The Book of Basketball (118 page)

15.
If you thought Russell and Wilt should start together, they did so in ’61 and ’62 and lost by a combined 41 points. Russell mailed in All-Star games (10–12 in 28 MPG) except for after Wilt moved West in ’63, when Russell’s team won all three years (Russell: 16–19–4; Wilt: 19–18–1). When Wilt returned in ’66, the East won two of the next three, as well as in ’69 after Wilt went to L.A. (mail-ins from Russell and Wilt). So Russell was 4–0 in All-Stars vs. Wilt and 3–3 as teammates. Thought that said it all.

16.
Originally, I was worried about ’74 Kareem and ’77 Kareem hypothetically playing against each other because they couldn’t be in two places at the same time. Or so I thought. Because as Season 5 of
Lost
proved, they could be in the same place as long as we didn’t disturb the past to make it happen. And that could only happen if it was preordained to happen. So for it to happen, that means even before conceiving of the pre-1977/post-1977 series, I would have already altered Kareem’s life back in 1974 and 1977 when Future Bill went back in my time machine and grabbed him at two different points in his life. So even though I didn’t think of the idea until last year, ’74 and ’77 Kareem already will have had the experience of traveling forward in time to hypothetically play each other. Did that make sense? (Waiting.) What? You hate my guts for making your head hurt? How dare you!

EPILOGUE
Life After The Secret

JUNE 30, 2009

WILLIAM THEODORE WALTON III
lives in a sprawling house filled with hundreds of books, pictures, mementos, artifacts and everything else that should definitely be in Bill Walton’s house. Turn left and you might see a Vietnam book next to a Hunter S. Thompson book. Turn right and you might see a photo of Bill and Bob Dylan hanging next to a picture of Bill and John Wooden. A lifelong resident of the most beautiful city in America, Walton owns a Spanish-style home that makes you think, “I am definitely, undoubtedly in San Diego right now.” The house features a basketball half-court and a pool, as well as his lovely wife, Lori, two pooches named Annie and Shasta, and a black cat named Charcoal. That’s right, a black cat.

This blows me away. Bill Walton seems like the last guy who should tempt fate with a black cat. Instead of being mentioned in the same breath with Russell, Wilt and Kareem, he’s remembered for bad luck and what could have been. His body continues to pay for an injury-riddled career that ended 22 years ago; only recently could he start moving around after major back surgery left him bedridden for months. His feet betrayed him so egregiously that, within ten minutes of sitting down with him, I glance at his swollen, scarred, almost unrecognizable right foot, become distracted and lose my train of thought. Walton was blessed with a gift and cursed with a body that couldn’t handle that gift. The curse trumped the gift. One of the few players who understood The Secret completely and totally, poor Walton never had an extended chance to harvest it.

What would make him want a black cat? Why not hire Spencer Haywood as a butler and stick ladders in front of every doorway? This is one of many questions I plan on asking him. We’re chatting fifteen days after the Lakers captured the 2009 title and sent my book into a tailspin. I turned in my manuscript right before the playoffs, then spent the next ten weeks praying nothing would alter The Pyramid or The Secret. You know, like LeBron’s team majestically failing and raising legitimate questions about his future in Cleveland. (Damn.) Like Dwight Howard inexplicably leading Orlando to the Finals and creeping up a few Pyramid spots. (Crap.) Like Kobe winning his first title, leapfrogging West and Oscar and reinventing himself as a team player in the minds of many writers and fans. (Shit.)
¹
Although the Lakers clearly prevailed as a group, with Pau Gasol (the league’s most talented offensive center), Lamar Odom (a gifted all-around forward), Trevor Ariza (a breakout swingman with a little Robert Horry in him) and Derek Fisher (who drained the two biggest shots of the Finals) all shining throughout the playoffs, the media became obsessed that Los Angeles was only winning because “Kobe, really
really
wants this!” and “Kobe
finally
trusts his teammates!” Too bad the relevant per-game numbers didn’t back that rhetoric up.

2008 KOBE (21 PLAYOFF GAMES):

30.1 pts, 5.7 reb, 5.6 ast, 3.3 TO, 22.0 FGA, 9.2 FTA, 47.9 FG%, 81 FT%, 30 3FG%, 41.1 MPG.

2009 KOBE (23 PLAYOFF GAMES):

30.2 pts, 5.3 reb, 5.5 ast, 2.6 TO, 23.0 FGA, 8.6 FTA, 45.7 FG%, 88 FT%, 35 3FG%, 40.9 MPG.
²

If anything, Kobe’s circumstances changed. Boston, San Antonio and Houston were crippled by season-ending injuries to Kevin Garnett, Manu Ginobili and Yao Ming. Cleveland made an infuriating and indefensible decision to stand pat at the trade deadline.
³
As all of this was happening, Ariza’s maturation pushed the Lakers to another level. This is what I believe. Then again, I am a diehard Boston fan. Do I believe Kobe’s “growth” as a teammate was smoke and mirrors because I’m biased, or because it’s true? This was why I called Walton. Since his son joined the Lakers in 2003, Luke and Bill probably had every conceivable conversation about Kobe Bryant.
⁴
Of the living basketball players who understood and executed The Secret—call it The Secret Club—Walton should have the best perspective on him. At least I hope so. Or else I plan on driving my car into oncoming traffic on the way home.

We sit down in Walton’s living room and a purring Charcoal nudges
against me, jumps on my lap and nestles into my belly. Walton finally shoos her away. You could choke on the irony. We spend the first 30 minutes talking basketball before I explain The Secret to him. I tell him the Isiah/Vegas story and read two excerpts from
The Franchise.
Walton stares ahead and digests everything. Finally …

“It’s not a secret,” he decides, “as much as a choice. Look at the forces fighting against that choice. Look at the forces pushing you to make the other choice, the wrong choice. It’s all about you. It’s all about material acquisitions, physical gratification, stats and highlights. Everywhere you go, you’re bombarded with the opposite message of what really matters. And you wouldn’t even know otherwise unless you played with the right player or right coach: the Woodens, the Auerbachs, the Ramseys, the Russells, the Birds. How many people get that lucky? Kobe was blessed to have Phil [Jackson] and eventually realized that. With a truly great coach, it’s not about a diagram, it’s not about a play, it’s not about a practice, it’s the course of time over history. It’s the impact a coach has on the lives around him. That’s what Phil has done for Kobe. The history of life is that most people figure it out. Most of the time it’s too late. That’s the real frustrating part—the squandered opportunities that you can’t get back. Kobe figured it out. It took awhile, but he figured it out.”

Perfect. Couldn’t have scripted a better rebuttal. So what if Walton hijacked my premise and changed it to “The Choice”? (Which, I have to admit, has a nice ring to it.) Jackson definitely wore Kobe down over time—a little like Andy Dufresne believing that his tiny rock hammer scheme would propel him through the walls of Shawshank (remember, pressure over time?)—and that subtle pressure allowed the Lakers to gell. Just enough. It’s one more reason why Jackson wears the “greatest NBA coach” title belt: He harnessed the talents of the league’s single most difficult superstar other than Wilt. Jackson did this gradually, over the span of a solid decade, even walking away once for effect. You can’t credit him for fundamentally changing Kobe, just for nudging him in the right direction and helping him find the balance between dominating and winning. What Kobe did with that understanding, ultimately, was up to him. Remember when I wrote that the vast majority of NBA coaches don’t ultimately matter? Jackson matters.

My favorite image of the 2009 Finals was Phil’s face after Kobe went
one-on-four at the end of Game 2 (ignoring three wide-open teammates) and had a hideous shot blocked. With an overtime period looming, Kobe stormed back to his bench while a sitting Jackson watched from a few seats away, looking slightly amused, slightly disgusted and absolutely unwilling to blow the moment out of proportion.
⁵
You know what Jackson’s reaction reminded me of, actually? Being married. Spend enough time with someone and you accept their strengths and weaknesses for what they are. For instance, I am messy. I leave clothes on the floor. I make coffee in the morning, mistakenly leave grounds on the counter and forget to clean them up. I’m selfishly absentminded like that. My wife stopped complaining about it three years ago. When I do those things now, she makes the Phil Jackson Face.
Crap. I’m stuck with him. It’s not even worth getting into it. The plusses outweigh the minuses. Let’s move forward.
Jackson never made that face with his first wife (MJ); with his second wife (Kobe), he makes it every so often. You could say they’re an imperfect match, and if you want to keep the domestic analogy going, they even legally separated in 2004 after a few unhappy years. Now they might go on like this indefinitely. When a coach spends enough time with the same star, they really
do
start to feel like a married couple.
⁶

Even Kobe admits that Jackson allowed him to reach his potential. He became more forgiving of teammates and more invested in their individual success. He pushed himself to another level physically, hiring trainer Tim Glover to travel with him full-time, tweaking his game constantly and hoping his work ethic would lift teammates just by proxy. He submitted an unforgettable display of human will from Halloween 2007 through June 2009, leading his team to consecutive Finals, winning an NBA title, and playing in the maximum 164 regular-season games and 44 playoff games without a summer break, thanks to the Olympics. He was the Terminator. He was Schwarzenegger with bullets bouncing off him. For such a polarizing player, I found it fascinating that so many living basketball legends (Walton, Russell, West, Bird and Magic, to name five) professed
such profound appreciation of Kobe’s talents. And really, the best basketball players are like elite chefs, writers or singers—they know instinctively when someone else has reached their level. When Bird or Walton explains that, yes, Kobe Bryant is truly magnificent, you cannot disagree.
⁷
Still, I believe that Kobe only became transcendent on
his
terms. He made sacrifices as long as he kept receiving the lion’s share of credit and attention. If anything, his teammates and coaches were the ones practicing The Secret—they allowed themselves to be portrayed like backup singers, filled their respective roles, allowed Kobe to thrive, handed over the spotlight and never complained. Like an arrangement of sorts. No different from the Clintons looking at each other once upon a time and probably deciding, “Maybe this isn’t ideal, but we give each other the best chance to win.” Kobe may have bent a little, I tell Walton, but his teammates bent more. Once the Disease of More kicks in, they may not be as willing.
⁸

“Kobe only wants to win,” Walton counters. “It doesn’t matter what your motivation is, or that your game or your style is different, or that it’s not perceived to be right or acceptable. We have seen an entire spectrum [of things] from him this decade, and right now he’s really really good. Look, you want him to be perfect for
you.
This comes back to your choice—who
your
heroes are. You chose to value a certain type of player over anyone else. He has the right to make his choice, too.”

Game, set, match, Walton.

“I guess you’re right,” I tell him. “Kobe made a choice to play that way, and I made a choice not to totally like it. But I still believe he can get better. I want him to reach the point where I’m watching him and believing that he doesn’t care who gets the credit, just who wins. I didn’t feel that way after the Finals. Does that make sense?”

“It makes sense.” Walton nods. “Your dislike of Kobe’s style makes it impossible for you to be happy for the Laker championship. Guys like Bird, Magic and Russell played a style that even opposing fans enjoyed and ultimately liked.”

“And you,” I add.

“Well …”

Walton glances down to the ground. He hates discussing his own career but loves discussing anyone who played with him. Mention Bird to Walton and he starts gushing and rattling off Larry Legend stories. Mention the time Walton dunked on Kareem’s head in the ’77 Playoffs and he reacts like he’s awaiting the results of a colonscopy. That’s just the way he is. Thirty-two years later, he still wants people to believe that Maurice Lucas was the heart and soul of the ’77 Blazers. Even retired, he remains unselfish.
⁹