The Book of Basketball (87 page)

So why didn’t he reach similar heights in the NBA? Because the league was so much more talented and tumultuous—that postmerger stretch from ’77 to ’79 was a mess of transactions, drugs and contrasting styles.
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Because coaching and defensive plans became more elaborate, with every quality team making Doc shoot 20-footers and fouling him on any potential dunk. Because Doc played the NBA’s most stacked position (small forward) and dealt with a steady stream of Walter Davis, Bernard King, Dantley, Dandridge, Havlicek, Barry, Wilkes, Kenon, Bobby Jones, Bird, Dominique (note: this list keeps going and going) every night for the next decade. Because his knees were slightly shot from riding coach and playing on bad floors for five grueling ABA years. Because more and more players started doing the same superathletic things. It’s not like he was a bust or anything—he led the Sixers to four Finals and a title, averaged a 30–7–5 in the ’77 Finals, averaged a 26–7–5 in the ’80 Finals, won the ’81 MVP (debunked in the MVP chapter, but still), made five first-team All-NBA’s, remained the league’s biggest draw and submitted four iconic plays (the “ Rock-a-baby” dunk over Michael Cooper in 1983, the tomahawk dunk over Walton in the ’77 Finals, a vicious slam over Kareem in the ’77 All-Star Game, and the swooping behind-the-basket finger roll over Kareem in the ’80 Finals). Just the NBA portion of his career easily propels him into the Hall of Fame. For
all-time purposes, the length of Doc’s career also sets him apart: sixteen seasons, all good/excellent/superior to varying degrees with remarkable durability,
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and even when he faded a little near the end, he never disgraced himself like so many others.

How do we translate Doc to modern times when his old-school style couldn’t totally succeed now? He couldn’t post anyone up unless it was a guard. He couldn’t consistently drain 18-foot jumpers, much less threes. During the ’81 playoffs, Boston’s Bill Fitch threw bigger forwards on him (usually McHale or Maxwell), had them play five feet off, then angled him toward the shot blockers in the middle (keeping him away from the baseline). For the most part, it worked. That was Doc’s fatal flaw: he couldn’t totally make teams pay for playing off him. (When Jordan entered the league, Doc’s good friend Peter Vecsey was touting MJ’s praises to an unimpressed Erving and finally yelped, “Julius, you don’t understand, he’s you with a jump shot!”) As the years pass, I’m sure people will pick Doc’s resume apart with everything mentioned in the first paragraph, his star will fade, and that will be that. All I can tell you is this: I was there. I was young, but I was there. And Julius Erving remains one of the most gripping, terrifying, and unforgettable players I have ever seen in person. If he was filling the lane on a break, your blood raced. If he was charging toward a center and cocking the ball above his head, your heart pounded. Over everything else, I will remember his hands—his gigantic, freak-show, Freddy Krueger fingers—and how he palmed basketballs like softballs. One signature Doc play never got enough acclaim: the Sixers would clear out for him on the left side, with Doc’s defender playing five feet off and forcing him to the middle as always, only every once in a while, Doc would take the bait, dribble into the paint like he was setting up a baby hook or something … and then, before you could blink, he’d explode toward the rim, grow Plastic Man arms and spin the ball (again, which he was holding like a softball) off the backboard and in with some absurd
angle. He did it easily and beautifully, like a sudden gust of 110 mph wind, like nothing you have ever seen. His opponents would shake their heads in disbelief. The fans would make one of those incredulous moans, followed by five seconds of “Did you just see that?” murmurs. And Doc would jog back up the court like nothing ever happened, classy as always, just another two points for him.

I will never forget watching Julius Erving play basketball. Ever.

15. KOBE BRYANT

Resume: 13 years, 12 quality, 12 All-Stars … Finals MVP (’09) … Top 5 (’02, ’03, ’04, ’06, ’07, ’08, ’09), Top 10 (’00, ’01), Top 15 (’99, ’05) … MVP: ’08 … Simmons MVP: ’06 … All-Star MVP (’02, ’07, ’09) … All-Defense (8x, six 1st) … scoring leader (2x) … 2nd-most points, one game (81) … best player on 1 champ (’09 Lakers) 2nd-best player on 3 champs (’00, ’01, ’02), best player on runner-up (’04) … 2-year peak: 33–6–5 … ’01 Playoffs: 29–7–6, 47% FG (16 G) … ’08 + ’09 Playoffs: 30–6–6, 47% FG (44 G) … 20K Point Club … career: 25–5–5

Question: What movie best captured the secret of basketball?

You answered
Hoosiers
without blinking. Don’t lie. I know you did. And sure, that movie taught us about teamwork, fundamentals and the human spirit, as well as underrated lessons like “Don’t tell the ref that the drunk guy who just wandered onto the court is one of your assistants”; “Women are fickle and evil, especially when they haven’t boinked anyone in a while and they live with their mom”; “The basket is ten feet high even in a giant stadium”; “Whites will always beat blacks in basketball because they care more and they are smarter” (just kidding; that joke was for Spike Lee, who thought
Hoosiers
was secretly racist and might be right); “If the coach kicks someone off the team and then allows him back a few weeks later, this guy can just randomly show up in the movie again and it never has to be addressed”; and “If the best player on your team has scored 85 percent of your points in a championship game, and you have the ball with a chance to win, don’t get fancy—clear the floor and run a freaking play for him.” But
Hoosiers
was the wrong answer. Sorry.

The right answer? That’s right
… Teen Wolf.

Most people mistakenly think it’s a werewolf comedy. Nope. It’s a thinking man’s basketball movie. You missed the signs because you were too busy wondering how Michael J. Fox
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nearly notched a triple double in the climactic game even though he was five-foot-four and dribbled with his head down … why Mick was allowed to stand under the basket to psych Fox out for the last two free throws … why they never ran more plays for Fat Boy when his hook shot was sublime … why the Wolf’s high school wasn’t deluged with reporters and camera crews from around the country … why Coach Finstock never gets more credit in the Greatest Sports Movie Characters Ever discussion
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… even where “Win in the End” ranks against “You’re the Best” and “No Easy Way Out” in the pantheon of Greatest Cheesy eighties Sports Movie Montages. I don’t blame you for getting sidetracked; you just missed the movie’s enduring lesson.

After Fox first transforms into the wolf—the most amazing sports movie game to attend, narrowly edging the Allies/Nazi game from
Victory
, and only because you can’t top a sparsely attended high school hoops contest in which a player turns into a monster and starts dunking on everyone—once the shock wears off and the Wolf starts kicking ass, his teammates turn into props. At one point later in the season, a teammate is dribbling up the court and the Wolf swipes the ball from him, zigzags through traffic and gets a layup. The success goes right to his head. He starts banging the hottest chick in school. His buddy Stiles starts marketing “Wolf” T-shirts. He’s the big wolf on campus. But even with the team winning and making a late run at the playoffs, his teammates can’t help resenting the Wolf and wishing they played for someone else. He’s getting all the credit. He’s taking all the shots. They have no stake in the team’s performance anymore. So they stop working
as hard and openly grumble about Fox/Wolf. With his personal life falling apart as well, he makes a stunning decision to play the regional championship game as himself. You know the rest. The team meshes together and everyone plays a key role (especially number 45, who turns into Bill Russell); Fox explodes for an 18–8 with three steals
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and sinks the winning free throws (after recovering from a flagrant foul on a give-and-go that took eight seconds to complete even with four seconds left on the clock); the fans happily pour onto the court as Fox plants a smooch on his homely friend Boof; and we learn that you can still derive individual glory from winning. The end.

What does this have to do with Kobe? He spent his career vacillating between a Fox and a Wolf. The Fox persona happened fairly consistently during his first three seasons, jumped a level during the Y2K season (when he effectively clinched the 2000 Finals with a clutch Game 4) and crested with his unparalled all-around performance in the ’01 Playoffs (really, a masterpiece). He battled an identity crisis during the third title season—half man, half wolf—and morphed into the Wolf over the next two years, lowlighted by a sexual assault charge, the deterioration of his relationship with Shaq and L.A.’s massive collapse in the ’04 Finals. (Note: Wolf mode offended me as a hoops fan even as I was picking him for the ’06 MVP. Would you have wanted to play with him during this stretch? There’s no way you said yes. None.) He didn’t suppress Wolf mode for four solid years, finally embracing his inner Fox one month before the Gasol trade (December ’07). And that’s where we’ve been ever since. Looking back, Kobe never seemed totally comfortable in his own skin—dating back to his ill-fated decision to shave his tiny head MJ-style in the late nineties, or his unintentionally hilarious rap duet with Tyra Banks during All-Star Weekend in 2000—with the Fox/Wolf internal struggle symbolizing everything. He spent the past four years systematically rehabbing his image as a player and public figure, starting with a number change (from 8 to 24), then a self-provided nickname (“Mamba”), then an identity
change (he’s evolved into a devoted family man and fantastic teammate with a wonderful sense of humor, or so we’re told), then a “coolness” change (Nike fake-leaked a video of Kobe apparently jumping a speeding car), then a stylistic change (with 1,000-plus games on his odometer, Kobe smartly shifted to a more efficient offensive game: mastering a perimeter game that includes an improved jump shot, a deadly fall-away, and three different spin moves), eventually finding himself as the defensive specialist and crunch-time stud of the U.S.’s 2008 gold medal team.

All of this is fine. He’s certainly one of the fifteen greatest players and our most polarizing Pyramid Guy other than Wilt, thanks to a career that lent himself to more pop culture/sports analogies than any athlete I can remember.
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I spent more time figuring him out than any athlete other than Manny Ramirez. What I determined was this: I don’t like watching Kobe as the Wolf. I like when he’s in Fox mode. I just think his career would have been more special that way. Regardless, you cannot follow basketball without having an opinion on Kobe Bryant. Here’s how mine evolved from 2000 to 2009 (edited for space):

January 2000.
Other than Tiger, Kobe is the only athlete who could potentially transcend his sport because of his work ethic, charisma and competitive fire. Seeing him battle all the potential pitfalls and land mines on the journey to true greatness, like Jordan did in the late eighties and early nineties, is enough to make me jealous of every diehard Lakers fan … and that’s saying something. Kobe might make it. He might not. And that’s the beauty of the whole thing.

Winter 2002.
The Kobe Experience would be ten times more interesting if he were forced to carry a .500 team. This isn’t another case of Magic-Kareem, or even Bird-McHale or MJ-Pippen, where there was a mutually beneficial relationship that allowed both players to reach even greater heights. In this case, Shaq makes Kobe’s life easier, and vice versa … and I’m not sure that’s
necessarily a good thing.
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Even if it translates to ten championships before everything’s said and done, I can’t shake the feeling that neither player will reach his optimum potential with the other guy hanging around.

April 2003.
Kobe and Shaq are more like Crockett and Crockett than Crockett and Tubbs, just two alpha dogs tugging on the same bone. They settle their issues every spring, almost like two bullies calling a truce so they can split everyone’s lunch money. Sometimes Shaq takes over, sometimes Kobe does, but neither seems happy about taking a backseat. Their improbable relationship contrasts every success story in basketball history. Doesn’t someone have to emerge as The Guy? Watching Shaq and Kobe is like watching an old married couple struggle to remember why they liked each other in the first place. The triangle seems tired, the Kobe-Shaq dynamic seems tired, everything seems tired. When Kobe sinks a game-winning shot, his teammates react like they have to celebrate or they’ll get fined. The Lakers’ demise feels inevitable, like watching an episode of
Behind the Music
and waiting for the band-self-destructs segment. Flip a coin, draw straws, but do something. One of them has to go.

November 2004.
We got what we wanted: Shaq and Kobe have their own teams. Maybe we needed a rape charge, multiple backstabbings and a controversial police interview to grease the skids,
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but it
did
happen. Now his
teammates stand around and watch Kobe, then he makes it worse by over-compensating and trying to get them involved. The most underrated aspect of MJ’s game was his unparalleled competitiveness, something that Phil Jackson learned to channel into the team concept (where it galvanized teammates and wilted opponents). Just by the sheer force of his personality, everyone else raised their game. They didn’t have another choice. Kobe doesn’t have that same quality. He doesn’t understand something that Bird, Magic, Isiah and even MJ realized: you’re better off letting your teammates help carry the show for the first forty-two minutes, then taking over the last six. Let them think it’s a democracy, even if they’re wrong. For whatever reason, Kobe can’t seem to grasp this … and it’s his ninth season. Not a good sign.