compare players. Not even if they even close. Our games are similar in the fact that we’re very talented and make it look easy. But there are certain aspects of our games that I think are completely different. Because I was more of a passer, a penetrator, making my teammates better. I really worked on efficiency, making the game easier so we could rest and get ready for the next game. So those are my thoughts, and Tracy is more of a scorer, he’s gonna score in bunches. I coulda done that, but I was really focused on making my teammates better and making the game easier.

SLAM: It’s funny watching some of the elements of your past come together now with Rick Adelman coaching Houston.
DREXLER: It’s unbelievable. I think he’s the right guy for that team at the right time. Because they’re hungry, they haven’t made it out of the first round—now, he’s the guy to get them over the hump, if they can stay healthy. If Yao and Tracy are healthy, they have a better complement of players that can help them this season—Luis Scola, Mike James, Steve Francis, he can help them, Bonzi Wells, so they got a better complement of players to go along with Yao and Tracy and Shane Battier. That’s seven good players, that’s my magic number. [Francis, Wells and James, oh my.]

SLAM: Could you imagine having gotten to play with someone like Yao in your time?
DREXLER: No. Could you imagine? Well, I played with Hakeem, at the end of my career. How about playing with those guys when I was young? Yao’s the best center in the League. I think Shaq has declined a little bit, he’s held that mantle for many, many years—I think he passed it to Yao last season.

SLAM: Who do you enjoy watching the most now?
DREXLER: I enjoy watching all these guys. You look at LeBron, I love to watch Carmelo, Kobe is spectacular, Tracy McGrady is really fun to watch, Wade is not bad. Arenas is perhaps one of my favorites—love to watch Gilbert. So quick. He reminds me of myself, he just outruns everybody. That was my game! Just run right by you. Make it easy. I don’t want to beat you off the dribble, I want to run right by you.

SLAM: Do any guys nowadays ask you for help?
DREXLER: Some of the current players will come up to me and they’ve wanted me to work with them in the summer and better their game, give them more weapons offensively just to see what they could do to improve their overall game. And that’s really a nice compliment, I love to teach, love to give back—and obviously we know since we’ve done it. There’s only a few guys in the world that know. That would be like if Bill Gates retired, he’d be a good consultant for any software company. So that’s what ex-great NBA players, or decent NBA players, can do. Because they’ve been there. It’s like, how can you tech a skill that you’ve never learned? Well, the guys that have learned it can teach it! That’s how they learned it! And so I don’t see why there’s not more of that going on in the League. So you have a lot of what I call video coaches, guys that look at video and try to coach. But they never learned the moves themselves. I can imagine trying to learn, like, martial arts from a guy that looked at a video.

SLAM: Have you worked with any guys that are in Houston now?
DREXLER: I’ve worked with a few guys—I don’t wanna name any names—just to help their overall games. I’ve worked with a lot of younger kids. I have two sons, 17 and 14, and we’re always at the gym and I work with the kids on high school teams just to better their games. But at the same time, I’ve been busy enjoying retirement. And so that’s been big for me, just to have some free times to enjoy the things I like. I have four kids: 20, 16, 16 and 14. Two boys and two girls. Watching them grow up has been a joy. Obviously. I still work. I have real estate, I have airport concessions, I still endorse product, in this country and in China. I stay somewhat busy, but not really. My main focus is working on my golf game.

The post DREXTRA! appeared first on SLAM.

Doris Burke’s pre-lotto interview with Jay-Z at the draft lottery marked a new low in NBA history. You’re forgiven, Kermit Washington. Come back, Roy Tarpley. Rest in peace, Len Bias.

Yes, Jay is a minority owner of the New Jersey Nets. Yes, he’s good friends with everyone from Michael Jordan to LeBron James and every Nike endorsee in-between (and apparently O.J. Mayo, too—whoops!). But did we really need to hear his opinions on who the Nets are interested in (Beasley and Rose, shocking), especially when he didn’t seem even remotely interested in giving them?

Burke’s pre-lotto-show interview with David Stern was markedly better, as she hit him with a one-two punch of the age limit and the O.J. Mayo scenario (he predictably praised the first and patronizingly deflected the second as being the NCAA’s problem). That said, I’d still rather see Doris stranded on a desert island than on my TV screen for the rest of the playoffs.

We have the usual bizarro game-show format for the seating, with a diminutive “lucky” fan from Sacramento sitting alongside Larry Bird and Jay-Z. Burke engages them in a little Trebekian chit-chat, and you know basketball lifers like the Bucks’s John Hammond can’t stand any of it. Rudy Gay, Dwyane Wade and Kevin Durant have probably never been so bored in their lives.

Finally, the envelopes.

14. Golden State
13. Portland
12. Sacramento
11. Indiana
10. Dallas
9. Charlotte
8. Milwaukee
7. Clippers
6. Knicks
5. Memphis
4. Seattle

The Bulls have moved into the top three, deservedly displacing the carpetbagging Sonics. And so much for the Sacramento luck lady. Although if she was so lucky in the first place, she probably wouldn’t be a Kings fan.

3. Minnesota
2. Miami
1. Chicago

Well now. I’d write more, but I have to go to Chicago and help Kirk Hinrich pack.

Take it away.

The post A Few Lottery Thoughts (The Envelopes, Please) appeared first on SLAM.

Game Five. 95-69, Rockets.

Probably not what the Jazz had in mind. And while they play Game Six at home with the chance to finally close out the scrappy Rockets, it ain’t gonna be easy. Because a) the Rockets have beaten the Jazz in Utah once already this series, and b) they just handed the Jazz a 26-point beatdown despite their starting center and small forward combining to score all of eight points.

Now, I didn’t watch this game because the wondrous local cable service doesn’t include NBA TV in the basic package. And, for whatever reason, I didn’t spring for League Pass this year. Alas. Still, some general points from the series and specific ones from the game:

TRACY McGRADY: He still may lose in the first round. In fact, it still seems probable. Although I can’t help but think the Rockets will win Game Six on the road just so they can lose a Game Seven at home for the second straight year. God is cruel. However, with 29, 5 and 5 in Game Five, McGrady has made it abundantly clear that even if they DO lose, it won’t be on him. Instead, it’ll be on Dirk Nowitzki.

RAFER ALSTON: He misses the first two games, they lose both. Comes back and they win two of three—the two wins being a win in Utah and a blowout in Houston. And he outplayed Deron Williams in Game Five. If they lose the series, it’s not his fault either.

ANDREI KIRILENKO: Remember when he scored 20+ in the first game and I said he was back? Yeah, neither do I. In 29 minutes of Game Five he managed all of 5 points (on 2-7 from the floor), 1 rebound, 2 assists and 2 steals. Embarassing. But not quite as embarassing as this.

BENCHES: The entire Jazz bench scored nine points on a joshhowardian 4-16 from the floor in Game Five. Which means they scored as many points as, well, Bobby Jackson, who played 17 minutes. (The Rockets bench as a whole had 26.) Also, you can tell the game was a blowout just by looking at the minutes portion of the box score. The Jazz waved the white flag at the 3:42 mark when Jason Hart, Jason Collins and C.J. Miles entered the game.

WHY +/- IS STUPID FOR INDIVIDUALS: Luther Head played 13:44, was 0-4 with 2 turnovers, and earned a +15, the third-highest on the team.

WHAT THE ROCKETS SHOULD WATCH BEFORE GAME SEVEN (IF THERE IS ONE): Click.

WHAT THE ROCKETS SHOULD DO IF THEY FIND THEMSELVES DOWN 12 WITH UNDER A MINUTE LEFT: Click.

The post Rockets/Jazz Game Five appeared first on SLAM.

The Rockets-Jazz game tipped off at 10:50 Eastern tonight (last night?), perfect for a series that no one on the East Coast could bring themselves to care about anyway. Masterful scheduling work, David Stern. Nothing like halftime after midnight.

Even better, the telecast was delayed thanks to even more timing issues in Atlanta, as the Wal-Mart shotclocks failed, delaying the start of the second half by roughly three years. The routine-obsessed Ray Allen must have been going crazy. Well, crazier.

So early on we get a little bit of useless (at least on my throwback 27”) split-screen coverage so I can’t even tell you who’s winning as the Hawks finish off (and taunt) the Celtics.

It’s 10-9 with 6:03 to go in the first when we finally join the Utah/Houston game for good, unless Paul Pierce kills Al Horford and we need to go back to Atlanta for bonus coverage. Apparently Tracy McGrady already has been to the locker room and back in order to get his knee re-taped, which isn’t what the Rockets want to hear.

I think I’m gonna just straight notes this thing since I haven’t done that this series yet. I promise not to note ALL the minutia, and I’ll also try to get off-topic as much as possible.

FIRST QUARTER

• Williams finds Kirilenko with an alley-oop, which is probably the best thing for Drei’s fragile psyche. And his scoring totals, which have fallen off the face of the earth since Game One. That’s seven straight points for the Jazz, I think.

• “Dees Dikembe Mutombo. Dees basket for Houston Rockets.”

• The semi-unheralded Jazz youngsters—Ronnie Brewer and Ronnie Price—are really good.

• If I worked at a company where some sluttily dressed secretary walked around stapling things while eating a KFC wrap with an orgasmic look on her face, I’d probably post my resume on Monster. But I’d get her number first.

• And about that Meatloaf Gophone commercial—I had no idea that the kid wasn’t his actual kid (it’s not) and that the wife was actually Tiffany (it is). What’s alarming is that she doesn’t look much older than Mr. Loaf. His name is Robert Paulson.

• Tracy McGrady on not winning a playoff series: “You’re aware that basketball isn’t a one-on-one sport and I’ve only had home-court advantage once, right? You know that Grant Hill has been in the League longer than me and never won a playoff series either, right? Can you please ask me about something else?”

• Rick Adelman should have grown a luxuriant playoff mustache.

• Bobby Jackson fouls Ronnie Price with 6.9 seconds and a foul to give, which is smart. Bobby Jackson fouls Ronnie Price with 1.8 seconds and no fouls to give, which is stupid.

• Of course then Battier gets fouled by Matt Harpring with 1.3 seconds left, which is REALLY stupid. Rockets by two after one.

SECOND QUARTER

• In-game interviews with coaches need to stop.

• The role of Matt Harpring is being played tonight by Matt Damon.

• Aaron Brooks may be able to handle the truth, but he can’t handle Deron Williams. Two fouls in as many minutes.

• There are an awful lot of scrappy (third time I’ve used that word in talking about this series), blue-collar rebounders in this game: Carl Landry, wild-ass Chuck Hayes, Paul Millsap, even Carlos Boozer (although he falls into the Bruce Springsteen pseudo-blue-collar group since he’s making a zillion dollars).

• Full-court (or at least 3/4 court) bounce passes don’t happen nearly often enough. Thank you, Magic Williams.

• Shane Battier looks awfully fuzzy tonight.

• You can run double-teams at Mac all you want, but when his shot is on it just doesn’t matter. He’s 6-9, gets elevation on his jumper, and gets on those runs when he can hit dead-center every time. From anywhere. It’s scary.

• The Jazz have decided they don’t need Carlos Boozer anymore. Apparently.

• If McGrady had any more tape on him he’d be marching and playing a fife.

• When Kyle Korver is taking a shot inside 20 feet, does he yell “LAYUP”? Probably not, he seems too polite to do that.

• AK-47 is playing aggressive (pronounced like Teddy KGB would say it) tonight, which is good news for the Jazz.

• Oh, hey, Boozer’s back.

• Things are a little physical, a little testy. And Houston is over the limit. Pretty sure there’s an “MVP” chant for Deron Williams right now, unless KG/Kobe/CP is at the game and I just don’t see them. Supporting your guys is one thing, being pathologically delusional is quite another.

• With the exception of McGrady, Houston more or less can’t score. Yet they’re still only down nine with under a minute left in the half. It’s 46-37 Utah with 24 seconds to go, and I can’t believe I have to watch another half of this. Can we pick up the tempo? Maybe hit some shots? Carl Landry hits one of two from the line.

• Ronnie Price isolation. He’s only one of two players who’s averaging a point a minute in the postseason—the other being Kobe Bryant. Kobe’s played a couple more minutes, I think.

HALFTIME

• Midnight Eastern. I’m getting overtime for this, right? Sometimes I wish real life had TiVo.

• Stephen A. Smith has been speaking in a normal tone of voice all night tonight, and I’m starting to get seriously confused.

• There’s the Stephen A. Smith I know and despise. Jalen Rose looks like he wants to kill him. And Jalen knows people who knows people. Heck, Jalen probably knows people, period.

• If some strangely dressed person came up to me and offered a Heineken Light I’d pour it on their head. So stay away, weirdos.

• The Def Leppard “Are You Tough Enough?” song may be the worst thing about the playoffs.

THIRD QUARTER

• The Rockets main problem can be summed up in one word: offense. As in, they don’t appear to have one.

• Ronnie Brewer opens the second half with a personal 4-0 run that would have been five, but free throws aren’t free.

• Good: Mehmet Okur rarely gets called for three-second violations. Bad: It’s unsure that Mehmet Okur knows where the lane is located. That said, he already has a double-double with 10 and 12.

• The Jazz already have four of five starters in double figures, the exception being Deron Williams who just hit a pair of free throws. Utah by 14.

• Luis Scola, the Rockets second-leading scorer and leading rebounder tonight, picks up his fourth foul with eight minutes to go in the third. And Okur hits a jumper. Battier comes back with a three as Rick Carlisle reels off a list of injury woes and faxes his resume to the Bobcats.

• Mac cuts the Utah lead to 10, Kirilenko is fouled by Battier. It’s hard to tell who Mutombo is guarding—he sure isn’t running around after Okur.

• “Dees Dikembe Mutombo dunking.”

• Okur gets blocked AND levelled by Battier. Somewhere Superfly Jimmy Snuka is smiling.

• A Skip three (he’s their “most charismatic player” according to Carlisle) and the Utah lead is down to six.

• Utah is 0-8 from three tonight, which isn’t helping their cause.

• Your game LVP right now is Luther Head. In 3:33 he took and missed two shots, both threes, and committed a foul. He’s a –5. (Scola is low man at –11, but he’s played 21:45 and has a team-high seven rebounds.)

• Jerry Sloan’s tie is sageriffic.

• Ronnie Brewer has 12 points on 6-9 from the floor, and I’m not sure whether I even mentioned him in the series preview.

• McGrady cuts the Utah lead to five, The Harpring Ultimatum puts it back to seven, and gap-tooth Landry picks up an and-one to make it four. He needs to get a gold tooth up front like Larry Johnson used to have.

• Five-point Jazz lead after three, as the scrappy Rockets scrap their way back into this. Apparently Jerry Sloan is going to talk to Heather Cox when we come back. Lovely. One gets the feeling that Cox should fear for her life.

• “Maybe you thought I picked Kwame Brown first overall and traded Rip Hamilton for Jerry Stackhouse and hired Leonard Hamilton to be an NBA coach.”

FOURTH QUARTER

• The Jazz are shooting an abysmal 41 percent. They should not be winning this game. Except for the fact that the Rockets are shooting a whatever’s-beneath-the-abyss 37 percent.

• McGrady starts the fourth on the bench, and Korver starts with a deuce.

• Gotta love playoff fouls. Williams drops Landry—if that had been LeBron, Deron would have been charged with a felony. Sorry, Carl. Gonna have to wait ‘til you make more commercials.

• Skip to My Basket. One-point Utah lead with McGrady getting rest. Wild. Williams gets it back (all the Jazz starters are now in double-digits).

• Deron Williams, again. Boozer’s on the sideline too, so we have dueling point guards. Skip misses a three, Okur with another board.

• It’s 72-67 with 8:13 to go in the 4th. Denver-L.A. this ain’t.

• BOOOOOZ with the rainbow. And wild-ass Chuck Hayes runs over Good Will Harpring. Offensive foul.

• Korver misses from deep, Okur comes up with a great board (his 16th), but Korver can’t convert close in.

• Scola picks up his fifth foul scrapping with Boozer for a loose ball. Scrappy! He yells and shakes his long, flowing locks in the ref’s general direction.

• Kyle Korver, again. Utah by nine with 5:42. Mac comes back with his 21st point on a driving layup. First bucket of the fourth, ending an 8-0 Jazz run.

• Mac to the line, goes one of two, W.A. Hayes gets the rebound, but throws it away. Yao Ming is not wearing a tie.

• Neither team can buy a field goal, but I’d appreciate it if they’d start shopping for some. The Talented Mr. Harpring fouls McGrady, sending him to the line to deafening chants of “OVER-RATED!” One of two again.

• Boozer goes glass, is fouled by W.A. Hayes. Mac’s on the three-point line, hands on his knees. He looks tired. Scola checks back in for Hayes, Booz hits both.

• Kirilenko literally blankets McGrady, and the Rockets can’t get him the ball. Alston can’t convert, Jazz ball. Korver misses a three, Jazz are 0-12 from deep.

• Carl Landry! On the baseline (assist, McGrady). 78-73, three minutes to go.

• Holy crap. Deron Williams with a drive past Rafer straight down the center of the lane and a surprising dunk on Battier. Gonna be a popular replay in Salt Lake this week. Kirilenko with the stop, and Williams with another basket. Nine-point game.

• Okur misses a three, Mac gets his eighth board, finds Scola. Still, he’s only taken one shot in the fourth.

• Battier with a deep three, and it’s a five-point game under a minute. Williams up top, Korver misses a three. And Skip hits one off the dribble, which means it’s a two-point game with 13.6 seconds to go, and I don’t even know what’s going on anymore. The Rockets WILL NOT DIE. Unless they do. Korver’s fouled immediately on the inbounds. Hits both. Four-point game.

• The giant head cutouts are creepy. Who started that anyway?

• Jackson misses a layup, Landry dunks the follow, and Skip fouls Williams with 7.3 to go. Ice, ice baby. Nope. Misses the first. Leaving that door wide open. He misses again, but Okur gets his biggest rebound of the year—maybe of his career—and goes to the line himself with 5.5 seconds. One. Two. Four-point Utah lead.

• Jackson misses a corner three, Kirilenko blocks the Landry follow (turnabout is fair play), and that’s the game. 86-82, Jazz.

• The Jazz finish with six guys in double figures (led by Williams’s 17) and a pair of guys (Okur and Boozer) with animal-style double-doubles. For Houston, McGrady finishes with yet another near triple-double: 23 points, 10 boards and eight assists, but he shoots just 9-25 from the floor (which is worlds better than Bobby Jackson’s 1-10, but still), and is again not a big factor in the 4th.

They say a playoff series doesn’t truly start until the home team loses. It’s possible that this one didn’t start until the home team won—and now it’s most likely over.

The post Instant Game Notes: Jazz/Rockets Game Four appeared first on SLAM.

Well, I didn’t see that coming. Actually, I didn’t see it at all. I had a prior committment to see a friend’s band in Brooklyn, and I figured the Jazz would take care of business at home.

Oops.

As usual, this game was Tracy McGrady’s fault. He scored a series-high 27, including 7 key points in the fourth quarter (he played the whole quarter but scored all his points after the 3:30 mark). It helped that starting point guard Rafer Alston was back in the mix, looking like he hadn’t missed a step, scoring 20 points and dropping a 50-cent piece. And Carl Landry, who received a little in-game dental work courtesy of Carlos Boozer, came back and wound up blocking Deron Wiliams’s potential game winner.

As for the Jazz, there’s no excuses. Three guys had double-doubles—Williams had 28 and 12,  Boozer had 15 and 13, and Mehmet Okur had 12 and 11. Andrei Kirilenko was once again a non-factor, with five points, two rebounds and no assists in 31 minutes. Two major problems, though:

PAINT SCORING: The Jazz were outscored inside by Houston, 40-26. Inexcusable, especially with Yao Ming watching from the bench. This is why having a three-point specialist as a center isn’t the best thing in the world.

REALLY FOUL SHOOTING: The Jazz earned more trips to the stripe—33 to 22—but only converted 20 of them. As Deron Williams helpfully pointed out afterwards, “Free throws definitely hurt us. You lose a game by two points and you miss 13 free throws, it’s definitely frustrating.” One would imagine.

So. The Jazz still have home-court advantage, but the Rockets know they can win in Salt Lake. Of course if they don’t win in Salt Lake tonight, they might not get another chance. Not this year, at least. Seeing that the road team has won every game so far.
I might want to watch this one.

The post Rockets/Jazz Game Threecap. appeared first on SLAM.

To be perfectly honest, I’m not sure why I wrote this at all, except for a nagging sense of obligation. After all, Lang already wrote about the game here, and our faithful cadre of insomniac Rockets fans more or less live-blogged the entire game here. But there were still a few things I’d like to address:

(Oh yeah, the Jazz won 90-84. No one was surprised, including the Rockets.)

For starters, you’ve gotta feel for Tracy McGrady. Here he is about to fail to get out of the first round for the sixth (or seventh, I can’t keep track and can’t bear to look it up again) time in his career—which means he’s going to have to endure the same questions for ANOTHER year—and he scores exactly one point in the fourth quarter of the first two games. Combined. You know what, though? This isn’t really his fault.

For starters, the guy goes for 23 points, 13 boards, nine assists, three steals and two blocks. Not too bad. (He’s averaged 21.5 ppg in the first two games, right around what he put up this season.) And with Yao Ming and Rafer Alston out, he’s been forced to be the Rockets primary scorer AND playmaker. Which, of course, other guys have to do too (starts with LeBron, ends with James), but they’re not missing two of five starters and facing a team who just beat them in the playoffs last year. Sure, Tracy’s shooting a larryhughesian 37 percent from the floor, but he’s having all sorts of defenders thrown at him (including an actual kitchen sink for six minutes in Game Two), and having to work hard at both ends of the floor without much of a break. Those numbers up top? He led the Rockets in ALL FIVE categories. This is his fault?

The funny thing is you can’t really blame his teammates, either. They’re a scrappy bunch of overachievers who just aren’t overachieving right now. And if it weren’t for Tracy’s ongoing Firstroundgate, no one would be too amazed/horrified by their going down in the first round this year. That 22-game win streak was both a blessing and a curse, as it got them a higher seed (or even into the playoffs in the first place), but it also set them against the one team they probably wanted to face least. Without two of their five starters. Dikembe Mutombo and Bobby Jackson are great players to have come off the bench. As starters? Not so much. Especially for a team that probably isn’t as good as its record.

As for the Jazz, won by six on the road despite a crap game from Andrei Kirilenko (three points on 1-8 from the floor) and a decidedly meh one from Carlos Boozer (13 and seven). I don’t see much need to discuss specifics because you’ll be seeing them for another round. Deron Williams’s butt hurts, but he still hit his first three threes in the first quarter. Mehmet Okur had 16 points and 16 boards.

So now the series moves back to Salt Lake, where the Jazz went 37-4 this year, having only lost one game since the start of 2008. They’re more unbeatable at home than Macauley Culkin. This does not bode well for the Rockets. Or their fans. Sorry, guys.

P.S. Speaking of things that don’t look good, enough of Craig Sager already. Can’t someone at TNT make him dress like a human being? We know you desperately crave attention, Craig, but you’re supposed to be GETTING the story, not trying to become part of it. If I hear one more player or coach make a sardonic remark about your outfit while you laugh chummily about it, I’m finding a way to loose an entire colony of moths into your closet. You’ve been warned. (From now on, instead of a sideline reporter you shall be referred to as “the sideshow reporter.” Congratulations.)

The post A Day Late and Six Points Short: Rockets v. Jazz Game Two appeared first on SLAM.

I’ll be honest, and I’ll be short. There are things I didn’t talk about in the Jazz/Rockets preview that can’t be defined by numbers or records. The Houston Rockets are scrappy. The Houston Rockets are tough.

The Houston Rockets are toast.

The last time the Utah Jazz lost at Energy Solutions arena was on March 20th, 106-95 to the Los Angeles Lakers (this might be important in a week or two). Other than that, the Jazz haven’t lost a home game in 2008. Think home court advantage was important to the Rockets?

Yes, the Rockets handed the Jazz one of their four home losses this season. But that was way back on November 1st, when Yao Ming was wearing Reeboks, not a walking boot. He only had 11 points (and five blocks), while Tracy McGrady bore the offensive load, scoring 47 points. So basically, if the Rockets hope to have a chance in this series, they need T-Mac to go completely nuts.

Did I mention he went scoreless in the fourth quarter of Game One? And that he wasn’t even the Rockets scoring leader? That was Shane Battier, who scored 22 points on 7-7 from the floor (4-4 from three). They probably shouldn’t get used to that.

There’s also the fact that Andrei Kirilenko had what amounted to a complete emotional breakdown during the Rockets series last year and the Jazz STILL won. In Game One this year, Kirilenko was Utah’s leading scorer. (Drei, Booz and Deron all scored 20-plus.)

Of course the Jazz know this. They also know that Yao won’t be joining us for the rest of the series, and they ALSO know that they beat the Rockets in Game Seven in Houston just last year. And of course they knew they’d have to win a game in Houston in order to take the series, and were able to take care of it right away (as opposed to last year when they lost Games One and Two and still went on to win the series). They have the Rockets number, and the way it looks now that number just might be 4.

ESPN.com’s John Hollinger picked the Jazz to go to the Finals, based primarily on point differential (which made their corrected record something like 87 and –5, I think). I’m not going to go that far. But if they can win Game Two—which they’ll want to, with Rafer Alston still out—this series will be over before it even gets started.

The post Rockets/Jazz Game One recap. appeared first on SLAM.

OK, how’s this for confusing? The Utah Jazz, winners of the Northwest Division, are the higher seed in their first-round matchup with the Houston Rockets. They would have been seeded even higher, but New Orleans and San Antonio finished tied atop the Southwest, so Utah dropped from third to fourth. However, since the Rockets finished with one more win than the Jazz (55-27 to 54-28), the Rockets—despite being the lower seed—have home-court advantage. Got that? Good, because that’s all the explanation you’re gonna get.

There’s no set way to do this, so I’m gonna just schoolteacher it—two subjects followed by the traditional seven-point (starters, bench, coach) breakdown, followed by one final subject. School is now in session.

HISTORY: They say that those who don’t learn from history are doomed to repeat it. And obviously, reading Tracy McGrady’s quotes, he’s learned from history:

“If we don’t get out of the first round, it’s on me. … This team is gonna go as far as I can take ’em.” —Tracy McGrady, 2007

“It’s a team sport. We go out there and play as a team, compete as a team. I’m not out there by myself. That’s what I tell people. Don’t single me out.” —Tracy McGrady, 2008

That said, it seems likely that he’s going to be doomed to repeat it anyway.
There’s no need to go way back into the past to find the last Jazz/Rockets playoff series—the two squads faced off in the first round just last year. The Rockets had home-court advantage then too, and it didn’t help. The home teams won every game except for the last one, as Tracy McGrady failed once again to get out of the first-round (six tries and counting) and the Jazz muscled their way to the Western Conference Finals.

Both teams featured 20-10 All-Stars, the Jazz with rugged power forward Carlos Boozer, and the Rockets with giant center Yao Ming, Both averaged 20-10 again this year. The difference is that while the injury-prone Boozer played a career-high 81 games, Yao fractured his foot, missed a third of the season, and won’t be back for the playoffs.

Then there’s the ever-important Malone factor. Both teams have had MVP Malones in the past—the Jazz with Karl, the Rockets with Moses. But the Jazz get the edge since they also had Jeff. Sorry, Rockets fans. That’s just how it goes.

(The Rockets and Jazz have played each other in the playoffs six times in all. The Jazz lead the all-time series 4-2. The only times the Rockets beat the Jazz, in 1994 and 1995, they went on to win the NBA Championship.)

MATHEMATICS: I’m going to bullet points here just because they look more professional and professorial:

• The Jazz went 2-1 against the Rockets this year, beating them by nine and eight and losing by 11. The sole Jazz loss is significant for two reasons—number one, it came in Utah (a rarity this season, which we’ll get to in a second), and number two, it took place on November 1st. In 2008, the Jazz have had the Rockets’ number.

• Still it’s pretty amazing that the Rockets were able to win in Utah at all. The Jazz went a League-best 37-4 at home and a rather pedestrian 17-24 on the road. The Rockets, on the other hand, were more even, going 31-10 and 24-17 respectively.

• Both the Rockets and the Jazz were an identical 33-19 against the West. Meaningless, but a neat coincidence.

• Subtract the Rockets second-best-in-League-history 22-game winning streak, and their record is a barely-over-.500 33-27. Which still leaves them with a winning percentage that would have earned them a four seed in the East, but that’s besides the point. Not that I had one. Except for the fact that the East sucks.

• While Houston finished with the better record, Utah finished with the better point differential (+6.9 to +4.7). And if you believe stat guys like John Hollinger, that means Utah is actually the better team. I think.

• Utah plays fast—they averaged 106.2 ppg, fourth-highest in the League behind only the Warriors, the Suns and the Lakers. The Rockets, free at last from the Jeff Van Gundy slow-motion offense, still only managed an anemic 96.7 ppg, placing them ahead of only the Spurs, Cavs and Sixers amongst playoff teams. (The Jazz allowed 99.2 ppg on the season, so the Rockets had better pick it up.)

• According to Dean Oliver’s Offensive and Defensive Ratings (check Basketball Reference), the Rockets finished the season second overall in Defensive Rating, while the Jazz finished first in Offensive. Unstoppable force, meet immovable object. Not sure what to expect besides a lot of finger-wagging.

• Lets get to the roster matchups before everyone falls asleep.

POINT GUARD

Rafer Alston vs. Deron Williams

Even if Alston weren’t going to miss the first two games, despite a fine season that saw him average 13.1 points and 5.3 assists, this is an easy one. Skip’s a solid NBA point, Deron Williams is a stellar one. With averages of 19.0 points and 10.6 dimes, you could argue he was the Jazz MVP.

ADVANTAGE: JAZZ