Dime Magazine Rudy Gay Feature: La Familia

Rudy Gay, Dime #25

*This feature can be found in the latest issue of Dime Magazine on newsstands now*

The man in the front passenger seat shifts his weight as we pull up, then starts talking again.

“I know exactly when it was,” Devin Ferguson says as he adjusts the fit of his hat. “I know exactly what he did…”

They were 11. It was a rec league game. The ball was drifting out of bounds outside of the three-point line. Rudy Gay caught up to it in the corner, cuffed it with his left hand, and threw it at the rim backwards. It went in as the shot clock buzzer sounded.

“I’ll never forget,” Devin says, chuckling. “It was me and this boy named Kenny Allen, and we was like ‘he going to the NBA’. I swear to God.”

Everyone steps out onto a couple of neighborhood basketball courts. A community center is to your left, and the ocean is so close you could throw a basketball into the water. Young kids are playing a casual game on one of the hoops, stopping every 20 seconds to look at us. Is that…? They seem to be asking themselves. There are shouts from the parking lot. People know he’s here. They see the cameras, the crew of people and that one really tall guy. But no one’s overbearing. This is his home. Earlier in the afternoon, we walked across a street towards Sollers Point Tech High School and people drove by as if this was nothing.

It's Some Dude's Birth Date…

So as of today, Michael Jordan is now 48 years old. Forget the indifferent arguments that he could still play today; the man is old. And he’s getting older. Creating some type of MJ tribute almost never works and that’s mostly because the man has been the focal point of an unimaginable amount of post tributes. I still remember watching the time leading up to his second retirement in 1998. As a slight showcase of how iconic he really is, we stopped school to watch his retirement. When SportsCenter brought those old “Jordan Moments” out, I was there leading the 6th grade class in a unified homage. I still have the tapes.

But sooner or later, he will reach a point – if he hasn’t already – where he no longer resembles what we want him to. For now, we will continue to look back in the past at the expense of the future. Normally, running with such talk is stupid. But since today is February 17 and since today is another born day for the Greatest Athlete of All-Time, I will allow it.

Lets head back to Sports Illustrated – I’m sorry about the redundancy – to bring a nice story on His Airness from the fabulous Frank Deford…

Even allowing that we might overstate the point, it is not uncommon for the most memorable of our athletes to reflect their times. Certainly, the Babe was at one with the Roaring Twenties, just as Jackie Robinson perfectly represented the grand societal advances of the postwar years, and as Ali and Billie Jean so symbolized the turmoil of their period. Likewise, Michael Jordan is not merely so extraordinary for what he does. He also has been the right, best athlete for us now, for this relatively serene and altogether prosperous fin de si�cle, when the United States rules alone, as much superculture as superpower.

Read the entirety of the story here…

Follow Sean on Twitter at @SEANesweeney

Paul Pierce in Three Weeks

**Check out my piece on the Truth in the new issue of Dime Magazine (on newsstands now)**

It’s a little after lunchtime on the first Saturday in December, just a few weeks since your last visit to New York City when you get the email. It’s from Austin Burton, associate editor of Dime Magazine, and fanatical lover of Seattle sports. Paul Pierce. Can you do it? Three weeks…

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Paul Pierce? The guy who is perennially misunderstood and hated, the guy you never really liked. Detested. And now you have to tell why. And it’s hard as hell.

So you read some stories on the man, try to find an edge. There was the piece by S.L. Price in Sports Illustrated that painted Pierce as some type of wandering loner. Where is my father? He’s gone. Will I ever see or meet him? Do you really want to? Then there was the New York Times story from Billy Witz where Pierce as the teenager was compared to Pierce the superstar, the same way you did: Laker at heart turned Celtic soul.

Then you glance up. You find yourself standing amiably at a L-shaped red carpet special at the Foxwoods Resort Casino in Connecticut, feeling oddly out of place. Off to the side is a mashup of Kevin Youkilis, Anthony Anderson, Akrobat. Boston royalty. And the women. Oh, man…

“It’s Marquis Daniels,” someone lets out. Daniels comes strolling through, examined by the 20 or so cameras leaning nervously out over the railing. He gives one or two sly smiles, half asleep and annoyed.

The hum grows louder, the crowd at the edge of the carpet larger. The Truth walks in, smiling. Reporters with tiny digital cameras and pen and pads mass together. Pierce is used to it; he flows while they sputter. He has on a blue button-up shirt, with black khaki pants and is wearing some bowling shoes. Casual Friday. We are here for his celebrity bowling tournament: the Truth Fund fundraiser for child obesity. All night long, you see Pierce in his element, no facade, joking with Kevin Garnett, the both of them laughing at Big Baby, rolling spares and strikes and ugly zeroes and sipping on a few drinks and stopping at least twice a minute. Paul? Paul! Can we get a picture with you? Animated, they just keep pouring in. So-called friends, friends of friends, people who know people. Can y’all just leave us alone? Give me some space! Even you have to say it.

Less than forty-eight hours later and you’re in Boston. It’s cold but your inside. You’re at a game against the Pacers, but pretty sure you won’t get much out of Pierce. Too routine, everything is. Cliche. The players, if they talk at all, are there to get in and out. Once the job is done, get home.

Plus, you’ve covered games before. But this is the Celtics. You don’t want to look like a first-timer, but this isn’t Indiana or New Jersey or New York or Philadelphia or Washington. This is the Boston Celtics, they of nearly 50 All-Star appearances, of 17 banners, where Shaq‘s locker shoulders Ray Allen‘s, and his sits right next to Pierce’s. You walk around the arena and you are surrounded by jewelry, NBA-style. It’s enough to make you say, “What the Hell am I actually doing? I have to walk up to these people and start a conversation with them?” Nevermined the fact that conversation never was something you openly courted.

Upon turning the corner and slipping into the Boston locker room, you are almost knocked over by Shaquille O’Neal. He gives you a look and keeps walking, right towards the training room to camp out until the 45 minute mark before tip, when the pre-game media time is expired. After that, not much else to see. There’s Marquis Daniels again, again not feeling all too well about any attention. Slinked back in a chair, eyes staring straight ahead, his headphones are cutting out everyone around him.

Across the room, a group of about six reporters are gathered around Ray Allen, inquiring about the upcoming Christmas day matchup with Orlando. Allen, for his part, is answering professionally as always, but clearly zoned out. Someone mentions Brett Favre. You meander over and pick up Allen’s voice mid-sentence, “…you look up and you have 20 years. You are looking at Brett Favre and him having the ability physical and mentally to do it and be prepared to do it…” Eventually, as you make your way from Allen’s left to his right, and as most of the Boston reporters move on, you stick out your recorder.

“Ray, talk a little bit about how you and Pierce have been able to stay at an All-Star level all of these years. It’s been so long and yet the essence of your game is still pretty much the same…”

The willowy, 6-5 vet takes in the air of the question, probably wondering did you just call me old? and starts to answer…except halfway through he directs a young Boston employee across the locker room to rewind that play of a tape of Indiana that is playing on a flatscreen directly above a whiteboard. You guess that’s answer enough.

The talk with Doc Rivers doesn’t do a whole lot of good either. All of the beat reporters want to talk about Orlando’s big trade, doing their best to get a soundbite for the upcoming Christmas day game. They do; Doc tells them “We just have to throw away our scouting reports. It sucks.”

During the game, seated in the third row of the media section just above and to the right of the players’ tunnel, you can feel the love. It’s different than most arenas. At the same time, most arenas don’t consider the dance team to be an abomination. The game isn’t a spectacle here. It is the spectacle.

Pierce must feel it too. His weary joints look extra juiced tonight. A steal and a fast-break layup there and an in-and-out to reverse here. The same guy you couldn’t find pre-game is completely in the zone. At peace.

Afterwards, someone asked Shaq if Roy Hibbert and his 17 points and 14 rebounds impressed him. “I’m not impressed,” he tells them.” “Not impressed at all. The only person who impresses me is Blake Griffin.” Cautious laughs trail as he reminds everyone that we know how he is. He repeats it three or four times, then suddenly stops, his vision focused on a reporter standing just to your left.

“But, I don’t know you,” he tells her. Laughs.

Eventually, finally, Pierce greets the media, everyone having stayed around to talk to the man who put together an 18-point, 12-rebound and 10-assist triple double. It’s a professional affair and Pierce is robotic in responding, the crowd mechanical in their laughs and hushes. Then a noise breaks it up.

It’s so loud and bubbly that you can still hear it on the tape as you play that back three nights later, so funny that you call your sister over, “Wanna hear Big Baby fart?”

Two days later, you come back again to watch the Celtics and Sixers. You need more. Walking around, looking for Pierce,  you can’t find him so you resort to talking to Doug Collins or Davis or Nate Robinson. Anyone, but Pierce. Finally, after a muddy game, full of turnovers and ugly offense, you get a shot at Pierce. It’s a larger press conference, and he ambles in to sit next to Kevin Garnett, in front of 15 or so media members. Both stare at the floor.

“It got frustrating. I got a technical. I know I was frustrated tonight.”

“Nothing was going our way, nothing was going my way…one of the more frustrating games that I’ve had in a long time.”

With nearly just that, he exits to the showers and then into the frozen Boston night and then back home. You do the same.

So after all of that you sit down and write, attempting to do the impossible. How can you accurately paint a picture of someone who you don’t really know? Who no one really knows?

Three weeks and all you have is 1,821 words to define the Truth. Really, you’re lucky to even have that.

Follow Sean on Twitter at @SEANesweeney

Tyreke Evans is the Manchurian Candidate

*Featured in Dime #61, currently on newsstands*

In case you missed it, here is a feature piece in it’s entirety that I wrote on Tyreke Evans for Dime, issue 61 (released earlier this winter). While his second second has not yielded great results or come close to expectations thus far, it still remains to be seen where Evans’ career is headed…

NBA Rookie of the Year. Franchise centerpiece. An unmovable place in history alongside Jordan, Oscar and LeBron. Tyreke Evans was made for this. The 21-year-old Sacramento King is on a course to take over the basketball world, a goal that was in his sights before he even knew it.

——————–

It was all mapped out. All of this. Whether it was written down or not isn’t exactly the point. The point is that it’s happening. As we speak.

The way this world works, hardly anything can ever be called a certainty. That’s especially true when looking far into the future; this helps to make assurances in sports even trickier. We are continuously searching for what’s next, and that’s part of the reason why guarantees are hardly ever guaranteed.

Once in a while, though, things just work out as planned.

There’s a mural of Tyreke Evans in downtown Sacramento, Calif., near where the American and Sacramento Rivers meet, in a city so small by industry standards that its tomato farming is famous. The size of the city makes the mural seem much larger than its reported 10-story height and 65-foot width.

When we think big, as in, “Let’s build this middle-schooler up to be one of the baddest, most ruthless dudes out there,” this is what we get. We get Tyreke Evans.

The blueprint you may know was made in 2001. This one technically began two years later. But its roots stretch much deeper than that.

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Those roots bore fruits in the form of an NBA rookie season so miraculous, so good, that the only comparable names are LeBron James, Michael Jordan and Oscar Robertson. Evans, the No. 4 pick in the 2009 NBA Draft, joined them last year as the only rookies ever to average at least 20 points, five rebounds and five assists in a season. Along the way he dropped a career-high 34 points on the League’s No. 1 defense in Charlotte, outscored the Bulls by himself (11-10) in the fourth quarter of a monumental 35-point comeback win, and went off for 26 points to win MVP of the Rookie Challenge. After beating out Brandon Jennings and Stephen Curry for Rookie of the Year, Evans earned an invitation to Team USA training camp in July.

His impact was instant. The kid destined to become perhaps the best player in Sacramento Kings franchise history since Robertson seems intent on proving to everyone his climb to fame will be, or has been, quicker than anyone could’ve expected.

*** *** ***

For years, Sacramento was a lowlight on the NBA schedule. When the franchise first moved from Kansas City to California during the mid-1980s, teams were shocked to find no downtown hotels, and nary a place to eat. Chris Webber, the player whom arguably holds the best-since-Oscar crown Evans is chasing, famously cried on an airplane when he first laid eyes on Sacramento after he’d been traded to the Kings. While it sits at the northern tip of California’s Central Valley and is littered with recreational activities, Sacramento’s only real prominence came from their state government headquarters.

Unsurprisingly, the team struggled. After a playoff visit in 1986, they didn’t return for a decade.

But while the city was never as electrifying as Miami or rich in opportunity like Los Angeles, even though the team was not always competitive, the fans always stuck around. Even before their renaissance at the turn of the century during the Webber era, Sacramento had quietly pocketed 450 sellouts. The Sacramento Bee’s Ailene Voisin, a longtime sports columnist in the area, says that’s because the Kings are the only major professional sports team around.

“The Kings are the sports team that matters,” says Voisin. “And people here love Tyreke.”

For Evans, so soft-spoken that Voisin says she often can’t hear him during interviews, it was the perfect city to begin his long-awaited career.

Since middle school, the introverted Evans had hopped from gym to gym, a basketball prodigy bent on putting in the work to find stardom, not leaving anything to chance. His basketball cocoon didn’t allow for that. Swarthmore College. St. Joe’s. Villanova. Every single day.

While Evans’ hometown, Chester, Pa., doesn’t boast the same basketball pedigree as Philadelphia, a big brother that sits just 13 miles away, it did offer him all the testing he needed. NBA All-Star point guard Jameer Nelson is a Chester native, and teenaged Tyreke more than held his own in their head-to-head matchups that have become part of the city’s mythology.

Evans’ first real introduction to the tornado of moneymaking hoops was after his sophomore year of high school. Dime gave the 16-year-old prodigy his first national cover story, aptly titled it “The Phenom,” and shot photos of him in his home city. During photo shoot breaks, Evans would drift over to neighboring courts, taking in some pickup games. When the group moved to a gym, he couldn’t help but launch moon-shot threes from almost half-court.

Even at that age, Evans knew what brought him into the camera’s focus in the first place: the game.

“(His teammates) know that he is about winning and not about being famous,” says Kings head coach Paul Westphal. “A lot of young guys come into the League with the wrong idea, that it’s about how much money you can make and how famous you can get. But Tyreke understands that if you are good enough then you will get all of those other things and then some.”

“The first time I saw him in person, I was just blown away because he handled himself as if he knew that he could get the job done,” Westphal says about a pre-Draft workout last summer at the Kings’ practice facility. “It wasn’t in a cocky way. It was just dripping off him that he knew what he could do. And it was a lot.”

Last season, Evans was so devastating that Kobe Bryant called the first-year player a “grown-ass man.” Sacramento assistant coach and former NBA guard Mario Elie told the Bee, “I’ve never seen a point guard like him.”

“He’s got game, man,” says the Nets’ Anthony Morrow. “He can get to the basket as well as anyone in the League and he’s proven he’s clutch and a franchise player. He’ll be a superstar.”

Even the infamous rookie wall couldn’t slice up Evans’ wave of momentum. He remained deadly consistent after the All-Star break, averaging 19.8 points while increasing his rebounding and assist numbers.

“This is years and years of training,” says Evans’ longtime personal trainer, Lamont Peterson. “If you go back to the beginning … all of that was the foundation upon last season. So you are looking at a body of work of six or seven years. He’s been on his grind every day since he decided that he wanted to be a pro.”

Evans’ older brother, Reggie, started Team Tyreke, a unique and organized support system that includes two other brothers, Doc and Eric (a.k.a. Pooh), Peterson, Tyreke’s best friend Dwayne Davis, and his cousin, Temetrius. Everyone in the group has specific duties — from managing Tyreke’s schedule to tracking business and endorsements to simple day-to-day tasks — and all work to help Evans stay focused.

“It means a lot,” says Evans about his inner circle. “These are people who really care.”

Almost every night last season he delivered on the court, and showed he could lead in more ways than one. In December against the Wizards, he iced the win after stripping three-time All-Star Gilbert Arenas on the game’s final possession. Then, twice in the next month, Evans hit game-winners in the lane during the final second to beat Milwaukee and Denver.

“A lot of guys have confidence and they can’t back it up,” says Westphal. “More than anything, his confidence is based in reality. He knows he is capable of doing these things. He’s not a dreamer.”

The focus this summer was improving a perimeter game that limited Evans last season to 74 percent shooting from the free throw line while making only 25 percent of his threes. It’s the one eyesore of his arsenal, an aspect that was always an afterthought because of Evans’ effortless slashing ability.

“He can attack the basket using his strength and is one of the best ball-handling guards in the League,” says Houston forward Jordan Hill, one of Evans’ 2009 draft classmates. “Once he finds that jump shot, he is definitely going to be a problem.”

With nearly a seven-foot wingspan and a frame built to absorb anything from a hip check by Ron Artest to a Ben Wallace forearm, even Westphal admits, “Why develop an outside shot?”

“People forget Michael Jordan shot 17 percent from the three his rookie year,” says Kings announcer Jerry Reynolds. “Last time I checked, he turned out to be pretty good.”

“That’s the build of a shooting guard,” adds Minnesota second-year point guard Jonny Flynn. “He has that mentality to get to the rim. You know how crafty he is with the basketball getting to the rim, then being able to finish with contact and around people.”

So Evans spent his offseason going through daily drills in Sacramento with assistant coaches Elie and Shareef Abdur-Rahim, and in L.A. with renowned basketball trainer Rob McClanaghan.

“You definitely get tired of it because it’s hard work, but it pays off at the end of the day,” says Evans. “When the game comes, you are comfortable with what you are doing, you feel comfortable.”

And when that part of his game improves, people in the organization are throwing around a new word for Evans’ game: “un-guardable.”

For most of the world’s best athletes, it takes years under the spotlight before their celebrity grows large enough to gnaw at them. Evans, just 21 years old, has already encountered a preview of the industry’s wrath. After a reckless driving charge for speeding at over 130 miles per hour on California’s Interstate 80 this summer, Sacramento Bee columns demanded the Kings stop babying him and hold him accountable. Fans commenting on the police video recording posted on YouTube asked Evans to “shape up,” while calling him “disrespectful” and even a “ghetto wild child.”

“The media and the business can eat you alive,” declares Peterson.

With stardom comes celebrity, and with that comes a transition. For notoriety really is, forgive the cliché, a double-edged sword.

“That’s why I try to surround myself with people who care about me and help me on the court and off the court,” says Evans. “There are a lot of people out here who really just want to be around you because you are in the NBA.”

Evans apologized for the speeding incident this summer and is completing his punishment: a one-game suspension from the NBA, a fine, 80 hours of community service and a suspended license. Plus, at the end of the day, he will have to answer to Team Tyreke.

Says Reynolds of Evans’ supporters: “They are more than willing to step in and tell him where he is wrong and not just kiss his rear end.”

*** *** ***

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As Evans matures, so too should the Kings. With the arrival of rookie center DeMarcus Cousins, the No. 5 pick in the 2010 Draft, along with the continued improvement of the rest of the team’s young roster, expectations are there for Sacramento to make the leap to sleeper status this year. Still, that all starts and ends with Evans.

“It boggles my mind when you think, ‘OK, here’s a guy who played one year in college and one year in the pros,’” says Westphal. “He should be a junior in college and soon people are either going to be praising him or criticizing him based on wins when he (just turned) 21 years old.”

With expectations swelling once again in Sacramento, it’s on Evans — just four short years removed from his introduction to America — to continue to improve, on and off the court. The Kings certainly expect it.

No higher praise comes than that from Reynolds, who has served as a coach, front-office executive and broadcaster for the Kings for more than a quarter-century after the team moved from Kansas City to Sacramento.

“I really would almost be surprised,” Reynolds says, “if he doesn’t turn out to be the very best basketball player to ever play for the Kings in Sacramento.”

*** *** ***

Although Tyreke has technically made it, there is so much more to do. There will continue to be 30-point games to play, All-Star rosters to make and entire DVDs worth of no-he-didn’t moves to pocket — for 20-5-5 is not a conclusion to anything. Evans wouldn’t call it a beginning either. His current status exists somewhere in between.

“It’s funny how things happen for a reason,” says Peterson. “He had to be here to get Rookie of the Year. That had to happen in Sacramento. It had to be here for this all to happen.”

All of this, perhaps, was part of a great master plan, one that has been shaped, coddled, scraped together and secured since Evans was 14 years old. The weight room work to build a body equipped to never need a night off, the positioning within a quiet city, shielding the quiet kid from the trappings of youth, and yes, maybe even that “other stuff” is now being used to teach what it means to be a celebrity.

“I love the game so much,” says Evans. “I watched it a lot growing up and always wanted to get the chance to play in the NBA. So now, it’s my time.”

Evans’ goals — championships, league MVP trophies and two maximum-salary contracts — deal only with the ball, a hoop and what Evans can do with them. Anything else is secondary. He is a basketball player to the core.

“This league has a way of distracting a person, but I don’t see signs of Tyreke being distractible,” says Westphal. “At the same time, he is human and he has to watch out for that.”

There will be no more free passes. Evans will hear criticism, loud and direct — “Last year, it didn’t matter if we beat the Lakers or not; this year it is going to matter,” says Peterson — if his individual excellence doesn’t soon yield wins.

Harsh, but isn’t this what every little kid wants? It’s repeated often: to those that much is given, much will be expected. In order to reach his goals, it’s something Evans must soon expect and accept.

He may never attain the galvanizing influence, or presence, of Magic Johnson, or the global appeal of an Air Jordan. But that’s not Evans’ concern. Never has been.

“I just want to be known as a good basketball player who is exciting to watch,” says Evans. “That’s pretty much it.”

Refreshing.

Follow Sean on Twitter at @SEANesweeney

Monta Ellis Has Big Balls

Follow Winton on Twitter at @thewintonian10

Best Picture of the Year

When we saw this photo of former NBA lottery pick Rafael Araujo breaking a backboard, we knew we had to give it some love. This might be the wildest basketball photo we’ve ever seen…

Courtesy of Blog da Redacao

Blog da Redacao

Follow Sean on Twitter at @SEANesweeney

Brandon Roy: The Cruel Hand of God

He’s listening. For someone in this position, there really isn’t much else he can do. Okay…yes, I understand. Holding the phone up against the side of his face, the kid is pacing back and forth across the living room. There is a damp fireplace off to one side and an olive-colored couch on the other. God, no. Pleaseeee…no. Why is this always happening? What do I have to do… The boy doesn’t say it. He’s not saying much at all. But he’s thinking it, that 21-year old brain working overtime.

A 1998 Ford Ranger whizzes by outside, but the kid doesn’t hear anything. Whoosh. It’s August 4 and Salem is overloaded with last-minute vacationers. Yet, he hears nothing. Except a voice. That damn, condescending voice coming through the speaker on his phone and smashing against his temple. Umm, I’m not really sure. When will I be ready again? The despair is taped all over his face, from the wrinkles in his brow to the vibrating creases around his eyes. He’s mulling it over and contemplating, calculating equations in his head that are 20 times as difficult as 10 times four.

He sighs. Don’t do it!

He starts talking. Noo… you’re gonna regret this.

The words just start falling out.

Okay, lets do it…Lets just get this surgery over with…

Your career as you know it, it’s over. Forget a timetable, it’s time for you and the fans and the organization and your teammates to move on. That’s what the doctors are telling Brandon Roy. As the world races into the future, in a sprint against, or with depending on what philosophy you prescribe to, technology, and diseases seem to gain fervor just as they lose steam, our earth crumbling while our science skyrockets, God comes down out of his all-encompassing temple of sky to remind us all why we are here.

Are we being punished? Are the sins of the guilty being thrown on the innocent as a means of slowing the ugly, desolate cruelty and greed that is engulfing us all? Brandon Roy is no evil person. In fact, if you listen to those around him, those that work with him, he’s a beautiful human being.

But now he’s going to get both of his knees operated on. Arthroscopic surgery is not a deal-breaker. But without any cartilage left in his knees, it makes for a pretty iffy comeback. There will be nights when he just can’t press off the knee without feeling like someone is driving a chainsaw through it. Roy will still put up the occasional high-scoring game, but in a league of back-to-backs and in a culture of right now, the northwest icon is going to face pressure from everyone. Sit out a day, a week, or even a month and there will be questions. The problem for Roy is that he’s dealing with a nasty twist of fate that can’t be seen or measured. It’s an unseen evil, a monster that can be neither tamed or discovered. It’ll eat away at his existence and for all you know, he will be smiling on the outside. Roy will still be able to walk around, move and laugh. Life will still be pulsing. But playing at an all-star level for 82 nights a year, pounding away at the joints for 30 minutes a night?

Nothing is permanent. Everyone in the Blazers organization wants everyone outside of the organization to believe that. Except they are forgetting something. Cartilage is permanent. For Portland, this is the start of a new beginning. Roy must fight until he cant move anymore and the pain from that knee shrieks up his leg, through his abdominals and into his arm, splashing and slicing through his veins and driving itself all the way up to his brain, shocking him into another element. The possibility of recovery is never dead. But it’s close, and charging with nostrils flared and ears standing erect. Or perhaps, just maybe we are all undervaluing Brandon Roy’s heart. Maybe his heart is healthy enough to overcome even the grandest of evils that the sky launches down at him.

Pleaaase God…help me…I’m beggin’…

The boy eventually did get that surgery, allowing for the doctors to split open and dig into his right kneecap. They pulled out what was dead and listless and sewed up what was left over. They all lifted the paper masks up over their mouths and told the boy it would be a few months before he could play basketball again. A few months? That’s okay. You mean like October? It was August 4. If it’s only October, that’s fine. I can manage that because as long as the pain is gone, I will be happy…Finally. Well, October came and went. In fact, the whole of fall and winter came and went before he was back playing again. His entire season was lost. The doctors must’ve sewn all that up as well, and thrown it back in there behind the patellar tendon.

He eventually returned. But he came back with something missing. What he forgot wasn’t really physical. The mentality, that all he had was indestructible and that when he stepped onto the court, life and time paused, that mentality was gone. It was a new day.

Maybe it’s not over for Brandon Roy. Life definitely isn’t over for him, but what if his career can somehow be resurrected? That would be phenomenal. But in reality, it’s a stretch.

-Follow Sean on Twitter at @SEANesweeney

Amar'e and the "Bittersweet" Return

This past off-season, most of us probably thought that Amar’e Stoudemire leaving the Phoenix Suns and signing that mega five-year, $100 million deal with the underachieving New York Knicks would inevitably be perceived as an “epic fail” moment.

The Knicks are actually winning games and looking like an NBA team, for once. They are the sixth seed in the Eastern Conference and have a 21-14 record. Stoudemire, an early MVP candidate, is second in the league in scoring at 26.3 ppg.

Last night, Stoudemire continued his dominance with 23 points and nine rebounds in the Knicks 121-96 stomp out of his former running mates Steve Nash and the Suns.

Could this be a sign of things to come for the Knicks? Or are we getting ahead of ourselves?

Follow Winton Brown on Twitter @thewintonian10

The Archives: Mama's Boys

What once was.

You feel old? I do. Sports can do that to you; it’s like one morning you wake up and everything you grew up with is old, aging or just plain forgotten. Call me obsessed. I seem to talk about this stuff a lot. But life would be worth nothing if it meant forgetting the past.

This morning, Philadelphia Magazine posted one of the more jarring and intimate looks into what it means to be a “has-been.” In this case, the subject is Allen Iverson. Written by Robert Huber, it’s one of the more honest evaluations of the once mighty star turned fallen victim:

Does Allen Iverson have a prayer of making it here? People who know him in America, or think they do, seem to find the idea laughable. How do you go from practically living in casinos and drinking heavily to Istanbul?

“I’m not like I was when I was in Philly,” Iverson says, “when I was 21. I didn’t have five kids. I didn’t have the responsibilities I have now.”

His old teammate Eric Snow tells me he knows Iverson wants to get back to the NBA. But Iverson says no. He’s done that, had his career there. He’s in a new place now, a city and country that have embraced him. There are millions more fans out there, all over Europe, that he can play for. And that’s what he intends to do, because the truth is, Allen Iverson has nowhere else to go.

Gerard Rancinan/Sports Illustrated

This was so fantastic, it reminded me. Flashbacks.

Predictably, the greatest story ever told on the Answer was written around the peak of his powers (2001) by a guy named Gary Smith, who just so happens to be called the greatest sportswriter on the planet. With varying reports coming back from Turkey, some saying Iverson can’t fit in and that the team is disappointed in his play and others offering up rays of light for an adventure that was supposedly destined to fail, this is as good a time as any to dig back into the Archives for a look by Sports Illustrated at the women in both Allen Iverson and Larry Brown’s lives…

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Two women waited in a tunnel, outside a door. Light danced off the diamonds dangling from the black one, and a red rose jiggled in her hand. She was 39. She couldn’t stand still. The white one stood by the wall, unornamented, holding her 92 years and her silence.

The door began to open and close. The younger one sang out greetings to the tall men coming out. Both women’s eyes stayed fixed on the door. At last the two shortest men of all exited the locker room. One wore the tailored suit, short gray hair and wire-rimmed spectacles of a tenured professor. The other’s hair was stitched in cornrows, his skin covered with baggy clothes and tattoos. It was unusual that they walked out together. They had always been so far apart.

“That’s my boy!” cried the younger woman. “My baby won the game!”

“That’s my boy,” the older woman said quietly. “He coached the game.”

The women turned to face each other for the first time. “What’s your name?” said the younger one.

“I’m Ann,” said the older one. “I’m Larry Brown’s mother.”

“Oh my God! My name’s Ann too!” hollered the younger woman. “I’m Allen Iverson’s mother!”

Read the rest of the story here…

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The Castaway

Funny, that he couldn’t see it coming. In the back seat of a black car during a day forever pasted in his mind, but still the brand of the car he came home in is a forever blur. Cars never mattered to him. He could care less, ‘less the thing couldn’t get him to the sanctuary, freeze up in December or flame out in June.

“You sure you don’t need to stop?” To the backseat, again someone asks. For some reason, the front seat is open, the fourth-grader content to stare straight into the back of a cushion.

“It’s fine if you have to stop…” It would’ve been fine to stop the ride home…if the fourth-grader could’ve seen it coming. No signs. Nothing. The rest of the day had been a revelation, one of those things someone never forgets.

Finally, it all came spilling out, all over the backseat of that black car, on the floor, on the back of the driver’s seat, along the ridge in-between the right and left side of the cushions, an upset stomach upset by what the boy witnessed earlier in the day, something he would never forget. A life-changer…

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Initials reaction were mixed, combining both shock and hilarity. The story is not really a precautionary tale, but in a way, it is. It’s not really a comedic one either, but the picture and circumstances surrounding the event are almost always met with a laugh once knowledge is feigned.

Sport Grind Entertainment

In his first game in China with his new team, the Beijing Ducks, Steve Francis was thrown into the game for the final few minutes…with ice packs still sitting on his ankles. That’s not an exaggeration; it actually happened. He was given no warning about his participation that night, other than what his head coach Min Lulei said before the game, which was essentially, no, Francis will not play tonight. Instead, with the fans screams swimming down his spine to put in the once Houston Rocket megastar, Min folded and did so. For 17 seconds.

This is not a post meant to condone Steve Francis’ theatrics as a NBA player. He was a three-time All-Star and one of the leaders of the post-generation Jordan era, the most explosive and exciting point guard anyone had ever seen. But, Francis was also known as a ball-stopper, his playground style meshing with wins like LeBron meshes with humble.

An old, worn-out gymnasium once housed Francis’ theatrics. Deep in the heart of Western Maryland, barely a blip on the compass, let alone the basketball map, Francis destroyed people in awkward obscurity. Even during the summer of his pilgrimage to Maryland and Gary Williams, he was a nobody, his incredible hoop feats foreign to even those living within the communities surrounding Allegany Community College.

On the morning before he would head off to College Park and later the NBA and worldwide fame, in a small camp being run by his former community college coaches with perhaps 25 kids, Steve Francis showed up. He was only there for maybe 20 minutes, but it didn’t matter. Francis gave the camp one of the most ridiculous dunk exhibitions I’ve ever seen: windmills without even warming up, jumping from the foul-line, jumping from so far out of bounds that it really looked like he was gliding.

From there, he went on to average 17 points, 4.5 assists and almost three steals a game in his one season with Maryland, a year that also netted the Terrapins a trip to the Sweet 16 and Francis an All-ACC First Team selection. Life was good.

It got even better that summer when he was taken number two overall and then traded to Houston. His coach there, Rudy Tomjanovich, was in the process of turning the team upside down, from one that had failed to win a championship with Hakeem Olajuwan, Charles Barkley and Clyde Drexler to one of excitement and youth.

Francis was the man. He could do no wrong, take whatever shot he wanted and generally made SportsCenter every single night. That was his time.

But more recently, the Chinese Basketball Association issued Francis a “serious warning” because of a hand gesture he made during a recent game. The CBA ordered the Ducks to “educate and criticize” Francis for his “uncivilized behavior.” Apparently, Francis was waving the middle finger around as he sulked and took up roots at the end of the bench during the Ducks game against the Guangdong Tigers last Sunday.

And yesterday after just two weeks with the team, Francis was released.

He was a larger-than-life figure, someone so spectacular that those campers in attendance probably thought he could jump higher than Jordan, sing better than Jackson or lead better than Clinton.

It’s always interesting to dive into the psyche of NBA players, especially the veteran ones. It’s a study in what makes a person tick, the difference between those that try and succeed and those that don’t. The difference between fame and obscurity.

Why has Tracy McGrady gone from perhaps the best player in the game to a bit player on a horrible team in just a few short years? Why did Allen Iverson fall off the basketball map so quickly, and so hard, that he ended up in Turkey, playing for a team that doesn’t really know how to use him and in a culture that doesn’t know what to make of him?And most importantly, what really happened to Steve Francis? Injuries? Ego? The hands of time? Cuttino Mobley?

The real meaning behind IcePackGate isn’t the chuckling or even the update into Francis’ professional career, at least what’s left of it.

It’s a reminder to take advantage of the opportunities given to you. Francis didn’t always do that, didn’t always truly believe in the power behind the exterior of his talent. Now, he’s become what his talent should’ve never allowed: a loser. Obscurity.

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That fourth-grader was me and that throw-up was mine. Thirty minutes after watching Steve Francis dunk and jump and do obscene things with a basketball and my life was different. His impact was so strong, I couldn’t hold it in, had to let it all come shoveling out of me.

Impact can be ironic. Why did it all happen like this? The point? How does someone rise so quickly only to fall off even quicker? The irony in that day’s impact still hits me every day. It doesn’t matter that he’s become a near caricature of himself. All that matters, at least to me, is that he happened.

Follow Sean on Twitter at @SEANesweeney