The Book of Basketball (101 page)

So yeah, Wilt’s statistical resume pops your eyes out on paper. But Kareem’s peak was nearly as impressive. He excelled for a longer period of time. His teams performed consistently better and won three times as many titles. He was more reliable in clutch moments and a much safer bet at the free throw line. He had an infinitely better grasp of The Secret. The gap between his first and last Finals MVPs lasted as long as Wilt’s entire
career. Even his movie career was more entertaining.
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Kareem Abdul-Jabbar may have been fun to dislike—and believe me, I did—but his greatness cannot be denied. He’s the third-best basketball player of all time. Better than Oscar. Better than Wilt. Better than Magic or Bird. And since we finally have that settled, I will now light myself on fire.

2. BILL RUSSELL

Resume: 13 years, 12 quality, 12 All-Stars … MVP: ’58, ’61, ’62, ’63, ’65 … Simmons MVP (’59) … runner-up: ’59, ’60 … Top 5 (’59, ’63, ’65) … Top 10 (’58, ’60, ’61, ’62, ’64, ’66, ’67, ’68) … 3-year peak: 18–24–4 … 3-year Playoffs peak: 21–27–5 … leader: rebounds (5x) … career: 15.1 PPG, 22.5 RPG (2nd all-time), 4.3 APG … Playoffs: 16.2 PPG, 24.9 RPG (1st), 4.7 APG … record: rebounds, one half (32); rebounds, Finals (40); RPG, Finals (29.5) … best player on 11 champs and 2 runner-ups (’50s, ’60s Celtics) … 10–0 in Game 7’s, 16–2 in do-or-die games … only player-coach to win a title (2x)

Bill Bradley summed up number 6’s career nicely in
Life on the Run:
“Russell never got as much recognition as he deserved. Race was one reason. During the early sixties no black artist got adequate publicity. Then, too, perhaps pro basketball didn’t have the national following sufficient to merit enormous press attention. Most probably, I think he was overlooked because his greatest accomplishments were in the game’s subtleties and in seeking to guarantee team victory in a society which tends to focus attention on the individual achiever.”

Imagine if I could have been that succinct with the Pyramid; you would have finished this book two weeks ago. But Bradley missed one crucial part of the Russell Experience: Russell was
obsessed
with winning. A handful of NBA players were wired with overcompetitive DNA,
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but
Russell and Jordan stand alone in their singular devotion to prevailing over and over again. The single greatest Russell statistic other than eleven rings? Russell’s teams finished 10–0 in deciding Game 5’s or Game 7’s. The single greatest Jordan statistic? The Bulls lost their first three games of the 1990–91 season, but after that, they never lost three in a row again with Jordan wearing a Chicago uniform.
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Anyone can win two or three titles. Russell and Jordan defended their turf again and again and again, and beyond that, they measured themselves by those defenses. They searched for every possible edge even if they went about it in different ways. Russell embraced his biggest foe, befriended him and allowed him to shine in meaningless moments, even as he was secretly ripping out the guy’s heart without him realizing it. Jordan settled for tearing out hearts and holding them up like the dude from
Temple of Doom.
He wanted his rivals to know it was happening. That’s what he loved most—not the winning as much as the vanquishing. Russell just loved winning.

The other difference between them: at no point in Russell’s career did a teammate hiss, “I hate that asshole” or “He cares about himself more than the team.” Russell’s teammates treasured and revered him. They sing his praises to this day. They maintain that you cannot place a statistical value on what he accomplished on a daily basis. Code words like “sacrifice” and “teammate” and “unselfish” pop up every time he’s remembered. He’s the only player who realized every component of basketball as a team game—not just playing, but coming together as a group, respecting one another, and embracing common goals—from the first game of his career through the last. In George Plimpton’s “Sportsman of the Year” piece about Russell in 1968, he passed along a fascinating anecdote from Boston trainer Joe DiLauri that explained Russell to a tee:

The big concern he has is for the Celtics. Nothing else really matters. That’s why he seems so cold often to the press and the fans. They’re not Celtics. After we won the championship last year he kicked everyone who wasn’t a Celtic out of the dressing room—press, photographers, hangers-on, and also this poor guy who was tending a television camera in the locker room who said he had to have permission to leave it untended, pleading to stay, said he was going to lose his job, and it took three or four minutes to get him out. The press was pounding on the door, furious about deadlines and all, and Russell turned around and looked at us and he asked [Bailey] Howell to lead the team in prayer. He knew Bailey was a religious man—it was also his first year on a championship team—and he knew Bailey would appreciate it. Russell’s not a religious man himself. Sam Jones said, “You pray?” And Russell said, “Yeah, Sam.”

You never hear Jordan’s teammates and coaches discuss him that way. Not even now. The most compelling part of his storyline, for years and years, was the collective attempt to channel his competitiveness into the greater good of the team. He needed to “trust” his teammates and “make them better.” We heard this again and again. Then his supporting cast improved and Chicago started winning titles, so we stopped hearing it … even though he was playing the same way he always did.
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Only after his “baseball sabbatical” did Jordan fully embrace the team dynamic, whereas Russell’s sense of team was ingrained. Which brings us to the best part of Russell’s resume, as well as the point that potentially undermines it: his success in tight games. Of Russell’s eleven titles, six hinged on games that could have easily swung against the Celtics.
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Each went in their favor, with only one involving an opponent missing a season-deciding shot (Frank Selvy in 1962). On the face of it, you might say it was luck, something of an Anton Chigurh coin flip that fell his way every time. But with close-knit, unselfish teams and an alpha dog who lives to make everyone else better, how much of it is really luck? In a tight game of teams between equal talents with the pressure mounting, wouldn’t you wager on the close-knit/unselfish team led by the best defensive player ever? Isn’t that what basketball is all about?

Now you’re saying, “Wait a second … so why isn’t Russell no. 1?” Because
it’s so difficult to project Russell into today’s game. Athletically, he could have survived. No question. But Russell wasn’t taller or thicker than Kevin Durant. How would he have defended Kareem?
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What about Yao Ming, Rik Smits or Artis Gilmore? What about Shaq in his prime or even young Dwight Howard? And wouldn’t his mediocre shooting become a bigger liability in today’s game? Would Russell be 70 percent as effective now? Eighty percent? Is the number higher or lower? How can we know? Like with Oscar, Pettit, Elgin and Wilt, Russell’s era-specific advantages are hard to ignore. It was easier to block shots when nobody was attacking the rim except for Wilt, just like it was easier to grab rebounds when opposing forwards were six-four and six-three instead of six-eight and six-eleven. Russell also had more value in the sixties: everyone played run-and-gun and every basket only counted for two points, so a rebounder/shot blocker was the biggest commodity you could have. Now it’s a slash-and-kick game driven by perimeter stars; during the ’09 season, when only five players averaged more than 10.0 rebounds and 39 players shot better than 40 percent on threes, you’re better off with a LeBron-like scorer who creates quality shots for himself and his teammates. And with gigantic salaries, salary cap rules and luxury tax hindrances, it’s nearly impossible to assemble an unselfish infrastructure of team-first players and keep it in place—this decade, only the Spurs were able to do it for more than four years—which means Russell would battle 1-in-30 odds just that he’d be landing on the perfect team for
him.
So let’s split the difference and put him on a modern contender—we’ll switch him with Howard and say Russell averages 16.3 rebounds, 12.7 points and a record-breaking 6.2 blocks a game for the 2009 Magic. Do you feel like we’re guaranteed a title? I don’t feel like we are. We have a good chance … but it’s not a lock. (June ’09 addition: Strangely, I wrote this section two months before Orlando snuck into the finals. Foreshadowing? ESP?)

And that’s what sets the next guy apart. Stick ’92 MJ or ’96 MJ in any
era and he immediately becomes the alpha dog. From 1946 to 1965, it would have been unfair and scientists would have tested him in the mistaken belief that he was an alien. From 1965 to 1976, he would have dominated on a higher level than West did … and West only won a title and reached six other Finals. From 1977 to 1983, he would have crushed it. You know everything that happened from 1984 on. Throw in Jordan’s individual and team success, as well as his lack of any conceivable holes—seriously, when we will ever see the league’s best offensive player also make nine All-Defensive teams?—and Bill Russell will have to settle for second place. For once.

1. MICHAEL JORDAN

Resume: 16 years, 12 quality, 16 All-Stars … MVP: ’88, ’91, ’92, ’96, ’98 … Simmons MVP: ’90, ’93, ’97 … runner-up: ’87, ’89, ’97 … ’85 Rookie of the Year … Finals MVP: ’91, ’92, ’93, ’96, ’97, ’98 … Top 5 (’87, ’88, ’89, ’90, ’91, ’92, ’93, ’96, ’97, ’98), Top 10 (’85) … All-Defense (nine 1st) … Defensive Player of the Year (’88) … 30+ PPG 8 times, 34+ PPG in 7 different Playoffs … 4-year peak: 34–6–6, 3.0 SPG, 52% FG … career: 30–6–5, 49.7% FG, 83.5% FT … Playoffs: 33.4 PPG (1st), 6.4 RPG, 5.7 APG (179 G) … Finals: 34–6–6 (35 g’s) … leader: scoring (10x), steals (3x) … records: most scoring titles (10); consecutive scoring titles (7); most Finals MVPs (6); highest points, Finals (41.0 in ’93); most Playoffs points, career; most points, one Playoffs game (63); most points in one half, Finals game (35) … career: points (3rd), steals (2nd) … best player on 6 champs (’91–’93, ’96–’98 Bulls) … 30K Point Club

In my lifetime, only one superstar was routinely described like Hannibal Lecter.
Michael is a killer. Michael will rip your heart out. If you give Michael an opening, he will kill you. Michael smells blood. Michael is going for the jugular. Nobody goes for the kill like Michael Jordan. They’re on life support and Michael is pulling the plug. Michael will eat your liver and cap it off with a glass of Chianti.
I made up only the last line; everything else was definitely muttered by an announcer between 1988 and 1998. Our society
enabled the competitor that Michael Jordan became: we value athletes who treasure winning, maximize their own potential, stay in superior shape, pump their fists, slap asses and would rather maim themselves then lose a game. Ronnie Lott had part of his pinkie amputated in the offseason in order to keep playing in the NFL. We thought this was awesome. We loved Ronnie Lott for this. Now that’s a guy who cares! Tiger won the 2008 U.S. Open playing with a torn ACL. Now that’s a champion! Pete Rose bowled over Ray Fosse to score the winning run in the 1970 All-Star Game, separating Fosse’s shoulder and altering his career. Hey, you don’t block home plate when it’s Pete Rose! We will always love the guys who care just a little more than everyone else, just like we will always hate the ones who don’t. Why? Because we like to think that we’d play that way if we were blessed with those same gifts. Or something.

That’s why we never judged Michael Jordan for his competitive disorder. If anything, we deified it. The man could do anything and it was okay. From 1984 to 1991, by all accounts—magazines, newspapers, books, you name it—Jordan pulled all the same shit that Kobe did this decade, only in a more indefensible and debilitating way. When Sam Smith finally called him out in his turned-out-to-be-totally-accurate 1992 book,
The Jordan Rules
, everyone reacted like we would now if Perez Hilton started lobbing online grenades at Obama’s daughters. Jordan couldn’t be an asshole, and even if he was, we didn’t want to know. By the time Kobe rose to prominence, our society had become much more cynical: we gravitated toward tearing people down over building them up, so that’s what we did. Had Jordan come along fifteen years later, the same thing would have happened to him.

Of course, Kobe’s diva routine happened out of weakness: he couldn’t figure out his own identity and settled on a slightly creepy Jordan impression, pursuing that goal by trying to excel on both ends (did it), win a few rings (did it), score as many points as possible (did it), mimic Jordan’s celebratory fist pump (did it) and lead his own team to the title (didn’t do it). Everything about Kobe’s handling of the inevitable transition from “the Robin to Shaq’s Batman” to “Batman” was clumsy.
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Jordan always knew
who he was. He
had
to win at everything. He studied up on opponents and searched for any signs of weakness, even pumping beat writers and broadcasters for insider information. He soaked teammates in poker on team flights so brutally that coaches warned rookies to stay away. He lost in Ping-Pong to teammate Rod Higgins once, bought a table and became the best Ping-Pong player on the team. He dunked on Utah’s John Stockton once, heard Utah owner Larry Miller scream, “Why don’t you pick on someone your own size?” then dunked on center Mel Turpin and hissed at Miller afterward, “He big enough for you?” He bribed airport baggage guys to put out his suitcase first once, then wagered teammates that his bag would be the first one on the conveyor belt. He stormed out of a Bulls scrimmage once like a little kid because he thought Doug Collins screwed up the score. When a team of college All-Stars outscored the Dream Team in a half-assed scrimmage and made the mistake of puffing their chests out, Jordan started out the next day’s scrimmage by pointing at Allan Houston and simply saying, “I got him” … and Houston didn’t touch the ball for two hours.
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