When D’Antoni calls the team together, I say to Iavaroni: “I don’t know what Mike’s got planned with the porno actress, but I bet he doesn’t end up using it.”
“I don’t know about that,” says Iavaroni. “It’s getting near the end of the season. You gotta use everything you got.”
“All right, guys, everybody cool?” D’Antoni begins, his usual salutation. “I’m sure everybody has talked about it, rehashed it. It is what it is. Not the best thing in the world, but we gotta take something out of it. We busted their ass a couple of times and we’re gonna come back and do it now. We know we can.
“We all know we’re getting screwed more than Jenna Jameson…”—there is a titter in the gym, possibly because D’Antoni sounds so uncomfortable making the reference, possibly for other reasons—“anyway…I forgot what I was going to say…but, we’re gonna have to come back here, play as hard as hell, beat their ass, and then watch the pressure go back on them. This ain’t even close to being over.”
I watch for signs of insincerity. Every coach has those moments when he has to out-and-out lie to his team—Fellas, we’re down forty but that’s not so bad…—but D’Antoni really seems to believe the Suns can come back.
“You know, you guys have gained a lot in this. The way you’ve handled it without going off. Public opinion is on your side. I’ve already had people come up to me and say how well you’ve handled it. The media is all over it, so let them do the talking for you. We’re just going to play basketball.”
Then D’Antoni moves to his and Bell’s favorite subject.
“They’re talking about Kobe and how great it is that he’s playing with the team. Well, isn’t that what you’re supposed to do? Now he’s the savior because he’s playing that way? He’s no god. He does what he’s supposed to be doing, which is what we learned in kindergarten. Share the ball and play. And that’s what we do better than they do. That’s what we’re going to do tomorrow night and get back in this thing. Everybody cool?”
The coaches usually immediately disperse after practice—they’ve already been together for five hours by that time—but they find themselves together in the locker-room office where D’Antoni mentions his concern about Nash’s playing time. The book on Nash—and a major reason Dallas Mavericks owner Mark Cuban let him get away to Phoenix—is that he plays so hard he wears down late in the season. “If I keep him in, he gets tired,” says D’Antoni, “but if I take him out, he gets stiff. He really felt it on Sunday.”
“I think you have to play him almost the whole second half,” says Gentry. “But you rest him like a minute or forty seconds before the time-out [the designated TV time-out] and that gives you like three minutes of rest for him.”
“I hate to play without Steve at this stage of the season, but he needs some rest,” says D’Antoni, thinking aloud. “I mean, I love Eddie House, and I’d like to get him in there and in the process rest Steve. But Eddie just can’t get his shot off against these guys.”
“I agree with you,” says Gentry. “But, man, back when Eddie was shooting, we had something, didn’t we?”
Full Time-Out
December 15, 2005
BATON ROUGE, LA
Of Shooting Games, Tickets, and the Raiders: Eddie’s in the House
The Suns’ postpractice shooting games feature a revolving cast of characters, but Eddie House, “Edward Shooter Hands” as Raja Bell has taken to calling him, is almost always one of them. He usually wins. One day I asked Bell if he had ever taken any of the House money.
“Don’t go there,” he said in mock anger. “Get out of my face with those Eddie questions.”
House has a stockpile of shots, many of which he accompanies with his own commentary.
“There’s Magic Johnson across the lane, the little baby hook…GOOD!” House says, as he replicates Magic Johnson’s junior skyhook that beat the Boston Celtics in Boston Garden in Game 4 of the 1987 NBA Finals. House then trots to the sideline, where he collects imaginary high-fives from teammates.
He also has “my three-sixty,” in which he twirls completely around and releases a jump shot, and another turnaround in which he takes one dribble, spins, and puts up a left-handed hook. The argument today is whether Bell is allowed to take two dribbles before shooting.
“The important thing,” argues Bell, “is the shot itself, not the dribble shit.”
“That ain’t right,” says House. “It’s a whole thing I got going, and you’re trying to variate my shit.” To make his point, House appeals to bystanders. He grabs a ball and performs his shot, finishing it up with a loud “Ah-Ha” as he makes the move.
“What, I gotta say the ‘Ah-Ha,’ too?” asks Bell.
“No,” says House, shaking his head, “that’s the crowd responding to my shit. Ah! Ha!”
December 16
BATON ROUGE, LA
A few players are sorting tickets for tonight’s game against the New Orleans Hornets (who are playing several home games in Baton Rouge due to damage from Hurricane Katrina) as House looks on. I ask him if he buys many tickets for family and friends.
“Not too much anymore,” says House, “because you know what happens? You buy them and leave them at the window and then the game starts and they don’t show up and you’re checking the stands and losing your concentration.” House ponders this. “I mean, you can look for your parents in the crowd and shit,” he continues, “but you can’t be looking for specific motherfuckers.”
“Specific motherfuckers” becomes the phrase of the week.
The pregame chatter is monopolized by talk of the NFL, which is moving into playoff season. It started when Nash says, “I don’t think Terry Bradshaw is among the top twenty quarterbacks in history.” Nash doesn’t really care much about the subject, but there are two certified Steeler crazies in the locker room—Ohio native Jimmy Jackson and athletic trainer Aaron Nelson—and Nash knows he can get a rise out of them. Of course, Eddie House, who was born and raised in Richmond, California, hard by Oakland, wants to talk about his team, the Raiders.
“What about the Snake, Kenny Stabler?” says House. “You gotta have him high in that top twenty. Partied all night, showed up Sunday, got the job done. You got to get motherfuckin’ points for that.”
“We were talking about Bradshaw,” says Nelson. “We weren’t talking about the Raiders.”
“Well, I’m talking about the Raiders,” says House.
“All I know,” says Jimmy Jackson, who is getting treatment from Mike Elliott, “is that the Steelers got the better franchise overall.”
“First of all,” says House, “why are you getting into the conversation when you’re over there all isolated and shit with your headphones on?”
“I been listening the whole time,” says Jackson, “just waiting to jump in and rebuttal your ass.”
“Bottom line,” says House, “our winning percentage is better than your winning percentage. And I’ll put a thou-wow on that shit.”
“Thou-wow” becomes the second phrase of the week. And he’s correct about Oakland having a better all-time winning percentage.
December 28
WASHINGTON, DC
At shootaround, Alvin Gentry swishes a half-court shot, rather his specialty, to defeat House in a shooting game. Gentry runs forward, falls to his knees and says, “In the words of Brandi Chastain…” then strips off his shirt.
House looks over and says, “Yeah? You got titties like her, too, Alvin.”
Hours later, before the game against the Wizards, the talk turns, inevitably, to the NFL again. Now, House is talking about the combine at which teams test the athleticism of college stars.
“They make a big deal about running a four-point-four,” says House, talking about forty-yard dash times, “and I know I could run a four-four. You watch me tonight going to the corner. It’ll be four-four shit.”
“I could run that, too,” says Amare’ Stoudemire, who is along on the road trip though he is still out wi
th the knee injury.
“How about nobody in this room even runs a four-five,” says Nash. There is respectful silence for a moment—Nash doesn’t often join in group bull sessions and he is presumed to have a more logical mind than anyone else.
“You telling me I can’t run faster than a defensive tackle?” House says finally.
“You know a defensive tackle who can do a four-four?” asks Nash.
“There’s a couple of them,” says House.
“Maybe some freaks,” answers Nash. “And if they can, then they’re faster than you.”
“How about Shawn?” chimes in D’Antoni. “Could he do a four-four?”
(An hour later, with the Suns losing to the Wizards at halftime and walking the ball up, D’Antoni derisively brings up the conversation. “Before the game we’re talking about times in the forty? Shit, you have to clock us with a calendar.”)
“Shawn’s the one guy who could worry me,” says Nash. “And L.B.” (Barbosa, suffering from a sprained left knee, is not on the trip.)
But House isn’t finished. “I’m telling you, I’m feeling four-four shit. You’re gonna see it tonight.”
That night, he misses six of his seven shots in the Suns’ 104–99 victory. None of his forays down the court look very four-fourish.
December 30
CHARLOTTE, NC
House’s lowest moment in the NBA came when Charlotte Bobcats coach Bernie Bickerstaff called him into his office in December 2004 and basically told him, “We don’t think you’re an NBA player.” The Bobcats were picking up Kareem Rush, and House was told he’d be sitting behind him. Way behind him. So, House asked to be waived.
On this night in Charlotte, House is unusually serious before the game though he professes to have no special thoughts of vengeance. He scores twenty-six points, including twelve in a decisive five-minute span, as the Suns win 110–100. After one field goal, House runs back on defense, pounding his chest, glancing ever so subtly at Bickerstaff on the Charlotte bench.
After the game, Bickerstaff is asked about House. “He can make shots,” says Bickerstaff, “and he sure has a strong chest.”
January 2, 2006
NEW YORK, NY
House has so much shtick and seemingly so much self-confidence that it’s hard to believe how many times he has been cut. There are hundreds of players like him in the NBA, high school and college stars (he still shares with UCLA’s Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, then Lew Alcindor, the Pac-10 record for points scored in a single game when he got sixty-one for Arizona State against Cal in 2000) who scratch around, make a roster and live the life, but who exist in a perpetual state of anxiety. Since House was drafted in 2000, he has been unwanted by not only the Bobcats but also the Heat, L.A. Clippers, Milwaukee Bucks, and Sacramento Kings. And though he’s been, to this point, everything the Suns could’ve wanted, he has no assurance that he will be back next season, even though his guaranteed salary of $932,000 is low.
“I thought I was sticking out in Sacramento,” House says before the game. “It’s tough when somebody tells you they don’t want you.”
He pulls out a bible and reads a passage.
“What is it?” I ask him.
“Jeremiah 29:11,” he answers.
“What’s it say?” I ask.
“Look it up,” he says. “Maybe you’ll learn something.”
Later I do: “For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.”
Chapter Eight
[The Second Season]
Phoenix, May 2……………….
LAKERS LEAD SERIES 3-1
“Go be a bitch then. I’ll forgive you in the morning.”
When I walk into the morning coaches meeting, everybody’s first words are: Did you see the paper?
Someone had e-mailed a photo of the controversial Game 4 jump-ball call to the Arizona Republic. It was placed on page two of the sports section. Never mind whether a foul should’ve been called or a time-out granted—it shows Luke Walton’s foot squarely on, and in fact well over, the out-of-bounds line. Walton was the one who tied up Nash, which he could not have legally done from a position out of bounds. The photo also shows referees Bennett Salvatore and Kenny Mauer looking squarely at the play. It’s impossible to conclude whether or not they can see Walton’s foot, of course, but they are in perfect position to have seen it.
By morning’s end, someone in Suns Nation has obtained a wider-angle version of the photo, added his or her own captions, and sent it into cyberspace. Diaw is shown running toward Nash, his mouth open, yelling.
NOT CALLING TIME-OUT reads the caption. The one above Nash reads PROFOUND SENSE OF DéJà VU. The caption next to referee Salvatore reads FEELS NOTHING BECAUSE HE OBVIOUSLY SOLD HIS SOUL TO THE DEVIL (STERN). Actually, the funniest captions on the photo are next to actor David Arquette, a courtside Laker fan (STILL AMAZED HE GOT COURTNEY COX TO MARRY HIM) and a background Laker Girl (HOPING THE LAKERS SCORE A TOUCHDOWN).
Another story this morning is about the $10,000 fine that had been assessed Denver Nuggets forward Reggie Evans for grabbing the testicles of Los Angeles Clipper center Chris Kaman from behind (or, as Eddie House puts it, “right up through his ass”) during a scramble for a rebound. “That’s the NBA,” says Gentry. “You get fined ten grand for grabbing a guy’s balls and ten grand for wearing your shorts too long.”
From time to time the coaches go out of their way to compliment a job done by a particular referee. Iavaroni is most likely to do it, and, occasionally, he will even take the side of an official when the coaches are reviewing a call they thought was particularly heinous. (That takes guts.) During an agonizing 139–137 triple overtime loss in Denver on January 10, Iavaroni leapt off the bench to protest a blocking call on Nash that he thought should’ve been a charge on the Nuggets. Joe Forte, a veteran ref, came over to the bench and said to him, “First of all, you split your pants. Second, you gotta calm down.” It was true—Iavaroni was trying to get by with a pair of suit pants that had a small rip in the crotch. “I just respected the calm way Joe handled it,” said Iavaroni.
But most of the time the Suns feel as if they get screwed by the zebras more than their opponents do. And every other team feels the same way. The state of refereeing is always a hot topic during the playoffs. Jermaine O’Neal of the Indiana Pacers and Shaquille O’Neal of the Miami Heat have already been fined for blasting refs. Commissioner David Stern is asked about the officiating during an impromptu news conference at the Pacers-Nets series. Stern estimates that officials make the wrong call about five percent of the time. “Right now,” says David Griffin, “we’re getting ninety-five percent of the five percent.”
It’s four hours before tip-off, and D’Antoni is a mess. “I tell you, I haven’t been right since I found out Raja got hit with an extra flagrant,” he says. “That was three days ago. I know I should get it out of my head, but I can’t.” He fills these nervous pregame hours tinkering with matchups and listening to his iTunes, in particular a song by the artist Pink called “Dear Mr. President,” an excoriating indictment of the Bush administration.
Political discussions come up with some regularity among the coaches. D’Antoni, Iavaroni, and Gentry are fervently anti-Bush. Under pressure, Phil Weber once admitted that he voted for Bush, and D’Antoni has never let him forget it. Dan D’Antoni tends more toward a form of libertarianism. Their political views parallel the brothers’ feelings about religion. Mike and wife, Laurel, attend church together when it’s possible but adhere to a liberal view of Christianity in which the church gets involved in social causes. Dan believes that all organized religions are, at root, hypocritical, in line with his political conviction that “both the Republicans and Democrats will steal you blind.” The elder D’Antoni even voted for Perot back in 1992. “Danny was so eager not to get a Democrat or Republican,” says Mike, “that he voted for a nut.”
In the training room,
meanwhile, Nash has ordered assistant trainer Mike Elliott and assistant equipment manager Jay Gaspar into the ice bath as a show of faith. Elliott and Gaspar lower themselves in, looking miserable. “Suns in seven,” says Aaron Nelson, working on Nash’s back.
Word comes down a couple hours before the game that Kwame Brown is being investigated for a sexual assault that allegedly happened after Game 3 in Los Angeles. Reporters who meet the Laker bus for comment are greeted only by stony silence. Brown has already released a statement denying culpability. When word reaches the Suns’ locker room about the story, D’Antoni asks, “Was the assault on Boris Diaw?”
The Suns come out to wild applause and the sight of the Gorilla, their inventive mascot, holding a sign that reads MISSION POSSIBLE. They seem energized and loose, beneficiaries of that magical potion known as home-court advantage. Teams in every sport do better at home, but the advantage is more pronounced in basketball; during the regular season, home teams had won about sixty percent of the time.
There are the predictable reasons. The environs are more familiar. A player slept in his own bed, ate his favorite food, drove to the arena in his favorite car, parked in his favorite spot, got good-luck messages from his favorite people around the arena. The locker room feels familiar, the pregame coffee and energy drinks are familiar, the fruit plate is familiar. This is his kingdom and, once again, he is king.
Once on the court, he gets a lift from the fans, the dance team, the banners, the messages on the video board. More than any sport, basketball (at any level) is subject to the vicissitudes of momentum, emotional ebb and flow. The fans are a factor. They are closer to the action, more organic to the flow of play. The roar in a football stadium might be literally louder than in a basketball arena, but it sure as hell doesn’t sound louder to the players. Sound is distilled by the vastness of the stadium; it reverberates in a basketball arena.
Then, too, though referees and the league office would deny it, home teams generally get more favorable calls than visiting teams. How could they not? Referees are human. Lamar Odom ducks a shoulder and knocks Marion to the floor in Los Angeles. Foul on Marion. The same play in Phoenix? Offensive foul or a no-call. A few veteran referees—Steve Javie and Joey Crawford being the two most notable—are known for giving visiting teams a good whistle, sometimes all but daring the home fans to get on them. But, overall, a home team gets the majority of close ones. Put it all together, and it’s home-court advantage.
Seven Seconds or Less Page 10
