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.

“Black Steel in the Hour of Chaos.” Purple “a” in chaos. To this day, still, probably the most brilliant story title and opening spread for a feature in the history of this magazine. The slightly out-of-focus stark-black and shaded- white Bob Berg portrait. Looking like DaBaby’s daddy. Russ spent hours looking at the picture and reading the story in search of the perfect words to call it. Looking at the picture and reading the story again. And again. The story of the drama orbiting Shaq’s basketball world. Penny. Kobe. Lakers. Contracts. Free throws. No rings…yet. Injuries. Shaunie. Hollywood. Career. Then Russ yelled, “I got it!” Damned if he didn’t.

And while the brilliance of the title and spread took center stage, it was the story that became the story. The story of getting Shaq to sit for the interview and photo shoot (Issue 34 + Shaq’s uni number 34 = Levels), of giving us time that very few athletes had given us (two days, if I’m correct?), of the insanity and ignorance of us waiting five years and 31 issues (as Tony explained in his hilarious and equally brilliant “Sixth Man” Ed. letter to open the issue) between covers with him on them. It was a story of society’s unique and unusual love/hate relationship with Shaq. Of the love he gave the world and the hate it gave him in return. The story was a chaotic, all-over-the-place journey of the conflict inside one of the greatest ballplayers we’d ever witnessed as he struggled between the power and indifference between (and the importance of that indifference) greatness and dominance. And how he chose dominance.

There’s also that difference between being loved and being beloved. What we learned from and about Shaq over the 30-year relationship this magazine has built with him is that sometimes it’s better to be one than the other. It all depends on what you are looking to get out of life and how you want the world to receive you and your contributions. See, Shaq changed the course of this magazine (and those of us who worked on the decades of stories that have been done on him), what it would become, and our collective approach in how to make it what it eventually became. He taught us how to balance patience and persistence in approach and storytelling. He taught us to expect nothing while being prepared for anything when it came to plotting and planning stories. He (along with MJ and AI) taught us that icon athletes will always be more important to the reader than the writer telling the story or photographer lensing it. Presence is a present. He is Him. There’s only one Shaquille O’Neal. Rather be loved than beloved.

Aesthetically adjacent to his basketball prodigy was his ability to multi-hyphen on a Donald Glover-level that no one understood while he was collecting Larry O’Briens. Stacking chips, hoisting trophies, spitting bars, dropping gems, moving product, marketing dreams, building brands, getting degrees, becoming police, rescuing cats, investing ingeniously, extending zeros into a cultural and wealth-building account that already had more commas than only a handful of athletes who’d ever lived. The giant wasn’t gentle, he was brilliant. One of none. The one MC Wu should have asked to GA on “C.R.E.A.M.” No one else woulda made sense.

There was a moment toward the end of those two days with Shaq in 1999 when he made it all make sense. The Lakers had won 61 games the previous season and could have easily won 70
had Shaq not missed 22 games and played through an injury instead of saving himself for May and June. He said, “Had I played, we woulda won 75.” But winning 75 games wasn’t the point, having the greatest record in NBA history wasn’t the point, just winning a ring wasn’t the point. It was the way he was going to lead the Lakers to eventually win those rings that was. 

“Domination,” I remember him saying. That he’d rather go through the playoffs unbeaten—something that no team in NBA history had ever done—than to go down in history with the most wins ever in the regular season. Because, if nothing else is learned about how Shaq flows in mind and process, when it’s all said and done, being unbeatable—and unbeaten—is greater than being the greatest. The very next season the Lakers began their three-peat. That TWIsM life: different. 

He also said another prophetic thing that was hidden in that PE entitled story but used as a pull quote: “When the game is over, they’re going to remember my name.” Preach, n****. 

The post THE 30 PLAYERS WHO DEFINED SLAM’S 30 YEARS: Shaquille O’Neal 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.

“They say I’m hopeless/As a penny with a hole in it.” 

—Dionne Farris, “Hopeless”

For us, at SLAM, at that time, it was always that pass. The one Tony Gervino brilliantly used as cover art for Issue 8. 1995 ’til infinity. From the exit series that ended Jordan’s comeback. But made him come back. It was this cover that made Shea Serrano become a basketball griot. It allowed a reintroduction.

The Anfernee Hardaway Experience was something different. Something basketball at the NBA level hadn’t experienced. The new generation’s first hybrid. Part Oscar, part Magic, part Gervin, part Pippen. All Tracy McGrady before Tracy McGrady became the next Penny. Like a muthafucka invented strictly for Super Nintendo NBA Live 95. By the time he appeared on his first SLAM cover, he was already on some low-key legend shit. Memphis basketball God, Parade Magazine National High School Player of The Year, Blue Chips co-superstar, NBA Rookie All-Star Game MVP, All-NBA Team 1, NBA Finals appearance, leader of the game’s new generation of “We got next.”

Yet what we forget: He got shot. Forgot that all of this career called his could have been just a dream, that none of it was supposed to happen. That the second that bullet entered his right foot, ricocheting off the ground during a drive-by robbery in front of his aunt’s house in Binghampton in April 1991 during his freshman year at then-Memphis State University (University of Memphis, now), the end was supposed to follow. 

Hopeless. Yet, his “oh, shit” moment became his “closer to God” moment. He script-flipped what should have been his basketball and Black life stereotype of a young kid from where “we” from getting shot into what Benji Wilson and more recently Quincy Reese Jr never had the chance to. Which is the part of Penny we don’t discuss enough. The resilience of an 18-year-old not allowing the circumstances he came up in and around define him—but still shape him. Allowing a bullet to provide clarity instead of despair, anger, hate. All of that is lost when we look at Penny because he made sure we never saw what he saw when he looked in the mirror at that point in his life. His foot. A Penny with a hole in it. Never again.

Because a superhero emerged. A basketball alien. A 6-7 point guard with destination talent at almost every phase of the game. Speed, bounce, range, handles, vision, creativity, instincts, leadership abilities, defensive awareness, who was fundamentally sound with survival in him that made him immune to intimidation. Fearless. Young, gifted and generational. Personable. Chill. Unassuming. Humbly arrogant. Unbothered. True to exactly who he was. Strong enough to carry his NCAA squad (only a year after being shot) to the Elite Eight, then his NBA squad (only three years later) to the NBA Finals. Second SLAM cover, toothpick sic. Revenge tip. Blue pinstriped fit. Shining like pre-green copper. 

But the cultural impact (almost) overshadowed the magic (get it?) he was producing on the court. His sneaker acumen and foresight made him illuminati. Foams? Him. Air Max namesakes 1, 2, 3, 4? Him. The only other basketball player at the time to have Nike signatures besides 50, 34 and 23. 1Cent, heaven sent. But God had other plans.

The injuries stacked like cordwood piles. Putting a halt (not a full stop) to an ascend that was legendary. Centual. More than just an athlete, he year-after-year inched closer to single-name American icon status by showing glimpses and flashes of what he had left inside, of what wasn’t stolen from him. Just because the game forced him to stop bouncing the ball never meant the ball stopped bouncing for him. A return to his Mecca allowed the world to see that his basketball mind and heart were far superior and in-need than his basketball body and skills. Deon, not Deion. His coaching, too, became his calling.

He’s become the basketball equivalent of Gale Sayers, Stephen Strasburg. A GOAT for whom the only reason isn’t considered the GOAT is because injuries loved them so much. That singular, idiosyncratic, unparalleled, one-of-a-kind type who, if we just talked about what they showed us—and what they did when they were able to play—we’d admit that they were almost unarguably the best we’d ever seen. Bill Walton. Yao Ming. Grant Hill. Derrick Rose. Penny’s probably above all of them on basketball’s “what if” list. Which makes “what will never be again” much more appropriate.

And oh, one last thing about that first cover, the “wrap-around” cover, the last time we’d see Jordan wearing “45” cover. Two months after it hit the stands, his alter ego Lil Penny was introduced to the world. Shit ain’t been the same since. 

Photo via Getty Images.

The post THE 30 PLAYERS WHO DEFINED SLAM’S 30 YEARS: Penny Hardaway 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.

Where to start? It’s him. Sorry, He. What hasn’t been written or said? What’s left to be said or written? There’s a GOAT, and there’s a God. What do you write about the someone who occupies both? Are you there God? It’s me, Michael. Not Margaret. Your sidekick. Your Pippen. The one you made in your image like your other son.  

He became, over the course of his career and the existence of this magazine, something greater than any human being—including himself, despite how it was displayed in Air—ever expected. At the time, Ali and Babe Ruth were the mystic and mythical sovereigns. Jordan’s ascent above them put him in a god space only God could explain.

Jordan. Name. Brand. Logo. Symbol. Purpose. Meaning. Being. On which he stands. One nation. Under his groove. Under his influence. Under God. Trapped in an awe of “Ahs.” Spiritual connections to what he was doing, fans praying for him, to be like him; defenders just praying. Moving basketball from a game into territories once only reserved for religions and the NFL. Ten feet closer to heaven. He rose. We rose.

“Is this the end? God Only Knows.” 

The dual use of the word “God.” For him and Him. Shared. Black backdrop, black XIIIs, Black Cat. It was the magnum opus of slept-on covers in the history of magazine covers. Even Alex Wong’s doctrinal testament Cover Story (a book about classic mag covers) slept on it. Deeper than “A Star Is Born” and “Bag it, Michael!” Deeper than “Why?”

Above him: “The Only Jordan Story That Matters.” As if we were going to write something biblical. Jordan 6:23-45. As a magazine, we were getting to the point where we were beginning to believe the outside hype that we were a “basketball bible.” Twenty-seven issues deep. Readers repeating the words from our articles and stories back to us like hymns. Worshippers. We called it the SLAM Dome, but it was feeling more like a temple as we were feelin’ ourselves. As if we were serving a greater purpose. Were we wrong? The only Jordan story that mattered was because we were the only basketball publication that spoke His language. To His people. We were one. Couldn’t tell us nothin’. 

As the great Amiri Baraka said: Wise, Why’s, Y’s? A wise man in 1988 said: “Once I get the ball, you’re at my mercy.” Damned if he ain’t prophet and profit off that. The words rang true like gospel. Every note Shirley Caesar’d, TD Jakes’d. Every move Elgin Baylor’d, Julius Erving’d. Every Inc. decision Bob Johnson’d, Oprah’d. Every approval Deloris’d.  He went from entertainer to empire. All the while paying faithfully acute attention to the fact that the words “In God We Trust” are on every dollar bill this country prints.

Thirteen covers.

Thirteen* million stories. What you learn from writing about Jordan for 30 years is that he is the most difficult person (outside of probably Nelson Mandela and Kanye West, for two totally different reasons) to write about. He always blessed us with access, even when he would close himself off from the rest of the media (sans Ahmad, without doubt). Just enough time to build, have and sustain a relationship with him. He never B. Russ’d us, never pushed us off or away. Always made sure we were a part of his congregation.

Somehow Judy Blume knew what to say for Margaret. Had he even been this Jordan at that time, she couldn’ta spoken for Mike. In all honesty, none of us could. But that’s what we attempted to do at SLAM: Speak for Mike while speaking about him. Speak in a way that removed the corporate aura and colorblind force field he’d built to gain acceptance and move forth as no other athlete had in America. His play wasn’t enough, the endorsements weren’t either. Neither were the shoes, the style, the personality, the magnetism. “Be Like Mike” had limits and was for them. “Mike is ours,” was for us.  

And every time he appeared or his name was mentioned in these pages, that sense of belonging to the culture—of basketball and Blackness, of SLAM instead of Sports Illustrated—that was what we tried to preach. Our sermons not only told his story, but spread the word of our own. Of how he represented everything we were trying to do and everything we strived to stand on. Still, because all Gods work in enigmatic and sublimely impervious ways, never really coming close to capturing who Michael Jordan was. 

Just the way He wanted it.

Photo via Getty Images. Portrait by Atiba Jefferson.

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When I left Eastern Michigan, I went to Pontiac, Michigan, to play for a semi-pro team called the Chaparrals. We played two games on the weekends. I got paid $500 every weekend while playing for a brotha named Roy Washington. And he got me a car so that I could make the games. That car was a Riviera. Emerald green. Beige interior. Big ol’ 8-track. It was nice. And this was in the Continental League, so I was playing against older men. I’m not going to say the Continental League was a bunch of has-beens; it was a bunch of guys who had their turn, and they were like me: coming from bad situations—they got hurt, bad timing, etc.—but they still loved the game, too. 

And I was the young buck. They couldn’t catch me back then. I played with them about six or seven months. I was playing well, averaging 30-plus points a game, and Johnny “Red” Kerr saw me. It was after a game against a Flint, Michigan, team led by Justin Thigpen. It was a good game. He and I battled. He was averaging 38 points per game, so he was a bad boy, too. I didn’t know Kerr from the next man on the moon. I don’t remember the conversation I had with Kerr, but somehow Sonny Vaccaro came into the picture, too. I met Vaccaro through Jackson Nunn, one of the football players I went to Eastern with. He introduced me to Vaccaro around 1972 when Vaccaro had the Dapper Dan Roundball Classic. Vaccaro came to meet Coach Merriweather at Merriweather’s house in Detroit. That’s how they hooked up. According to Vaccaro, Nunn reached out to him to help me because of what happened to me at Eastern. Vaccaro apparently had helped Nunn when he was having problems getting noticed and getting a scholarship to college. He was part of the reason Nunn ended up at Eastern. Still to this day, I don’t know why Vaccaro was interested in me. Vaccaro wasn’t an agent. I don’t know where he came from. Somehow, he had a friendship with Al Bianchi, who was then the Virginia Squires coach. From what I was told, Vaccaro made a call, and the next thing I knew, we’re in Virginia. 

Vaccaro, Merriweather, and I were in a gym in the Norfolk Scope Arena. Merriweather was talking to Earl Foreman, the owner of the Squires, and Coach Bianchi was up in the stands. And they didn’t know me. They took the word of Kerr who told them they needed to see me. I don’t think Kerr was even in the gym at all that day. He wasn’t even the scout for them. He was their business manager, but I think he had seen me play and knew where I’d fit in—and that was the ABA. I think he just told Foreman to meet me. 

And all I remember is they told me to start shooting. It was just me and a few kids on the court who were tossing the balls back to me. I had been warming up already, so when they wanted me to shoot, I started droppin’ ’em. Vaccaro has said that I hit 50 shots in a row, and I was shooting in my street shoes! But I don’t remember that. Knowing me, I ain’t gonna do that. I’m not shooting in my gators. But that’s what Vaccaro says. I don’t know if he’s embellishing it, but I do know that I made a lot of shots whatever I was wearing. Keep in mind I never thought about being a pro. I was pretty content with what I was doing. I was in love with Joyce, I got the game, I got a few bucks, I got a ride, and I’m rollin’. But back then, like Kerr said: I could flat-out score. And I loved that about myself. They said I shot 30 to 35 times, and I made 30 out of 35 or 30 out of 30. But whatever the number was, I heard someone say, “That’s good.” And I stopped shooting right then. After that someone instantly said: “We’ll take him.” 

They signed me to a contract. We went into trainer Bob Travaglini’s little office and signed the deal on a paper napkin. At the time they were losing Charlie Scott, who was a special player. I’m glad he got into the Hall of Fame. So again for me this was being in the right place at the right time. Scott was playing for the Squires before I came and I never got a chance to play with him. He went on to the NBA at midseason to the Phoenix Suns. And Scott was big for the Squires. He was like Julius Erving, who was already on the Squires. When I went into their front offices, they had a big picture of Scott on the wall. And I think that’s part of why they were looking at me. Dr. J was right. He said I might be the only person in the history of basketball to literally shoot for his contract, and I did.

This last season, the BIG3 had its first All-Star Game. Dr. J and I were selected as coaches for the All-Star Game. I felt I had the best team, but I was a little disappointed because three of my players didn’t show up for practice for the game. So I told the ones who did show up that they’d be the ones starting in the All-Star Game. Now, from my perspective, the All-Star Game is supposed to be a special thing. At the end of the year, you are one of the 12 guys picked to represent the league, a league you chose to be in. So once I decided to start the ones who showed up, it wasn’t about the game anymore.

If you act like, “Well, I’m gonna show up when I want to,” well, not on me you won’t. And I don’t have to sit up and argue with you or explain myself. My sentiment was: “You might’ve led the BIG3 in scoring, but I led the big league in scoring four times! So, don’t get it twisted.” 

I’m the wrong guy to disrespect. But I’m also the same guy who you can learn something from if you want. And this maybe where sometimes the perception of being cool comes into it because of my reaction. I really didn’t care if one or two of the players may have been pissed. To me the game itself is recreation, but the league is something (Ice) Cube put together for the players to stay on stage and make a little money. You gotta respect that. This man done put up all this money to create this opportunity for the players, and that is how they were gonna treat it? I’m not going to yell and scream or disrespect anyone to make them understand that, but in my own way, I’m going to do what I feel is right to make sure a certain level of respect remains. 

We live and we learn. And preferably you live long enough to help somebody else out along the way. No matter how hard the lesson. And for coaching that’s when it’s more than basketball for that coach. That’s one of the things I learned from coaching in the ABA in 2000. I coached a team called the Detroit Dogs. I had a bunch of inner-city players. I knew it was very important to tell them in the beginning, “Look here, if I get on you, I’m not getting on you personally. I’m getting on your basketball character.” I wanted them to understand that this isn’t personal. Most of the times, they bought into it, and I didn’t have any issues. I was being upfront with them. 

Same thing in the BIG3. I told them, “Look here, this is 3-on-3. We grew up playing 3-on-3. If you forgot that, we not going to win any games. I ain’t coaching, I’m just taking you out when you get tired.” It’s a cool thing Cube is doing. I feel it’s part of my responsibility to make sure those, who are involved with it, respect that. I’m glad he called me to be a part of it. And we really didn’t know each other before this. We only really knew of each other. I remember I’d just got finished working out with Merriweather and got a text: “Hey Ice, it’s Cube. I got something I wanna talk to you about.” 

I texted him back, “Who is this?”

He texted, “Cube.”

Then I texted, “Call me.”

He immediately called and said, “Ice, I’m doing this league called the ‘BIG3’ and I want you to be a part of it.”

I said, “Cool, Cube. If you’re going to do it, I’ll do it with you.”

Notice I call him “Cube,” not “Ice Cube.” I told him, “I’m older. I was Ice first.” 

This excerpt from Ice: Why I Was Born to Score by George Gervin with Scoop Jackson is reprinted with the permission of Triumph Books. For more information and to order a copy, please visit Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Bookshop.org, or TriumphBooks.com/Ice.

Photos via Getty Images.

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The Recall. Late summer, 1995. July-ish. Exact date, can’t remember; hazy shade of OG. I got a call. “That kid Iverson from Georgetown is down here killin’ folks in the Kenner League!”

Wait. “Iverson, the ‘Defensive Player of the Year’ in the Big East last year? As a freshman? The one who got caught up in all of that racist Virginia bullshit in high school? The football player?”

“Same dude! He’s averaging like 50 against pros!”

“N—a, please.”

“N—a, listen!”

Heard. Days later I’m in DC. On O Street. McDonough gym on GT campus. I walk in at halftime of a game that Iverson’s team is losing by 22 and he has “around” 20 points. He and the coach are arguing throughout the entire halftime. No warm-up. The second half starts. And…

It’s hard to explain in a paragraph (or a book) what transpired in that second half. Part religious, part spiritual, part second-coming, part WTF. In a single word, it was an “awakening.” So much so that I called DP (Dennis Page, Publisher of SLAM) and told him of my baptism.

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

Me: “We gotta put this Iverson kid on the next cover.”

DP: “Not happening. We’ve never had a college player on the cover. It won’t sell.”

Me: “I’m telling you, I’ve seen the future of the game. He’s it!”

DP: “Great. We can do a story. But I’m not putting a college player on the cover. Period.”

That experience led to Iverson’s second ever national magazine cover. While Sporting News recognized him prior to our Issue No. 9, we canonized him. No other non-NBA player had ever graced page 1 of an issue and no national publication had ever done a feature on Iverson without “dehumanizing” him. Also—as the story has now become something of legend on its own—no other player was used as a threat for me to file an “irreconcilable difference” divorce from SLAM. (Note: Except probably for the few times DP wanted to fire me. But that’s a story for Issue #500.) So there was something there, in Iverson, that I felt deeply about. Something I covertly believed in and was willing to defend and fight for. At the time everyone was on this search for finding “next.” The “next” Jordan, the “next” Magic or Bird, the “next” Isiah, the “next” Iceman or Bernard King. To me, Iverson wasn’t “next.” He was beyond all that. He was “new.”

Oh yeah, Iverson’s team won that game and he finished with 62.

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To say I saw the future, of what Iverson was becoming, meaning, would be a lie. The cultural impact, the shining and gilding light of America’s overlooked, disrespected and misunderstood underclass, the unapologetic regal drip kingness of his presence, the Black self-assurance. In him I saw me, if I’m being two hundred. I saw the size, the arrogance, the not belonging, the “you’re not supposed to do what you do,” the “watch the fuck what I’m ‘bout to do,” the anger, the fight, the pride, the skin color, the tone, the stubbornness, the defiance, the anti, the loyalty, the leadership, the love. I saw a mirror. A black mirror of I. I also saw a younger version of something I’d never become. For I would never be that great in anything as he was at balling and my fight didn’t come from that deep within. I saw a life I couldn’t have survived but he did. I saw the reason this magazine and I found one another. Someone had to be him to tell his story the way it was supposed to be told. For that purpose, I was the “i” in him.

And that led us to the classic ’96 cover, the one he famously ghosted us on. Which led us to many other covers, most if not all iconic. Covers that shaped who he was, covers that shaped this magazine, covers that gave the world a better and fairer insight into him and who he would become. More than just an athlete, more than just a basketball player, more than just a superstar, more than just the “pound-for-pound” GOAT. So understand, what I saw when I saw Allen Iverson hooping for the first time was something more than basketball. What I saw on that day was someone showing me what freedom looked like.

—

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

SLAM 47, featuring Tim Duncan, was published in December 2000.

—

It’s the eve of what will be his first MVP season. The one where he will regain his claim to the throne he lost last year. He knows this, but will never say anything. He’s been trained not to. Understand, he has a degree in psychology. That’s the foundation. He’s smart. He’s cunning. He’s cold as the ice he sits on.

It’s been said that no one has gotten inside the head of Tim Duncan. That he’s been impossible to break down, that no one has gotten him to open up. In that, he’s the closest thing to Michael Jordan and Bill Clinton we’ve seen. Slick like arbitration, crafty like a Beastie Boy classic, coy like the end of a House of Games. Read his bio and you’ll discover more. But still you will come up empty. He planned it all that way. Inside his handshake is a welcome mat followed by a “Do Not Enter” sign. It’s all the brilliant, cognitive contradiction of a 24-year-old man who was born to be different from the norm and superior to the average. He’s become both.

But to get inside of Tim Duncan, we set him up. Played the same mind trick on him that he plays on everyone else. “Tell Tim we want to recreate the Iceman poster from back in the day,” we pitched to Tom James, the Spurs media cat who was in on the fix. “Yeah, yeah, tell him it was Gervin’s idea.” The lie worked. It was only a matter of whether we could out-master the master. Get the interview no one else has been able to get. And though Tim bit, his game recognized our game in the end. The first thing they teach you in Psychology 101 is “never put yourself in a position of weakness, because the payback can be a bitch.” For this story though– just this one story– the real Tim Duncan got got.

“Was I scared? Yes.” This is Tim Duncan’s voice. It’s not cracking, it’s not an extremely high pitch, but it is with emphasis. He has not balled in two months, he’s had major surgery on his left knee, he’s missed the Olympics. There is uncertainty that comes with fear, especially if it affects your mental as well as your physical. The injury, the surgery, the rehab. The fear existed in Duncan through all three. But it was in his mind where the fear manifested most. This was not a faux, Wes Craven-induced dream. Duncan’s being scared is for real. To the point where he thought, well…

“I wondered if I’d be able to play again. My fear was that this was the longest period of time I’d ever gone without touching a basketball. And I really didn’t know when I was going to be able to.”

“And that scared you?”

The calmness comes back to his voice, “Yes it did.”

But to look into his eyes and in his face, you could never tell. He’d never let you there. Not to focus so much on the injury, but the impact of it cannot be denied. Beyond a slight bit of confidence lost and skepticism gained. His status/title/rep as the “best ballplayer in the league” got passed around last season to all who came crawlin’ up his mountain. One week it was Vince, the next it was AI, then Kobe, then KG, then anyone else who wanted it. “That didn’t bother me a bit,” he says of his lost pound-for-pound crown. “I’ve heard everything. I think, no doubt, last year Shaq was the best player. I also think Vince is an amazing player. And you’ve got to give some props to Allen [Iverson]. And KG, that kid’s incredible. He’s as good as anybody but he doesn’t get as much [credit] as he should get because his team right now doesn’t do as well as it’s going to… ” Tim pauses and thinks about exactly what he’s saying. The analytic in him ekes out. “Well, hopefully it will stay that way as long as I’m around,” he continues with a Western-Conference-rivalry-with-the-Timberwolves laugh.

“To me, there are a lot of players who can be given that title at one point or another during the year, but the one who’s going to carry [the “best” title] through for that year is the one who takes his team to the top,” he adds. “I was given that title the season we won [’98-99]. Shaq got it last season. Was it due, did I deserve it when I supposedly had it? Yeah, I think so, a little bit. But I can’t really worry about it, because there’s going to be arguments about every year. You know what they say, ‘You’re only as good as your last game.’ And that is so true.”

So true to the point that one “unnamed” (OK, Lindy’s) pre-season basketball magazine had Duncan ranked No. 3 in the League—not among players, among forwards! Rated behind KG and the person who really should have replaced Duncan on the Sydney Squad (no disrespect Antonio McDyess), Chris Webber. When told of this, Duncan laughs in hesitated breath. It’s as if the split personality that he doesn’t have separates: part of him agrees, part of him doesn’t.

But after about 20 seconds of thought, the conclusion is made. The left hemisphere overrides the right. “Chris had a great year, he’s an incredible player. He had some great games against us, that’s for sure. And he did a helluvalot for that team. So who am I to argue? I won’t dispute [the ranking] at all.” Then the right hemisphere emerges. “But when we go head-to-head, it’s a different story. He’s gotta play, I gotta play. So it doesn’t matter what [the magazine] says.”

Still, nothing sweats him. Even when he’s being pushed for answers of anguish and being personally challenged. Doesn’t he understand we’re trying to piss him off, get him rattled? He’s fucking up the plan. Damn you, Duncan.

If you follow him over time (especially during the season), what you find is illuminating. Tim Duncan is not a brooder. He’s not boring, stiff, or flat. He isn’t slow, either; he moves at what is called “island speed,” an “irie pace” that is indicative of his St. Croix, Virgin Island, roots.

“People think he’s all shy, buy he’s sly.” Scott Duncan is Tim’s half-brother. Maybe more than anyone, he knows the Tim Duncan we are in Leonard Nimoy of. “Many people don’t get him, they think he’s boring, but he’s really opposite. He has this cool intensity, and the deepest running sense of humor. He catches everything. Nothing gets by him.”

He says the family is proud of Tim and that he’s on the path he set for himself as a child. “[Tim] knows his destiny and has been knowing of it for a very long time. He’s always been true to his inner self and totally trusts his instincts and feelings, which is why he is so cool. That’s why giving him the name ‘Ice’ is so perfect,” he continues. “It fits him. In his personality, it’s like he always keeps the ice flowing.”

If you get to know him, he’ll surprise you with his quick wit and sarcastic sense of humor. He’ll say the illest things, but only under his breath so no one except the person he’s talking to can hear. He’s a computer-head, specifically on the galaxy game StarCraft, where he attacks the program as if it were Rasheed Wallace. On laptops, he, David Robinson, Malik Rose, and Sean Elliot will battle for hours, especially when on the road. He’s a film buff and critic, the black Roger Ebert. He can also spit some Nas or DMX lyrics if anyone claims he “ain’t ghetto enough.”

He’s a playground legend by default (“Growing up where I did,” he says, “all we had was outside courts.”). He’s an icon of Ian-Thorpe-in-Australia proportions in his hometown, to the point that he can’t go back without getting mobbed with the deepness of Havoc and Prodigy. Even he admits, “I don’t get back [home] as much as I should.” His clique consists of his two sisters, Tricia and Cheryl, Scott, and his long-time girlfriend Amy.

He plays the crib a lot, meaning: He likes to spend time at home. Not that he’s shy, but he doesn’t invite distractions in his life. The brotha who grew up in the neighborhood who never came out of the house to floss, but wound up with the flyest whip because he saved his allowance by not hitting all of the parties? That’s Tim. The rumor (one explains a lot about Duncan) is that he’s so laid-back that during the weekend of his first All-Star Game (in ’98 in New York), he didn’t do anything. Never went to one of Puffy’s 300 parties. Instead, he and Amy room-serviced. Understand that everyone doesn’t need the spotlight to shine. Some gleam on their own.

Most important, though, in this search for the inner Tim Duncan, is the discovery that no one in the League will say anything bad about him. There are no enemies who pray and pray for his downfall, even though he may slay them and lay down law on court. Around the NBA, Duncan and Vince Carter seem to receive the most universal and unconditional love. And in a League filled with literal “player hating,” that the truth speaks more than volumes about Duncan. It soundbombs.

The phone rings once in his spacious San Antonio crib before he picks it up. It’s one day after he had eye surgery to help him “never lose sight of the rim.” He laughs at this, as he does at most everything. He’s just cool like that. After a few “wassup young fella,” it’s the business. “Tim Duncan? Let’s talk about Tim Duncan…”

George Gervin is the second installment of the Iceman moniker originally given to Jerry Butler, who used to sing with Curtis Mayfield. But Gervin took it to a level beyond resurrection—until now. When he blessed neighborhood sports store windows in the ‘80s with that unforgettable image for Nike, the understatement could be made that he “redefined what cool is supposed to look like forever.” Like Clyde Frazier before him, Gervin was on some other shit that no other athlete could pull off. No one had the character, no one exemplified the persona, no one else had the game. When told of the concept for this cover, Gervin had one thing to say: “Am I mad? Hell naw! I’d be mad if you called somebody else that. That’s a compliment to me.”

It’s not just the “iceness” that connects these two, but something deeper. It’s what occurs when they touch a basketball and bless the floor. It goes beyond the eerie coincidence of both playing in Spurs uniforms. As Gervin attests, “The things he can do at his size remind me of a guy named “Ice.”

They share the cashmere-soft, Victoria’s Secret-smooth jumpers from angles Willie Mosconi would love; the footwork reminiscent of Bill Robinson and Maurice Hines, unmatched by players their size; the effortlessness with which they perform and their ability to become instantly undefendable in (big) game situations, never “playing outside of themselves;” the finger roll.

The Original sees it in Duncan, probably more than he does in his own son, Gee. “There are players you pay to see. Tim Duncan is a player I’ll stand in line and pay to see,” he says. But in conversation with Gervin, it’s clear the love he holds for Duncan is far more important than what Tim has done on the court—even more important than the ring Tim brought the city last year and the one he’s planning to bring back this season (Duncan: “Don’t forget we are the same team swept the Lakers and Portland in the playoffs two years ago. We just need to be healthy and consistent, not necessarily better.”). It’s about the person Tim Duncan is, the one we are trying to expose in this story. Gervin gives us an answer.

“Whenever a guy of his stature still asks me for an autograph, that says something to me. I love that. See, don’t nobody want to be forgotten. I did my thing, you know. But every time I see him, he makes me feel as if I meant something. Meant something to the game, meant something to him personally. And he’s done that without even saying it to me. That’s class. You want to know what type of cat Tim Duncan is?” Another signature laugh comes out. “The young fella is a beautiful person.”

The first true encounter of “the individual that is Tim Duncan” came at a Nike Camp about four years ago when he was a summer counselor following junior year at Wake Forest. Somehow the rumor had gotten around that Tim’s nickname was “Cookie Monster” (A joke started by another counselor named Todd Harris). Tim hated the name. For the entire week, he got grilled with the name, never even knowing why he was being called that. “I hated that shit,” Tim would say. But did he say anything about it then? No. He never gave it power. His shell would not be cracked, not by that. He even read it in print before he entered his senior year, but still he gave SLAM love.

But it was after hours at that Nike camp where “Tim Duncan the ballplayer” emerged to our eyes. For two to three hours after the “invitees” night sessions were over, Tim got his freak on. He was often teamed with then-Eastern Michigan 5-6 point guard Earl Boykins. For an entire week, every night against other college All-Americans including Vince Carter and Miles Simon, Duncan and Boykins played something that looked a lot like 2-on-5 basketball. And they were winning. No one had any idea that Duncan could play transition basketball like that. As fast as Boykins was, there were times when Tim was beating him down the court, waiting for the oop. He was freaking smaller players with spin moves that gave him the baseline so open Monique from The Parkers could have slid right on through. He wasn’t just the “post-up” player we had labeled him; in all honesty he wasn’t even a center. But he wasn’t going to say anything. He let the secret about his game get out all by itself. And here’s the funny thing: by the end of that camp, no one was calling him “Cookie Monster” anymore.

This was the first lesson of understanding the psyche of Tim Duncan and how it works against others to his advantage. But still there are depths that remain untapped by anyone. The game continues. Tim seems to be getting mad comfortable with the tape recorder rolling. Our plan is working.

“What makes you laugh?”

He laughs. “Stupid humor. Jim Carrey movies, the Three Stooges, Friday, things like that. Who makes me laugh? Man, Antonio [Daniels] and Malik [Rose], those guys make me laugh more than anyone because they are silly, stupid for no reason.”

“Just like you, right?”

“Exactly,” he says.

“What’s the worst thing you ever did as a kid? We know you quiet and humble, but you had to do something scandalous coming up.”

He laughs big. “Uh, shit, I can’t think of anything big, but I got in trouble a lot…”

And just when he gets comfy, we change the pitch up. Hit him like we’re interested in basketball.

“Are you ready to do this solo?”

“What do you mean?” he says.

“Are you ready for the day that DR [David Robinson] stops playing?”

“Oooo…good question. No,” he says. “David is a big part of the reason I didn’t go anywhere.”

“You said that in the press conference, but tell us the real reason.”

“That is it,” he confirms. “And I love the area. I love playing with David and I think we have a chance to win another championship here. Plus, I like playing for Pops [S.A. head coach Greg Popovich]. I love the way he motivates the team and the direction we’re going.”

“Then why’d you only sign a three-year deal instead of signing for the long money?”

“Always keep your options open,” he says, being totally candid. “I’m not sure that I’ll even want to be in San Antonio in four years. DR may not be here, Avery may not be here. I’m protected, I’ve got four years of really good money. But after that time, I gotta be able to do what I want to do.”

“Did it piss you off when you heard the Spurs were trying to trade Avery Johnson last season?”

“You know what, the one thing I learned from day one in this game is that it’s a business, it’s not about friends,” he continues. “Ever since the day I got here, all of my best friends got traded or they weren’t re-signed. Chuck Person, Monty Williams, Cory Alexander, none of those names are still here. And those were my best friends in the world. But it doesn’t take away from the fun of the game. And I’ve been able to separate that. When we’re on the floor. Out there, basketball is basketball.”

“What scares you?”

He stands up. “Heights. Yeah, heights and sharks.”

“What about on the basketball court?”

“Not being able to play anymore,” he says as we relive the opening of our conversation. “Being injured again, that scares me. That scares the hell out of me.”

“Nice.” He says this while looking at his name iced in the chair he just finished sitting in. Then it hit him, the whole scam. He figured it out without expressing that he knew. If you play poker, you can see it in someone’s expression, there’s a small glisten in the eyes. But maybe it’s just a sparkle of what Tim sees in himself. No, he know. He figures he’s just been played. He figures that SLAM did all of this to “get me to open up, say something that I normally won’t say in an interview—they were trying to get to know me.” He mentally acknowledged that we’d done a good job. He appreciated the skills. Like we said, game recognizes game. But if you’re a psychologist with a superlative b-ball game, you don’t settle for that. Instead, you get even.

“Who do you see in you?” Tim asks, flipping the interview, setting up the set up. The question is posed after a discussion about who he identifies with. “There’s always one person,” I say. “That one person we see ourselves in.” It’s fantasy versus reality. “I see Sidney Poitier in you,” is what Tim Duncan hears. He relates. “I always saw him in my father,” is his response. It’s the epitome of that dignity thing that white Americans see in Cary Grant that we both see. I see it in Tim, Tim sees it in his father. Many mistake Tim’s quiet for something that it is necessarily not. It’s like “whatever” when his name is mentioned. “Man, people think you’re boring but you’re far from it.”

“I’m fun to myself,” he says.

The conclusion: Yes, Tim Duncan is quiet, but not uninteresting. Too few see that.

I answer Duncan’s question by saying, “Spike Lee.” Tim’s head shakes in agreement, he can see that too. “What about you?” I ask him. “What other individual do you see in you? Who does Tim Duncan see?” It’s the deepest and most personal question I asked him on this day. It’s the one answer that will complete the story, the answer none outside of the people around him has ever gotten. Instead, for the first time, except for when the photos are being shot, he’s silent. Five minutes pass. Then 10. He’s still quiet, says he’s “thinking.” I see that famous smirk of his. He just played us back. By the time you read this story, Tim Duncan will still have not given us an answer. He purposely did this. That was ice cold. Payback is a bitch, ain’t it?

—

Scoop Jackson is a senior writer for ESPN.

Cover photo by Atiba Jefferson.

The post ICEMAN 2000: The Tim Duncan Cover Story from SLAM 47 appeared first on SLAM.

Previous stories:

LIVE FROM MADISON STREET: Zach LaVine Talks Playing in Chicago

ALL OF THE LIGHTS: Remembering 1988 All-Star Weekend in Chicago

BORN & RAISED: Allie Quigley Has Been Repping Chicago Since Day 1

HOMECOMING: Kendrick Nunn’s Journey from Chicago to the NBA

—

Dear Chi,

We different. We know this. Not Paris different, not Harlem different, not Vegas, Lagos, Madrid, Sao Paulo, Sydney, New Orleans or South Central different. We stay a city within our own nation within our own world. Our flow, the way we roll, the way we think, feel about and react to things, the way we create, what we create, the reasons we create, different. We exist different.

This game ain’t just a game. It’s our export to the world. Our soul we keep. We bringin’ it back like it’s ’88. All-Star Weekend. Reminding the world who we are, where we stand and—more defiantly—what we stand on and for. We didn’t invent this game, just mecca’d it. GOAT’d it. Because we don’t follow our passion, we follow our effort. We don’t chase the end result, we embrace the process. While others trend set, we invent. We don’t just play D, we protect, baseline-to-baseline. Tony Allen and Pat Bev style. 

The mid-February classic that returns to us after a 32-year break is the culmination of decades of post-Jordan inspiration. It’s us contributing to the game in ways unmatched by any other place in the world. Since Jordan’s coming-out party that weekend (the same weekend that saw Mike Tyson marry Robin Givens here, too), the weekend where he ascended above the game and made the pound-for-pound alive title all his, all we gave to the game was the following: D-Wade, D-Rose, the Parkers: Candace and Jabari, KG via South Carolina, Tamika Catchings, three-time world champs Andre Iguodala and Shaun Livingston. Antoine Walker, Evan Turner, Cappie P, Michael Fin, Q-Rich, Jon Scheyer, officials James Capers and Marc Davis, the aforementioned Allen and Bev, Morgan Tuck, Juwan Howard, Jalen Brunson, Tyler Ulis, Sherron Collins, Will Bynum, Corey Mag, Jewell Loyd, Jamie Brandon, Ronnie Fields, the Pargos (Jannero and Jeremy), the Browns (Shannon and Sterling), and oh yeah, a kid named Anthony Davis. And they say the Dream Team changed the game. 

Shy people run. Chi people run things. We live by truism, not by code. A truism that creates a different character of man, woman and child that shed sweat on the streets that we call neighborhoods, on these courts we call home. It reflects who we are individually; it reflects what we rep as a city. Our character is defined between the water of Lake Michigan and the concrete of Kedzie; by the wind that hits our skin but never touches our bones; by the chain nets that hang from iron halos and nylon that will create string music inside the United Center come February. 

We are represented by Jake and Elwood, Cochise and Preach, Kanye and Parkay, Jordan and Pippen. We live by the difference between taking a gamble and being ambitious. Doubt to us equals not being prepared. Something we know nothing about. Our “Big Shoulders” alias comes with pride because it wasn’t given to us: we earned it. The world has always been resting on them. Second City to no one. And for those who don’t believe it, just ask someone from here during All-Star Weekend. We are not ashamed to remind those who don’t know or forgot who we are. We don’t argue, we simply disagree. We don’t create enemies, we just have low tolerance for all things faux, fake or phony. We don’t “friend” or “like” people we don’t know. We believe in shaking peoples’ hands. Eye to eye, I for I.

The new awakening has arrived. In the form of a basketball showcase we call the “Black Super Bowl.” We are its host. Here to put on, display our coexistence with a game that is, to us, what hip-hop is to NYC, film and movies are to L.A., modern technology is to Silicon Valley, capitalism is to Wall Street, corruption is to Capitol Hill, coffee is to Seattle, Nike is to Portland, Mickey Mouse is to Orlando, Donald Glover is to the ATL. That connectivity, that association. That bond shared between our city and this game called “ball” that is inseparable, undeniable and unconditional. That love.

So let’s show the world how we do. The real we. Where we shoot hoops, not people. Where presidents are from, not prisoners. Where we open the city’s door and say, “Take your Jordans off. Relax. Watch the carpet. Don’t chill, Chi-IL.” And let all visitors know that while other places play the game, we live it. And that sound everyone will be hearing all weekend is not basketballs dribbling.

It’s our heartbeat.

—

Scoop Jackson is a senior writer for ESPN.

Photos via Getty and Matthew Yarnell.

The post DEAR CHI: A Love Letter to Basketball in the Windy City appeared first on SLAM.

His game has been a portrait of a masterpiece; the generational work of an artist striving for something that transcends the game; a spiritual declaration; an ethereal awakening, a love supreme; a celestial journey.

The four stages. Like songs. Cleveland, Miami, Cleveland, LA. Solo sessions, but never alone. Seasons of soliloquies. And at the center of it all: A man’s search for something greater than He.

GOD-like in stature, G.O.A.T.-like in performance, the liner notes of LeBron James’ career, if looked at in a Nike X Impulse! way, reads like the set list of more than an athlete. A strive for greatness? More than. Shut up and dribble? More than. King James edition? More than. Something biblical? Less than. But close.

Acknowledgment. Came in the form of a child discovering a path through the intersection of black American culture and creativity. That rhythm of sound the ball made when it left his hands. Heartbeat on bounce, flutter upon rotation through nets, silence when traveling through air. Elvin Jones-like permutations. Adventurous. Lines and spaces filled with non-verbal melodies. We fell in love with the promise he possessed.

Resolution. Revolutionary by nature. Unlike anything we’ve seen before. Game changer. A Jimmy Garrison bass line of subtle dominance. Establishing a foundation for everyone to build on. Super squad. A Coltrane/Tyner connection with Dwyane Wade. Musical movement.

Pursuance. Alto and ulterior motives. Virtuoso performances. Ending doubts and droughts. Even in the quest for efficiency, there is an openness about his improvisational approach to the game and his legacy. Blocks win championships as much as shots. One instrument is no more important than the others. There is no “I” in band or group but there is one in “history,” one in “King.”  Warriors came out to play. Modern jazz. Quartet. Still can’t shade what was done. For The Land: “This is for you!” For the landscape: Affirmation. His favorite thing.

Psalms. The finale. LAL. Inspired by those before. Stirring. Moving. Emotive. Notes of sadness. But trapped inside of that sadness is a brilliance unmatched. Carrying the weight of generations in every game, on every note, every play. ’Til he reaches higher ground. Mood. Tone. A ballad. A marriage of discerning solemnness and abstract enlightenment. The beginning of the end.

The relationship between LeBron and the game of basketball is one unique in both history and its true existence. It is—and remains—one that over the course of time will be the one almost all other careers will be compared to. There’s a commitment there that not even Jordan or Kobe can claim. Not that either his or theirs is more impressive, just that LeBron’s has been so, so deft over the first 15 years we remain mesmerized. Yes, the game has changed. And he changed it. The same way Bird (Charlie, not Larry), Miles, Art (Blakey and Tatum), Dizzy, Oscar, Trane, changed what Duke and Louis created. LeBron existentially rewrote the genre. Gave it a different feel. Took parts Julius Erving and Roger Brown, parts Karl Malone and Magic Johnson, parts Oscar Robertson and Derrick Rose, and orchestrated a magnum opus that will remain relevant long after he decides to never play again.

And that’s the key: For us to fully understand, comprehend and recognize what this all means as it continues to play. This career, this life of his. As we look into the kaleidoscope of his basketball sojourn, his personal pilgrimage, and pull out moments of both brilliance and incompleteness, paradise and pain, we learn to accept and further appreciate his art for what it is, for his ability to compose without judging it against the art of another. He’s given us work that can stand alone and on its own. Separated from the crowd. Where merit and magnificence aren’t always judged just by outcome and supremacy, where they too are judged by influence, impact and the importance that art ends up having on more than just the game. In other words, LeBron’s career is as much about only basketball as jazz is about only music. There’s so much more to gain from it than that. But it’s we who must never forget that, because if we do it will be we who suffer. History forever proves that.

Dragging underachieving squads to the Finals annually, giving an entire city (and state) a resurrected identity and economic sustainability, being possibly the only child athlete-deemed-prodigy of the last four generations to overcome and live beyond every expectation that was designed to set him up to fail, building an empire built on friendship, the fatherhood piece, the “I Can’t Breathe” piece, the EQUALITY piece, the Aaron Miller piece, the insane PERs and advanced stats while never over the length of a career being totally out of both MVP and G.O.A.T. conversations, the unequaled cerebral nature of how he approaches and sees the game, his eminence v. everybody. Future history. Facts.

Masterpieces. Mastered pieces of a dream turned basketball reality. Game soaked in virtuosity. Command and craftsmanship. 4/4 time signature. Genius displayed on the downbeat. Improvisational in nature, unpredictable in proficiency, still accurate in execution. Perfection is not mistake-free. Greatness should always be dissected, examined, re-examined, analyzed, scrutinized, challenged. The debates over years, debates over placement. Through this lens LeBron’s has become the definition of what the love for the game should look like when in the hands and heart of a master. A Coltrane, if we must. A level of artistry only a chosen one can put out there for us to digest and only hope to one day understand. In all of its beauty and complexity, in its haunting honesty, its “introducing humanity to the radiant language of light,” in its liberating altruism. If Jordan’s Kind of Blue, ’Bron’s A Love Supreme. A career supreme. A spiritual achievement. A “wondrous bequeathal.” A seeking. A search. A basketball “Thank You” to God.

—

GRAB YOUR COPY OF SLAM 220 HERE!

Scoop Jackson is a senior writer for ESPN and author of the forthcoming book The Game Is Not A Game (Haymarket Books).

Portraits by Joseph L. Sherman. 

The post A Love Supreme: LeBron James Has Painted a Masterpiece appeared first on SLAM.

Below you’ll find the case for SLAM Legend of the Week J-Will, made by former editor Scoop Jackson.

—

I know what you’re saying: Why him? Why is he in this debate? Does he even matter? Is he really relevant? Don’t let others fool you, don’t fool yourself. In other words, don’t be a damn fool.

Obstacles. Those damn obstacles. Inexperience, illegal defenses, speed, color, Gary Payton, playing for the Kings. The one who is able to overcome the most obstacles, the most stereotypes, the one who is player-hated the most and the least likely to succeed—in this case, the intruder, wins.

Impact on all levels has value. Especially when the odds against you are stacked higher against you than against both your counterparts combined. Vince Carter and Paul Pierce are supposed to be here, battling for the R.O.T.Y. Not you. When the season started you were an afterthought, dismissed as a “maybe.” “Maybe…he can cut it. Maybe…he’ll make it.” That’s what they said. Now they are all frontin’, claiming they saw you coming all along. Saying they meant “Jason Williams” when they publicly said Dirk Nowitzki was going to be Rookie of the Year.

State the case: THE POINT GUARD POSITION IS THE MOST DIFFICULT POSITION IN BASKETBALL TO PLAY. PERIOD. Vince and Paul got it easy. As do Ben and Russ. See, carrying a team and running it are two different things entirely. You can carry a team forever, never win anything and still come out looking shined. Dominique Wilkins did it in ATL for years; Shareef Abdur-Rahim is doing the same thing in Vancouver. The weight of running a team is much heavier. If the right person isn’t running that team, nothing happens. So understand that Chris Webber may put Sac on his back every night, but the future of the franchise is in who’s running it.

Plus, right now the point guard position is the premiere spot in the NBA. There is no night off. Every night Jason Williams goes head up against seriousness: Stockton, Marbury, Payton, Iverson, Kidd, Hardaway—both of ’em. He’s the only rookie who can’t afford to make rookie mistakes. This is what makes Jason Williams more valuable than Carter or Pierce.

I know what you’re saying: Who’s selling you the crack you on? Whose hands are in your pocket, making you write this nonsense? No one. This is about giving credit where credit is due. And although my choice may not be the popular one, it will be the most valid, which doesn’t always stand for much these days. Maybe if he braided his hair you’d feel him.

It was once said that 1’s aren’t made, they’re born. Only God can deliver great point guards, not Rick Adelman. Jason Williams, because he was born into this, will re-redefine the position as we know it. Vince Carter and Paul Pierce won’t. They will do the phenomenal no doubt, but their games won’t be Ripley; JW’s game, on the other hand, will. Believe it or not.

70-foot, alley-oop passes to Tariq Abdul-Wahad; over-the-head dimes to CWebb; one-handed, in-the-lane, behind-the-back grooves that make us watch SportsCenter over and over again; ill Dr.J-like reverse layups that put NBA Showtime producers on edit; murderous crossovers that freeze defenders like Han Solo, wrapping opponents up like an Erykah Badu headpiece; 21-point/9 assist/ 4 steal games on a semi-regular basis; 11 assist/ 1 turnover game against the Lakers his first time on national TV. He be pissin’ on defenders like they fire, putting out the flame. Truth be told, if Eminem’s on the cover of Rolling Stone, why shouldn’t JW grace SLAM alone?

See, Jason Williams was not even supposed to be in this conversation. He wasn’t expected to do anything close to what he’s done. Bibby, Olowokandi, Carter, Pierce, Jamison, Larry Hughes—they entered the stage celebrated. What Pierce and Carter have done is nothing less than what they were supposed to do. Tournament-tested All-Americans need to wreck it. That’s expected. The League is built for them to shine. To hand either Carter or Pierce the award for most valuable freshman in the NBA is the safe move. Think about it. Now, without frontin’, ask yourself who really deserves the award?

I know what you’re saying: You think I forgot the rule—it ain’t where you from, it’s where you at. Believe, Jason Williams is at the point right now where he has other players in the League talking about him as one of the better point guards in the game, not just rookies. Mentioning his name ahead of the Terrell Brandons, Sam Cassells, Brevin Knights and Mark Jacksons. He has the ability to change the complexion of a game with his playmaking ability, his scoring or his three-point range. Now, imagine Jason Williams with the Rockets. Or the Lakers. Or the Spurs. You can see the trophy can’t you? Close your mouth. You’ve been busted.

That’s what Williams brings to the table. You can’t put any other rookie in the league on a team and instantly visualize a championship. You can’t do that with Paul Pierce or Vince Carter or anyone else. This is what separates WC from the mad circle of players vying for the crown. His impact is that significant. No other rookie can claim that.

Cats like JW only come around once or twice in a generation. He’s that special, that rare. Like a Black quarterback. There have been only a few who revolutionize: James Harris, Doug Williams, Warren Moon, Randall Cunningham. They become the spirit according to which all other African-American quarterbacks will be judged. Any player given comparisons (ie. Daunte Culpepper), has to be very special and rare one. The weight of that legacy must be upheld simply because the racism involved in sports doesn’t allow the opportunity to occur very often. Before Jason Williams, there were Bob Cousy and Paul Westphal. In between them was Pete Maravich, the one to whom Williams is most often compared. It’s been a long time since someone has reawakened the ghost of Pistol Pete. Made us see visions of basketball brilliance from ground level. For this alone, Jason Williams’ rookie campaign must be recognized for how special it really was, because something like it may not happen again for another generation.

I know the last thing you’re saying: Scoop, I thought you were a racist, thought you hated white people, especially ballplayers? The white boy got you selling-out with those tricks.those un-fundamental, sugar-coated, extra-pastry moves he does are not what basketball is about. Wrong. First, I’m a realist. The truth always supersedes race, that’s why I’m able to write this and look in the mirror next morning. And those tricks he does, they’re for adults—not kids. Those tricks are only for prodigies. Only for those who pull ’em out of their bags and bless the world with them. To say that tricks aren’t important is ignorant. Earl Monroe and Pete Maravich had tricks. Isiah Thomas and Bob Cousy had tricks. Top 50. All time. Allen Iverson got ’em too. But two years ago the NBA wasn’t really ready for his tricks. Too ghetto. Now Jason Williams comes along with his bag of tricks. Too trailer park? That’s what I thought. If White Chocolate doesn’t get the Rookie-of-the-Year Award, he’ll definitely get the coveted, Charles Barkley-issued “playground Rookie-of-the-Year” award. Which may be good enough. You see what that did for Iverson.

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Scoop Jackson is a SLAM legend. Follow him on Twitter @iamscoopjackson.

Photos via Getty Images.

The post Why Jason Williams Should Have Been the 1999 Rookie of the Year appeared first on SLAM.

Steve Smith: “Well, It’s just four.”

LeBron: “Well we gotta bump somebody. Somebody gotta get bumped….”

Smith: “Who you bumping?”

LeBron: “That’s not for me to decide. That’s for the architects. That’s for the architects to chisel somebody’s face out and put mine up there.” —NBA TV, 2014

***

See, most architects just follow orders. Follow blueprints. By design, they’re given assignments to construct something either great or greater than what was before. “Just tell us what you need done and we’ll make it happen. Make it a work of art.”

But in LeBron James’ quest to be unconditionally looked at, considered, respected as one of—or maybe, the—greatest players to ever touch a basketball, the architects (all of us—media, fans, players, former players, coaches, aficionados, so-called experts, haters, etc.—who ultimately have a say in LeBron’s legacy) who are tasked to place his face on basketball’s Mt. Rushmore are collectively so undecided that there may never be a definitive answer to the question of LeBron’s true and accurate place in basketball’s history.

Either take someone off Rushmore or give LeBron his own mountain. That’s kinda where we’re at.

We co-exist with ourselves in the era of What About-ism. “What about when he did this?” “What about when didn’t do this?” In LeBron James we live more within that paradox than with any other athlete alive. We generalize and are anal simultaneously. Macro and micro analyze. And while the Jordan/LeBron conversation may initially have been (and still is, to a certain degree) premature, the fact remains LeBron (especially over what he’s done over the last three years, including making it to the Finals seven—and counting—years in a row) has played himself into a space of perfect polarization. Without playing himself.

On LeBron’s personal Rushmore list, he had Mike, Larry, Magic and Oscar. Four legends, two he already knows he’s surpassed in gen-pop perception and one he’s on the verge of nudging out. No Bill Russell, no Wilt, no Kobe. But what would we expect from a King? Especially one that’s in the middle of his own reign?

The issue LeBron has to deal with is being judged against history as opposed to being judged solely on what he does. And when we say history, we ain’t talking about the history of the game, we’re talking about the history of one player. Him vs. Him. Unofficially-officially surpassing almost everyone into being solely judged against a single individual in the game’s history is the only natural progression of G.O.A.T.ness. Many players since the original “He” retired have asked for it, but really only two have gotten it. And LeBron just happens to be one.

His place is cemented but not concrete. As he has reached the inarguable—read again, inarguable—stage of whether he’s Top 5 all time or not, there is still room for LeBron to rise.

And fall.

Because just as much has been given to and earned by LeBron, much has been and will continue to be held against him. For every right there seems to be three wrongs. The Chosen One always at fault. He: The generational epitome and paradoxical poster-child of a victim of his own come-up. That global icon life. The love that hate produced. No athlete alive has created less room for error or failure; no athlete ever has been more unjustly entitled and at the same time been judged so unfairly.

And as much as we know LeBron will remain in that argument, we also know that his greatness has been both his gift and curse. We know too that that hypocrisy won’t stop. Which we also know will play a major role in where his placement in the G.O.A.T. conversation will eventually wind up, in the end.

Because at this point, on this day, Mt. Rush for LeBron is easy. Pretty much a lock; damn near a given. Maybe. Because just as LeBron said the architects will have to chisel him in, have to make room for him to invade that mythical, make-believe space, those same architects are the ones who right now have mallets, rakes and rasps in hand, waiting to hear someone say to them right before it’s time to carve LeBron’s face into stone, “Hold up, we’re good. Leave it as is.”

SLAM Presents LEBRON is available now! Buy it here.

—

Illustration by Sinelab

Action shots via Getty

The post Destiny appeared first on SLAM.

At the time of the concept’s inception, Michael Jordan was more ideology than star. The idea of what he had the ability to become exceeded what he actually was. David Falk oversold his client to the one non-NBA company that had Jordan’s future in its hands. Nike was brilliant enough to have signed Jordan but had no idea how deep the audacity of thought ran through Falk and Jordan about what they felt they deserved.

The Blazer was George Gervin’s shoe. It was worn by so many other stars, but it was directly associated with Iceman because of the iconic image of him sitting on a throne of ice. The Legend was a shoe making rounds on damn near every playground while also being the “black power” shoe that Georgetown wore while showing the sports world what new defiance looked like. And the Air Force 1 was the Air Force 1. Too epic in stature for just one athlete to lay claim.

That left space for the new kid to claim something that didn’t exist. A kid who, if given the chance, could do more for his game and the company he signed his shoe deal with than John McEnroe had done for them in tennis, than Gervin and Moses Malone had done for them in basketball, than Steve Prefontaine, Bill Bowerman and Blue Ribbon Sports had done for them in track.

Falk’s idea was not only for that kid named Jordan to have his own shoe, but to have his name on it. Claimed. Etched in leather. For Jordan to have his own logo and be separated from every other athlete on Nike’s roster. Branded. For the kid, who in the early pre-rookie season hype had lofted himself into the “pass the brown paper bag, that boy got some Elgin Baylor/Connie Hawkins/Julius Erving/David Thompson in him” conversations, to have his own signature line before the term “signature line” was even invented.

At the least, it was one of the most ambitious moves in the history of the game. The arrogance of it all. But Falk knew what he had and Jordan knew what he had inside of him. All that was left was proof. And for Jordan, that part came easy.

David Letterman (holding an original Air Jordan 1 in his hand): “Is this the shoe that the NBA wouldn’t let you wear? Now why wouldn’t they let you wear it? Just because it’s ugly, for starters, doesn’t…”

Jordan: “Yeah, I agree with you they are ugly.”

“Now wait a minute, didn’t you help design these?”

“The shoe, not the coloring. I didn’t have anything to do with the coloring.”

“Well, what’s wrong with the coloring? What rule did we violate here?”

“Well, it doesn’t have any white in it.”

“Well, neither does the NBA.”

https://youtu.be/t7vxRSn_qqc

* * *

The Black Toe. That was the first Air Jordan I that Money wore. But it wasn’t the sneaker that caused the ban. The shoe that caused Russ Granik’s office to draft a letter to then-Nike VP Rob Strasser four months after Jordan broke the shoe “color barrier” was the Nike Air Ship. But understand, Nike first, foremost and always is a marketing company. And there was no better way to introduce a new shoe/new concept/new ideology to the marketplace than to “redirect” the story to make it about a future campaign as opposed to a history lesson of an unmarketable past. Nike was not about to put the Air Ship on the shelves. Nike was about to try to sell a shoe with Jordan’s name on it to millions. It needed a narrative. An anti-establishment narrative that one shoe had, but another didn’t. That’s not lying; that’s genius marketing.

The shoe was introduced to us hanging over his shoulders. Pick-up game style on the Chicago greytop. No wings—the original originals didn’t have a Jordan “basketball with wings” logo on the side ankle panel. Just a name. His, preceded by Air.

From there, shit got really, really real. He started doing things in that shoe we’d never seen before. It’s not like he was winning chips like Magic or erasing basketball stereotypes like Bird, but what Jordan began to do once those Jordan Is were officially on his feet was literally the beginning of him making a damn shoe almost as important as he was.

The original shot that would eventually be the silhouette for the logo happened in that shoe. Rookie of the Year, in that shoe. Broken foot, in that shoe. Working out underwater as part of rehab, in that shoe. Sixty-three on the Celtics, in that shoe. Haters gonna hate by freezing a brotha out in the All-Star Game, in that shoe. Winning the Dunk Contest in baby gold rope chains, in that shoe. The famous blacked-out “Banned” campaign, in that shoe. The creation of Mars Blackmon, in that shoe. The last game in the Garden, in that shoe. The beginning of the GOAT, in that shoe.

As “ugly” as the shoe was, it was beautiful. On the court it was so distinctive it made Jordan that much more identifiable while he was playing. As kids who were the same age as Mike who had to sneak into Chicago Stadium to see him and had to watch him from the 500 Level where the cops weren’t looking, we’d ID him by his shoes first. Or watching his games on some fish-eyed 17-inch screen TV that had aluminum foil on the tips of non-functional antennas, we’d find him by looking for the shoes first. Don’t believe? Peep an old Bulls YouTube clip. Can’t distinguish Mike from anyone else? Can’t immediately find him? Look down. Check that 1985 NBA All-Star Game where everyone was wearing like-minded unis and he looked like everyone else in the game. Just look for the shoes. The Is stood out like Becky with the Good Hair at Roscoe’s in Oakland. Them AJ Is could easily be credited with the modern day invention of color blocking.

Especially when he wore the ones with the “white in it.”

Nike history should be broken down no different from our own. Biblical. BC/AD. Theirs: PT/OT.

The Jordan I legacy as a single shoe holds weight mainly because it is the first Pre-Tinker shoe. Only two exist. Once Tinker created the Jordan III, life in this shoe game would change forever.

The official name: Air Jordan I. Status: OG. Year: 1985 PT.

The storytelling of the shoe over the years is what is unparalleled and unmatched by anything else in the game. Both the releases and re-releases of the shoe that tell new stories and relive others. From the Laneys that never happened to the Shattered Backboards that did. To the 25 lasered autographed ones that exist to the rarified “Lance Mountain” SBs to being the next bespoke sneak cooked up in NikeLab’s 21 Mercer NYC location. To being the cover shoe for one of the greatest sneaker books ever produced, Intercity’s Art and Sole. An honor no other shoe can claim.

By design and status, it lends itself to art in ways no other shoes can or have. But unlike, say, the Air Force 1 or New Balance 574 or Nike SB Dunk or a pair of adidas Stan Smiths, most artists are scared to touch the Jordan I, to use it as canvas to create something different. Either they treat it as “sacred” or say it’s designed “perfectly as is.” Not even the Jordan III gets that “off-limits” respect. (But the Jordan XI kinda does, too, if we’re being totally honest.)

The ban gave the Jordan I a foundation. A moral center. But to this day (despite the reminder on the sole of the new Jordan XXXI), it doesn’t define the total meaning and significance of the shoe. Much the same way Muhammad Ali being banned from boxing wasn’t the full definition of him, just an integral part in the life of who he was, the same holds true with the Jordan I.

As the years have gone by, the place it holds in culture has risen to a space only few sneaks ever reach. The Converse Chuck Taylor, the AF1, the adidas Superstar and Pro Model (the Stan Smith has recently entered into that exclusive club) may be the only others. It is Mount Rushmore material—more specifically, the Jordan I is Lincoln. One of the very, very few that has both relevance and reverence 30 years after it was born—while never once losing stature or having society second-guess or question its significance.

The Jordan I is one of the few shoes since man and woman began wearing shoes where the statement, “It’s better to have four rubber wheels than two rubber heels” does not apply.

As I wrote in the book Sole Provider: It was about…something beyond basketball.

Scoop Jackson is a SLAM legend. Follow him on Twitter @iamscoopjackson.

—

The Jordan I “Banned” colorway returns to retail on Saturday, September 3 for $160. Images via Jordan Brand.

The post Only One appeared first on SLAM.

It’s been said that no one has gotten inside the head of Tim Duncan. That he’s been impossible to break down, that no one has gotten him to open up. In that, he’s the closest thing to Michael Jordan and Bill Clinton we’ve seen. Slick like arbitration, crafty like a Beastie Boy classic, coy like the end of a House of Games. Read his bio and you’ll discover more. But still you will come up empty. He planned it all that way. Inside his handshake is a welcome mat followed by a “Do Not Enter” sign. It’s all the brilliant, cognitive contradiction of a 24-year-old man who was born to be different from the norm and superior to the average. He’s become both.

But to get inside of Tim Duncan, we set him up. Played the same mind trick on him that he plays on everyone else. “Tell Tim we want to recreate the Iceman poster from back in the day,” we pitched to Tom James, the Spurs media cat who was in on the fix. “Yeah, yeah, tell him it was Gervin’s idea.” The lie worked. It was only a matter of whether we could out-master the master. Get the interview no one else has been able to get. And though Tim bit, his game recognized our game in the end. The first thing they teach you in Psychology 101 is “never put yourself in a position of weakness, because the payback can be a bitch.” For this story though– just this one story– the real Tim Duncan got got.

“Was I scared? Yes.” This is Tim Duncan’s voice. It’s not cracking, it’s not an extremely high pitch, but it is with emphasis. He has not balled in two months, he’s had major surgery on his left knee, he’s missed the Olympics. There is uncertainty that comes with fear, especially if it affects your mental as well as your physical. The injury, the surgery, the rehab. The fear existed in Duncan through all three. But it was in his mind where the fear manifested most. This was not a faux, Wes Craven-induced dream. Duncan’s being scared is for real. To the point where he thought, well…

“I wondered if I’d be able to play again. My fear was that this was the longest period of time I’d ever gone without touching a basketball. And I really didn’t know when I was going to be able to.”

“And that scared you?”

The calmness comes back to his voice, “Yes it did.”

But to look into his eyes and in his face, you could never tell. He’d never let you there. Not to focus so much on the injury, but the impact of it cannot be denied. Beyond a slight bit of confidence lost and skepticism gained. His status/title/rep as the “best ballplayer in the league” got passed around last season to all who came crawlin’ up his mountain. One week it was Vince, the next it was AI, then Kobe, then KG, then anyone else who wanted it. “That didn’t bother me a bit,” he says of his lost pound-for-pound crown. “I’ve heard everything. I think, no doubt, last year Shaq was the best player. I also think Vince is an amazing player. And you’ve got to give some props to Allen [Iverson]. And KG, that kid’s incredible. He’s as good as anybody but he doesn’t get as much [credit] as he should get because his team right now doesn’t do as well as it’s going to… ” Tim pauses and thinks about exactly what he’s saying. The analytic in him ekes out. “Well, hopefully it will stay that way as long as I’m around,” he continues with a Western-Conference-rivalry-with-the-Timberwolves laugh.

“To me, there are a lot of players who can be given that title at one point or another during the year, but the one who’s going to carry [the “best” title] through for that year is the one who takes his team to the top,” he adds. “I was given that title the season we won [’98-99]. Shaq got it last season. Was it due, did I deserve it when I supposedly had it? Yeah, I think so, a little bit. But I can’t really worry about it, because there’s going to be arguments about every year. You know what they say, ‘You’re only as good as your last game.’ And that is so true.”

So true to the point that one “unnamed” (OK, Lindy’s) pre-season basketball magazine had Duncan ranked No. 3 in the League—not among players, among forwards! Rated behind KG and the person who really should have replaced Duncan on the Sydney Squad (no disrespect Antonio McDyess), Chris Webber. When told of this, Duncan laughs in hesitated breath. It’s as if the split personality that he doesn’t have separates: part of him agrees, part of him doesn’t.

But after about 20 seconds of thought, the conclusion is made. The left hemisphere overrides the right. “Chris had a great year, he’s an incredible player. He had some great games against us, that’s for sure. And he did a helluvalot for that team. So who am I to argue? I won’t dispute [the ranking] at all.” Then the right hemisphere emerges. “But when we go head-to-head, it’s a different story. He’s gotta play, I gotta play. So it doesn’t matter what [the magazine] says.”

Still, nothing sweats him. Even when he’s being pushed for answers of anguish and being personally challenged. Doesn’t he understand we’re trying to piss him off, get him rattled? He’s fucking up the plan. Damn you, Duncan.

If you follow him over time (especially during the season), what you find is illuminating. Tim Duncan is not a brooder. He’s not boring, stiff, or flat. He isn’t slow, either; he moves at what is called “island speed,” an “irie pace” that is indicative of his St. Croix, Virgin Island, roots.

“People think he’s all shy, buy he’s sly.” Scott Duncan is Tim’s half-brother. Maybe more than anyone, he knows the Tim Duncan we are in Leonard Nimoy of. “Many people don’t get him, they think he’s boring, but he’s really opposite. He has this cool intensity, and the deepest running sense of humor. He catches everything. Nothing gets by him.”

He says the family is proud of Tim and that he’s on the path he set for himself as a child. “[Tim] knows his destiny and has been knowing of it for a very long time. He’s always been true to his inner self and totally trusts his instincts and feelings, which is why he is so cool. That’s why giving him the name ‘Ice’ is so perfect,” he continues. “It fits him. In his personality, it’s like he always keeps the ice flowing.”

If you get to know him, he’ll surprise you with his quick wit and sarcastic sense of humor. He’ll say the illest things, but only under his breath so no one except the person he’s talking to can hear. He’s a computer-head, specifically on the galaxy game StarCraft, where he attacks the program as if it were Rasheed Wallace. On laptops, he, David Robinson, Malik Rose, and Sean Elliot will battle for hours, especially when on the road. He’s a film buff and critic, the black Roger Ebert. He can also spit some Nas or DMX lyrics if anyone claims he “ain’t ghetto enough.”

He’s a playground legend by default (“Growing up where I did,” he says, “all we had was outside courts.”). He’s an icon of Ian-Thorpe-in-Australia proportions in his hometown, to the point that he can’t go back without getting mobbed with the deepness of Havoc and Prodigy. Even he admits, “I don’t get back [home] as much as I should.” His clique consists of his two sisters, Tricia and Cheryl, Scott, and his long-time girlfriend Amy.

He plays the crib a lot, meaning: He likes to spend time at home. Not that he’s shy, but he doesn’t invite distractions in his life. The brotha who grew up in the neighborhood who never came out of the house to floss, but wound up with the flyest whip because he saved his allowance by not hitting all of the parties? That’s Tim. The rumor (one explains a lot about Duncan) is that he’s so laid-back that during the weekend of his first All-Star Game (in ’98 in New York), he didn’t do anything. Never went to one of Puffy’s 300 parties. Instead, he and Amy room-serviced. Understand that everyone doesn’t need the spotlight to shine. Some gleam on their own.

Most important, though, in this search for the inner Tim Duncan, is the discovery that no one in the League will say anything bad about him. There are no enemies who pray and pray for his downfall, even though he may slay them and lay down law on court. Around the NBA, Duncan and Vince Carter seem to receive the most universal and unconditional love. And in a League filled with literal “player hating,” that the truth speaks more than volumes about Duncan. It soundbombs.

The phone rings once in his spacious San Antonio crib before he picks it up. It’s one day after he had eye surgery to help him “never lose sight of the rim.” He laughs at this, as he does at most everything. He’s just cool like that. After a few “wassup young fella,” it’s the business. “Tim Duncan? Let’s talk about Tim Duncan…”

George Gervin is the second installment of the Iceman moniker originally given to Jerry Butler, who used to sing with Curtis Mayfield. But Gervin took it to a level beyond resurrection—until now. When he blessed neighborhood sports store windows in the ‘80s with that unforgettable image for Nike, the understatement could be made that he “redefined what cool is supposed to look like forever.” Like Clyde Frazier before him, Gervin was on some other shit that no other athlete could pull off. No one had the character, no one exemplified the persona, no one else had the game. When told of the concept for this cover, Gervin had one thing to say: “Am I mad? Hell naw! I’d be mad if you called somebody else that. That’s a compliment to me.”

It’s not just the “iceness” that connects these two, but something deeper. It’s what occurs when they touch a basketball and bless the floor. It goes beyond the eerie coincidence of both playing in Spurs uniforms. As Gervin attests, “The things he can do at his size remind me of a guy named “Ice.”

They share the cashmere-soft, Victoria’s Secret-smooth jumpers from angles Willie Mosconi would love; the footwork reminiscent of Bill Robinson and Maurice Hines, unmatched by players their size; the effortlessness with which they perform and their ability to become instantly undefendable in (big) game situations, never “playing outside of themselves;” the finger roll.

The Original sees it in Duncan, probably more than he does in his own son, Gee. “There are players you pay to see. Tim Duncan is a player I’ll stand in line and pay to see,” he says. But in conversation with Gervin, it’s clear the love he holds for Duncan is far more important than what Tim has done on the court—even more important than the ring Tim brought the city last year and the one he’s planning to bring back this season (Duncan: “Don’t forget we are the same team swept the Lakers and Portland in the playoffs two years ago. We just need to be healthy and consistent, not necessarily better.”). It’s about the person Tim Duncan is, the one we are trying to expose in this story. Gervin gives us an answer.

“Whenever a guy of his stature still asks me for an autograph, that says something to me. I love that. See, don’t nobody want to be forgotten. I did my thing, you know. But every time I see him, he makes me feel as if I meant something. Meant something to the game, meant something to him personally. And he’s done that without even saying it to me. That’s class. You want to know what type of cat Tim Duncan is?” Another signature laugh comes out. “The young fella is a beautiful person.”

The first true encounter of “the individual that is Tim Duncan” came at a Nike Camp about four years ago when he was a summer counselor following junior year at Wake Forest. Somehow the rumor had gotten around that Tim’s nickname was “Cookie Monster” (A joke started by another counselor named Todd Harris). Tim hated the name. For the entire week, he got grilled with the name, never even knowing why he was being called that. “I hated that shit,” Tim would say. But did he say anything about it then? No. He never gave it power. His shell would not be cracked, not by that. He even read it in print before he entered his senior year, but still he gave SLAM love.

But it was after hours at that Nike camp where “Tim Duncan the ballplayer” emerged to our eyes. For two to three hours after the “invitees” night sessions were over, Tim got his freak on. He was often teamed with then-Eastern Michigan 5-6 point guard Earl Boykins. For an entire week, every night against other college All-Americans including Vince Carter and Miles Simon, Duncan and Boykins played something that looked a lot like 2-on-5 basketball. And they were winning. No one had any idea that Duncan could play transition basketball like that. As fast as Boykins was, there were times when Tim was beating him down the court, waiting for the oop. He was freaking smaller players with spin moves that gave him the baseline so open Monique from The Parkers could have slid right on through. He wasn’t just the “post-up” player we had labeled him; in all honesty he wasn’t even a center. But he wasn’t going to say anything. He let the secret about his game get out all by itself. And here’s the funny thing: by the end of that camp, no one was calling him “Cookie Monster” anymore.

This was the first lesson of understanding the psyche of Tim Duncan and how it works against others to his advantage. But still there are depths that remain untapped by anyone. The game continues. Tim seems to be getting mad comfortable with the tape recorder rolling. Our plan is working.

“What makes you laugh?”

He laughs. “Stupid humor. Jim Carrey movies, the Three Stooges, Friday, things like that. Who makes me laugh? Man, Antonio [Daniels] and Malik [Rose], those guys make me laugh more than anyone because they are silly, stupid for no reason.”

“Just like you, right?”

“Exactly,” he says.

“What’s the worst thing you ever did as a kid? We know you quiet and humble, but you had to do something scandalous coming up.”

He laughs big. “Uh, shit, I can’t think of anything big, but I got in trouble a lot…”

And just when he gets comfy, we change the pitch up. Hit him like we’re interested in basketball.

“Are you ready to do this solo?”

“What do you mean?” he says.

“Are you ready for the day that DR [David Robinson] stops playing?”

“Oooo…good question. No,” he says. “David is a big part of the reason I didn’t go anywhere.”

“You said that in the press conference, but tell us the real reason.”

“That is it,” he confirms. “And I love the area. I love playing with David and I think we have a chance to win another championship here. Plus, I like playing for Pops [S.A. head coach Greg Popovich]. I love the way he motivates the team and the direction we’re going.”

“Then why’d you only sign a three-year deal instead of signing for the long money?”

“Always keep your options open,” he says, being totally candid. “I’m not sure that I’ll even want to be in San Antonio in four years. DR may not be here, Avery may not be here. I’m protected, I’ve got four years of really good money. But after that time, I gotta be able to do what I want to do.”

“Did it piss you off when you heard the Spurs were trying to trade Avery Johnson last season?”

“You know what, the one thing I learned from day one in this game is that it’s a business, it’s not about friends,” he continues. “Ever since the day I got here, all of my best friends got traded or they weren’t re-signed. Chuck Person, Monty Williams, Cory Alexander, none of those names are still here. And those were my best friends in the world. But it doesn’t take away from the fun of the game. And I’ve been able to separate that. When we’re on the floor. Out there, basketball is basketball.”

“What scares you?”

He stands up. “Heights. Yeah, heights and sharks.”

“What about on the basketball court?”

“Not being able to play anymore,” he says as we relive the opening of our conversation. “Being injured again, that scares me. That scares the hell out of me.”

“Nice.” He says this while looking at his name iced in the chair he just finished sitting in. Then it hit him, the whole scam. He figured it out without expressing that he knew. If you play poker, you can see it in someone’s expression, there’s a small glisten in the eyes. But maybe it’s just a sparkle of what Tim sees in himself. No, he know. He figures he’s just been played. He figures that SLAM did all of this to “get me to open up, say something that I normally won’t say in an interview—they were trying to get to know me.” He mentally acknowledged that we’d done a good job. He appreciated the skills. Like we said, game recognizes game. But if you’re a psychologist with a superlative b-ball game, you don’t settle for that. Instead, you get even.

“Who do you see in you?” Tim asks, flipping the interview, setting up the set up. The question is posed after a discussion about who he identifies with. “There’s always one person,” I say. “That one person we see ourselves in.” It’s fantasy versus reality. “I see Sidney Poitier in you,” is what Tim Duncan hears. He relates. “I always saw him in my father,” is his response. It’s the epitome of that dignity thing that white Americans see in Cary Grant that we both see. I see it in Tim, Tim sees it in his father. Many mistake Tim’s quiet for something that it is necessarily not. It’s like “whatever” when his name is mentioned. “Man, people think you’re boring but you’re far from it.”

“I’m fun to myself,” he says.

The conclusion: Yes, Tim Duncan is quiet, but not uninteresting. Too few see that.

I answer Duncan’s question by saying, “Spike Lee.” Tim’s head shakes in agreement, he can see that too. “What about you?” I ask him. “What other individual do you see in you? Who does Tim Duncan see?” It’s the deepest and most personal question I asked him on this day. It’s the one answer that will complete the story, the answer none outside of the people around him has ever gotten. Instead, for the first time, except for when the photos are being shot, he’s silent. Five minutes pass. Then 10. He’s still quiet, says he’s “thinking.” I see that famous smirk of his. He just played us back. By the time you read this story, Tim Duncan will still have not given us an answer. He purposely did this, That was ice cold. Payback is a bitch, ain’t it?

—

Portrait by Atiba Jefferson

The post ‘Rebirth of Cool’: Tim Duncan Cover Story From SLAM 47 appeared first on SLAM.

The problem with saying that publicly is that—knowing MJ—he’ll find the SLAM offices, go there (or send someone) and collect. But the money—the direct money—we owe has been spent. Gone like Republican candidates not named Trump. IOW: He’ll never get it. Unless he wants to buy this magazine out and put SLAM in his billion-dollar portfolio. 

Just a thought.

The reason behind us owing Jordan money stems from the fact that five months after this magazine got the green light, he decided to retire after his first threepeat. The screams from the publisher’s office could be heard from the old SLAM Dome in the Flatiron all the way to 125th Street. And it wasn’t until Issue 6—the infamous “MIKE!” cover, featuring an interview by yours truly—that SLAM was fully established in the game as a journalistic force…and profit center. 

A few years later, the initial start-up capital used to launch this mag turned into a sale in the millions. Hella return on a then-risky, idealist investment. Venture capitalism. Thanks, Mike.

But here’s the beauty of that: We ain’t ever been alone in owing Jordan money! The NBA owes him money. Nike owes him money. The Bulls really owe him money. NBC, TNT, ESPN, CBS-Fox (Come Fly With Me) and Warner Brothers (Space Jam) owe him money. UNC will forever owe him money. Kobe owes him money. LeBron owes him money. 

We all to some degree, in some way, shape, form, fashion or hustle are still making money and living out sections of our dreams by living off him. 

And don’t think he doesn’t know this, that he’s not fully aware. The reality is very much the opposite. So much that he could make it Part 2 of his Hall of Fame speech if given the chance. 

Michael Jordan is just not into knocking anyone’s hustle, even if he’s the reason that hustle exists. Which says something about who he really is. Because a lesser God would have collected a very long time ago. He knows we all owe. But that’s not Mike.

1995. 12,888* scores and 22 years ago. The emancipation of his return. All praises due. The Final Call.

Through him we saw heaven. He made us realize it wasn’t on a playground as we all believed prior to him. His career—everything about him as a basketball player—can be simplified to one line in that famous/infamous speech: “I tried to make it hard for Phil [Jackson] to take me out of games.” 

Want proof? From Issue 12 (July 1996) right before the beginning of the Playoffs that ignited the Bulls’ second triple:

SLAM It’s crunch time now—aren’t you getting tired? I mean, this is your first full season back in a couple. Wassup? You’re making it hard for Phil to give you some rest.

MJ You should know me by now—I haven’t changed. This is the most challenging part of the season, and I thrive on it, on this type of competitiveness. I just try to elevate my game and everyone else’s game surrounding me. To some degree, that’s the type of thing I thrive on; I enjoy it. I want to make it tough for Phil to take me out, because I enjoy playing in these types of circumstances. Hey Dog, I’m getting old, and I may not get these thrills too often anymore [laughs].

The ’95 date is not just important for MJ’s career but to the life of what you are reading now and why you are reading it. His comeback gave us a story to tell. He gave us a foundation to build a franchise around much the same way Jerry Reinsdorf and Jerry Krause did. 

The “making it hard for Phil” was a creed, damn near his Tao. He needed something simple but of that magnitude to function at a level he knew he couldn’t without. It gave him incentive. Operated as his higher power. While we thought he was battling the Knicks and Pacers for crowns; Hakeem and Shaq for supremacy and dominance; his father’s death and his own personal demons; his own place in the game’s history; what he was actually battling was a false narrative that he’d put in his head that his enemy was the person who had the power to control when he played and when he didn’t. 

And for Jordan that creed was perfect because it was one he could—and did—use every game. It was constant. Never changed. Rote. Let him have one of those bad shooting nights that we now pretend never happened. One of those 5-22, 12-point games going into the fourth with the Bulls down double digits and he’s on the bench to begin the quarter. The whispering was internal. “When I get back in I’ma make it impossible for this muthafucka to take me out.” Fifteen in a row. Twenty-two for the quarter. On some Steph Curry shit long before Steph Curry shit existed. Bulls win by 5. He doesn’t leave the court until Freddie Mercury was on the sound system or the visiting arena is a morgue.

And that muthafucka? His name just happened to be Phil. Coulda been anybody. Anybody that Jordan felt had the power to control or stop his ability to do him vs anybody.

Mind control is a muthafucka.

“The deeper Michael got in his career, the harder he worked. [He] took everything to another level only he has known,” says TV talking head Skip Bayless. “I’ve often felt sorry for Kobe Bryant and LeBron James as they’ve attempted to live up to Michael’s legacy. He set the bar unfairly high. Lord help the ‘Next Jordan’ and ‘The Next’ and ‘The Next’ after.”

And while Jordan did things after his first retirement that only added to the lore he’d built during his first phase, he found a way to humanize himself while at the same time expand the myth we were all beginning to believe: That he actually was a God among us. Kevin Garnett confirmed it, when in initial talks with Nike he asked to be excused from the meeting because he needed to “talk with God.” “Oh, you need to go pray? That’s fine,” someone said. “No,” KG responded.

“I mean I need to call Mike.”

Melissa Isaacson, now with ESPN, covered the MJ-era Bulls for the Chicago Tribune and wrote the 1994 book, Transition Game: An Inside Look at Life with The Chicago Bulls, about the year after MJ retired. She shares her POV on MJ once he came back. “There was always a softness to Michael along with the guy who bullied his teammates in practice and taunted his opponents,” she said. “He seemed to thoroughly enjoy being back. He missed it. He relished instilling more of a fierceness in his team. And personally, while I generally found him to be warm and friendly, he was now almost big-brotherly in his treatment of me as a pregnant woman. 

“I noticed that with all of [media]. He missed us. He missed the familiar faces at practice and games. And make no mistake, he definitely missed the ovations that had always been part of his work day and now were again. He knew what he gave up and he would never say he regretted it. And though he probably needed it to affirm how much he loved basketball, he seemed genuinely grateful to be back and in no hurry to leave again.”

And this is important because it helps shape part of the nature of what he brought back with him when he decided to make basketball—not baseball or golf—the center of his life again. 

In the “What Does Jordan Mean To You?” video put out by the Brand last year, Howard White—the brand’s VP, the Alfred to Jordan’s Dark Knight—put all of the ideology and how it is applied to life into perspective for everyone looking at Jordan as their source of inspiration. He answered the question by saying, “How much one can believe in the possibility that they can overcome any obstacle that hold most people down.” In context H.White was speaking about Jordan, but he could as easily have been speaking about life. Not just his, all of ours.

The overcome. The adversity. The ego and arrogance necessary to overcome adversity. The work pedigree that becomes the work ethos and ethics needed to render adversity irrelevant. The power of supreme belief.

It seemed as if those attributes existed in Jordan in a way they didn’t in anyone else. At least when it came to basketball. That “front row seat to greatness” with him literally took on a different meaning than the greatness that seemed to be coming from other athletes at that time. And it was like once he got there, to that level, once he’d slayed all in his way to that throne he created, he became more determined to defend and redefine the throne than he did trying to create it.

Dr. Todd Boyd, from Detroit, had a front row seat to see Jordan deal with, fight his way through and refuse to concede to that adversity. “MJ is the greatest player in NBA history, yet there is no greatness without adversity,” the Chair for the Study of Race and Popular Culture at USC’s School of Cinematic Arts said. “Like that OG Will Shakes (William Shakespeare) once said, ‘Sweet are the uses of adversity, which like the toad, ugly and venomous, wears yet a precious jewel in his head.’ Between ’88 and ’91, the Pistons and Bulls met in the Playoffs every year, with the Pistons winning three of those series. For three straight years the Pistons didn’t simply beat MJ, they whupped his ass! So, when Jordan said, ‘I have failed over and over and over again in my life, that is why I succeed,’ he was basically saying that he had ‘paid the cost to be the Boss.’ His legacy is now legend and his legend is Boss.”

So boss that even in an era of suffocating data analysis, sabermetrics, FiveThirtyEight, spacing and player-efficiency that frown so hard at the “isolation” form of basketball and so many other anal retentive theories that now gauge a player’s greatness on algorithms that weren’t in existence when Jordan played, none can find a way to diminish his eminence and effectiveness when he’s the exact type of “volume” player they are trying to convince future players to not be like.

But still the game searches and fiends for the next him desperately.

Earl Woods once went on a rant about the future greatness of his son: “Tiger will do more than any other man in history to change the course of humanity…More than any of them because he’s more charismatic, more educated, more prepared for this than anyone…He is the Chosen One. He’ll have the power to impact nations. Not people. Nations. The world is just getting a taste of his power.”

The question is, had Jordan never existed, never set a stage and platform that transcended so many areas of life, lifestyle and livelihood, would someone like Woods had ever felt that his son—an athlete, mind you—had the possibility to impact the world the way he felt his son had the potential to do?

The honest answer: Hell no.

So while we may all owe Michael Jordan money, Jordan owes Tiger Woods an apology for instilling in his father the belief that it was even possible for his son to reach that level.

“By midseason it became clear to me that it wasn’t competition per se that was driving the team; it was simply the joy of the game itself. This dance was ours, and the only team that could compete against us was ourselves.”

—Phil Jackson in Eleven Rings, about the ’95-96 Chicago Bulls.

I asked someone who’d know.

SCOOP JACKSON: If you all had to face that (’96) Bulls team? If you all had to play them?

ANDRE IGUODALA: We wouldn’t be able to do anything with MJ. Nobody would be able to guard him.

As we just saw Golden State put part of his legacy in the hyperbolic hype cycle during their historic 73-win regular season, what Iguodala—a member of the new “best ever”—said speaks as witness to just how peerless MJ literally was. Is.

If asked the same question, Jordan would have simply responded: “We wouldn’ta lost to OKC at home in the first game of the Conference Finals.” And left it at that. Said nothing more.

Which is the way he does things when it comes to leveraging his legacy and greatness against others. If asked about LeBron’s greatness and place in history next to his, Jordan’s response, to make you understand the question should have never been broached, would be: “I never lost in the Finals.” And left it at that.

It goes so deep that one time when talking to him about whose free-throw line dunk was more iconic, his or Julius Erving’s original, Jordan specifically distinguished the rating of his by first asking, “Do you know the difference between my dunk and his?” Then saying, “I dribbled the ball. He didn’t.” Cementing authenticity and basically letting me know that if he wanted to, he could do that shit in a game. Dr J couldn’t. Again, he left it at that.

And that is one of the eccentricities in Jordan that makes his heir so rare. He’s created this space over the course of 12 years (from the jump shot at UNC to win the National Championship to holding up three fingers while on the floor in his white “Three-Peat” cap outside the locker room, the Championship basketball still in hand) that evolved into an empyrean. And by the time he came back to the game to finish his career, the only thing left to do was make it impossible for that space to ever be invaded by anyone else.

Or as his one-time assistant coach/sensei Johnny Bach once said: “He’s a genius who constantly wants to upgrade his genius.”

The flipside circles around what he’s been able to do once the ball was no longer in his hands. In how over the years he has evolved and devolved. The “perfect” superstar we got sold on has taken hits. A public divorce, the failed Wizards experience, his initial run as GM of the Hornets, imperfection can do that. And to be acutely honest, he’s lost some of the cool that helped make him him. 

But on the other end of that superficial spectrum of how we judge people is the evolution of Jordan and Jordan Inc. as a business model and cultural inspiration of black and minority enterprise. Becoming one of only two members of the black American billionaires club (Oprah is the other) far exceeds the fact that diamond hoop earrings are no longer in fashion.

Outside of Roger Penske (Penske Racing, Penske Automotive, Penske Truck Rental) no American athlete has accomplished in retirement what MJ has, especially in such short time. It’s a damn shame Time has yet to honor him as one of their “100 Most Influential People” and The Atlantic failed to include him in their “100 Most Influential Figures in American History.”

This is the global and cultural weight of Jordan’s post-’95 life that cannot be overlooked when examining a life’s arch. As I wrote in a 2014 ESPN.com column on Jordan’s business influence: “Black Power means more than a t-shirt.”

Which doesn’t mean that a t-shirt with his image in the form of a logo on the front doesn’t indicate power. It does. More power and influence than this country will ever acknowledge “someone” like him ever having.

In Sam Smith’s book, There Is No Next: NBA Legends on the Legacy of Michael Jordan, Magic Johnson tells an insightful story that in some way gives a glimpse into who Jordan might really be, as well as giving some understanding to the power he holds.

“When I talked to him after I announced [having the HIV virus in 1991], I called him and he was right there. He was right there to write a check. He was the first one to write a check to the foundation and be a part of it. Embracing me at the 1992 All-Star Game and signaling it was OK to embrace those with the disease. Because it was his league. Everything was centered around Michael and what Michael thought, what Michael did. When he came over, that just relaxed everybody else. He opened the door for the world to accept. Not just those guys, but that was a worldwide thing because Michael Jordan was the biggest thing in the world.”

The question is legit: Is he still the “biggest thing in the world?” After watching the world’s reaction to the deaths of Michael Jackson, Whitney Houston, David Bowie and Prince, it’s not hard to think the world will have a similar, unconditional reaction to Jordan when his time ends. That’s the power of influence, of what certain people have been able to do with the gifts they’ve been given and how those gifts impact our daily lives. To most, there wasn’t and has not been a day that goes by without hearing something from the aforementioned above. With Jordan? It’s different. 

We see it and are reminded of him every time we watch a game. With every argument of is LeBron greater, with every mention of Curry’s transcending place in the game. With Kobe’s retiring. With someone else getting six rings, five MVPs and six Finals MVPs seeming like the single thing in basketball we will never see again. With AI and Shaq entering the Hall. As influential and larger-than-life as both are, they still wane in comparison. Subliminally—even without Mike being present or a part of their inductions—we are reminded of that.

Jordan is the benchmark other GOATs (Roger Federer, Tiger Woods, Serena Williams, Floyd Mayweather Jr, Michael Phelps, Usain Bolt, etc.) use as their thresholds. He remains in our daily lives. There is not a day where you don’t see someone in a pair of Js on the streets.

All day. All connected to him.

All extensions of the man. To the point that when his time does come, when his life’s run finds its end, he should just leave us with two words: “God’s out.”

—

Scoop Jackson is a senior writer for ESPN and author of the forthcoming book The Game Is Not A Game (Haymarket Books).

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