“Yeah, good luck tonight,” says Romano. “But only a little.”
The Suns get off to a great start, grabbing a 20–10 lead. Barbosa’s speed is giving the Lakers particular problems. On defense, Barbosa sticks gamely with Bryant, leaning in close, trying to move his feet instead of defending with his hands, the pregame tip that Dan D’Antoni emphasized. Early on, Bryant pump-fakes Barbosa and comes up high with his elbows, and Barbosa recoils, his lip split. The Suns coaches leap off the bench in protest, raising their arms and flapping their elbows, like chickens, trying to get the referees to make that call. It is impossible for a third party to determine whether or not Bryant is doing it on purpose since he is such a fluid and skillful player.
And then the Lakers get hot, going on a 27–10 run behind Bryant. But just when it seems that the Suns are back on their heels, they rally to retake the lead. When Barbosa goes out, Marion switches to Bryant and does an outstanding job. In a perfect world, Marion would guard Bryant. He matches up better size-wise, has the athleticism to stay in front of Kobe, and, being a superior leaper, has a chance to bother Bryant’s jump shot. But the coaches still like Marion on Odom, a nod to the Iavaroni philosophy of letting Bryant have his but containing everyone else.
With twenty-seven seconds left before halftime, Bryant fouls Barbosa. The Brazilian Blur walks to the line, holding his jaw in severe pain, a chorus of boos raining down on him. But he drains both free throws, his fourteenth and fifteenth points of an exquisitely played first half, as Dan D’Antoni, the proud father, punches his right fist into his palm. When Bryant fails to get a call near halftime, he lifts his jersey up over his head in protest, the same gesture he made in Game 3. Quinter jumps off the bench and screams at the official to call a technical, and Iavaroni calms him down. “Let’s not us get one,” he says. The Suns take a shaky 60–57 lead into the dressing room.
The coaches meet outside briefly before going into the locker room. This is the time when D’Antoni says little and considers suggestions.
“Kobe’s taking a lot of shots,” says Iavaroni, glancing at the half-time box.
“Except for that stretch in the first quarter, we never went two possessions without scoring,” says Gentry.
“Basically, we’re getting what we want offensively,” says Weber.
“Defensively, all I’d say is that we have to plug [get a defender stepping into the foul-line area to cover penetration to the basket] and have a softer trap,” says Iavaroni. “It’s become split city.” (He means the Laker dribblers have been able to get between the Suns’ double-team defenders.)
As Dr. Tom Carter sews together Barbosa’s lip with three stitches, D’Antoni tells the team: “That’s a helluva half. We weathered an injury to L.B. and a Kobe shot that banked in and might still be up there. Now, having said that, we can do a better job of rebounding. [The Suns have an egregiously low total of eight rebounds.] Keep tightening up our defense. Keep remembering their tendencies. Coaches?”
“When we can’t trap,” says Iavaroni, “we need more plug.” D’Antoni grabs a marker and sketches a defensive alignment. Any assistant is free to make any comment during halftime, but it is almost always D’Antoni who draws. There isn’t sufficient time for everyone to make a move to the greaseboard.
“And when we come down in transition, and they have to talk to each other and communicate, they get all screwed up,” says Gentry. “So keep running.”
“And keep doing a good job with your emotions,” adds Iavaroni. “The pushing, the shoving, don’t let that get to you. You haven’t yet.”
Barbosa is the last one out of the locker room. “It’s okay, Leandro,” says Carter. “The stitches will hold. Just don’t bite down. I know it’s difficult not to, but don’t bite down.”
The game continues to be tight. Bryant is fantastic, but the Suns don’t get discouraged. Near the end of the third period, Nash drives by Vujacic, gets to the basket, draws a foul, and completes a three-point play to give the Suns an 88–85 lead. Vujacic, absurdly, has decided to pick up Nash near midcourt and crowd him when he has the ball, even though Nash gets by him almost every time.
“I need a blow,” Nash tells D’Antoni in the huddle between periods. “I’m going back in the locker room. I’ll come out with ten minutes to go.” (Nash sometimes does that when there is not enough room to stretch near the bench.)
“I may send someone to get you before that,” D’Antoni says, smiling.
Nash returns on schedule. The score stays tight. There is the feeling that this game will decide the series. The Lakers need to end it on this night; the Suns need to stay alive. With 1:45 left, Bryant has the ball in the deep left corner, near the Phoenix bench. The possession had been horrid and the shot clock is winding down. Marion is in Bryant’s face. Kobe releases a line-drive jumper—“the raise-up” as Iavaroni calls it—and it goes in. It is just a ball-breaker of a shot, one that no other player on the planet would’ve made under pressure, and the Lakers lead 103–102.
Tim Thomas misses a jump shot, the Lakers score on a Bryant drive, and L.A.’s lead is 105–102. The season hangs in the balance. Nash misses a desperate three-point jumper, but Marion swoops in out of nowhere and grabs the offensive rebound. With the Suns needing a three-pointer, he has only one play—back out to a wide-open Tim Thomas, who is standing behind the arc. Marion makes the diagonal pass, Thomas takes his time, the same seemingly unhurried windup, the same deadpan concentration—go ahead, wave in my face—the same perfectly executed stroke…and the shot goes in. Tie game, 105–105.
The Lakers call time-out, with one more chance. Everyone from Larry David to the dimmest bulb of a Laker Girl knows it’s going to Bryant. With Marion right up on him, Bryant gets it about twenty feet from the basket on the right side. Instead of driving toward the hoop and perhaps drawing a foul, Bryant settles for a fallaway that doesn’t come close. Was it the best he could get with Marion on him? Or was it Bryant’s excessive hubris at work, the I-can-make-
anything mentality?
“Dumb-ass shot,” concludes Dan D’Antoni.
The Staples Center is almost hushed. Over on the Suns’ bench, the players and coaches struggle to keep their emotional equilibrium. Throughout the game, they had expected to win, but, as time ran down, it just didn’t appear in the cards. The Stoudemire injury, the Kurt Thomas injury, the Bell suspension—it was all too much to overcome. But now they had life. Tim Thomas, the Rental, who had been sitting at home for most of the season, 2,500 miles from Phoenix, had perhaps saved the season.
And, suddenly, in the overtime period, Phoenix can do no wrong, the offense flowing as well as it had at any point during the season. Diaw jump shot. Diaw short hook. Marion layup. Diaw layup. Thomas jumper. Marion layup. Marion dunk. The Lakers are dying and forced to foul. Nash two free throws. Nash two more free throws. The Suns put up twenty-one points in the five minutes, which would translate to a fifty-point quarter.
With fifty-seven seconds left and the Suns ahead 118–111, I approach the bench.
“Is it okay?” I ask Dan D’Antoni and Todd Quinter.
“No!” they say in unison, remembering Game 4.
So I squeeze into a space next to Jerry Colangelo, who is standing behind the bench.
As the clock runs down, Nicholson sidles up to D’Antoni to congratulate him and praise him for the way his team plays. D’Antoni thanks him and says, “I can’t believe the shots Kobe has made tonight.” Bryant finishes with fifty points, having hit twenty of his thirty-five shots, many of them under severe duress.
“He’s great,” agrees Jack, “but he tries to do too much.”
“Well, we could debate that,” says D’Antoni.
The Lakers score thirteen points in the overtime but are overwhelmed by the Suns’ onslaught. It was almost as if they were a dummy defensive team, ordered to stand around while the offense runs around and through them.
As the horn consecrates the 126–118 victory, Iavaroni, always thinking, warns the
players: “Don’t say anything to the fans. We’ll be back here to play the Clippers in the second round.”
The dressing room has the feel of a team moving on. Everybody warns everybody that there is still work to be done—a Game 7 at home—but, then, everybody starts celebrating again. It is almost impossible not to treat this like a series clincher. The list of heroes is long. Nash scored thirty-two points, made all thirteen of his free throws, and also had thirteen assists, squeezing his aching body into small crevices and getting off all manner of unorthodox shots, with Vujacic usually the victim. Nash says he felt like putting an arm around his opponent and saying, “Look, I don’t mean to offer advice, but you can’t guard me, so why do you play so close to me?”
Barbosa, stitched, had twenty-two points, and, though on the brink with five fouls, managed not to collect the sixth that would’ve disqualified him. That from a young player who had averaged only 9.7 minutes in twelve playoff games last season. Thomas had twenty-one points, and, well, all he did was save the season. Marion had twenty points, twelve rebounds (including the one that preceded the Thomas shot), and played brilliantly on defense against both Bryant and Odom; significantly, it was Marion, not Barbosa, who was assigned to check Bryant at the key junctures. Diaw had nineteen points and seven assists, two more than the combined total of the Lakers’ point guards, the perpetually disgruntled Parker and the operatic Vujacic. Quiet James Jones had ten points and five key rebounds.
“All right, guys,” says D’Antoni, clapping his hands, “the good news is, we won the game; the bad news is, Raja got in a fight in a bar, and he’s out for Game 7.” For a split second, a few players believe him, but D’Antoni’s smile gives it away. Nash and Marion enter, having been detained for TV interviews. Nash signals for attention. “All right, we’re only up four-to-two in this series,” he says, referring to what he considers the gyp job in Game 4. “We only need one more.” Everybody laughs.
“I gotta use that one in the interview, Steve,” says Mike. “Okay?”
“Just give me a footnote,” says Nash.
And then Tim Thomas comes in to wild applause. He holds up his hands, like a prize fighter who just earned a decision.
“Listen up,” says Nash. “We have to get our energy back. Quick. Regroup. We’re happy, but that took a lot of energy. Take some deep breaths. Relax. And let’s come out and get ’em at home.”
“Steve’s right,” says D’Antoni. “Saturday will be a five o’clock game. Get your rest. Make sure you take care of yourself. Get your emotions under control. And we are going to bust their ass on Saturday, all right?” Marion’s “1-2-3 SUNS” is as loud as it has been all year.
Nash holds up his cell phone. “It’s Raja, guys,” he says. “He wanted to tell us, ‘Good game.’ ” Another cheer goes up. Bell had watched the game from a Beverly Hills restaurant, accompanied by Kevin Tucker and two friends. Several fans had recognized him, but he managed not to get into a brawl.
The TNT postgame show is on and Pat Burke says, “Turn it up.” Everyone wants to hear if Charles Barkley is going to find a way to blast the Suns. The volume comes up in time to hear Barkley say, “…you have to say this about the Suns. Steve Nash makes everybody better.”
The din has quieted down by now and there is Marion sitting alone, a towel over his head, his feet in a bucket of ice, his downcast mood transparent.
“Great game, Shawn,” I say.
He doesn’t respond. Then, from under the towel, I hear: “We win, it’s everybody but me; we lose, it’s my fault. I don’t understand that.”
It doesn’t seem to make sense, the cocaptain dispirited after the most important win of the season. But such is the Marion perspective. He played fifty minutes, most on the team. He went to war against both Bryant (outside) and Odom (inside); no other Sun could’ve done that, perhaps no other player in the NBA could’ve done it. He got the key rebound. He looked like he could touch the sky when he made two alley-oop dunks in overtime. But it is Tim Thomas who makes the big shot and Steve Nash who gets the props from Barkley and makes the locker room speech.
D’Antoni notices Marion’s mood, too, and a few minutes later I hear the coach say to Jerry Brown, who covers the Suns for the East Valley Tribune: “Make sure you mention Shawn. We couldn’t have done it without him.”
An hour later, Bell walks onto the team plane, wearing an ear-to-ear smile.
“I am emotionally drained,” he says. “Watching was much, much worse than playing. You can’t even believe how I’m looking forward to Game 7.”
It is 1:30 a.m. when the Suns’ bus arrives back at US Airways Center, but a couple dozen fans are waiting with signs and cheers. The last time the Suns won three straight playoff games against the Lakers was 1993, when the first round was best-of-five. That team, led by Barkley, made it to the Finals.
One of the signs was for Tim Thomas: GLAD YOU’RE HERE, it reads.
Twenty-Second Time-Out
March 2
The Rental Arrives; Boris and Amare’ Go One-on-One
Tim Thomas is lacing up his sneakers in the Suns’ locker room, beaming at his new environs, preparing for his first practice after signing a free-agent contract. D’Antoni, sucking on a Tootsie Pop, comes over to say hello.
“I just want to let you know,” says the coach, “that I’m never going to get mad at you for shooting. I’m going to get mad at you for not shooting.”
Could this be heaven? Chased out of Chicago and here’s the coach of a championship contender telling him he has carte blanche to fire at will?
Just then Steve Nash walks in. Thomas springs up, all six-feet-ten-inches of him, rushes over to Nash, and lifts him a foot off the floor. “Hey, man, I am so glad to see you,” he says.
Nash is surprised but hugs Thomas back. Then he looks over at Leandro Barbosa who is getting dressed.
“Hey, L.B.,” says Nash, “when’s the last time you fuckin’ hugged me?”
Practice is light, as usual, and D’Antoni ends it by running the hilarious Pat Burke Hair Restoration Video produced by the Suns’ marketing department. The bald-headed Burke, wearing a wig, plays the starring role and everyone is almost on the floor laughing by the time it’s over. “I can’t remember anything like this in Chicago or New York,” says Thomas.
Everyone, including Thomas, lingers to watch Amare’ Stoudemire go through one of his first strenuous workouts. Boris Diaw has been chosen to go one-on-one with him, and, in a way, this will be a test for Diaw, too. He came into camp as a guard or a forward—no one was quite sure which—and also brought along a reputation for being soft. As late as December, there were still concerns about Diaw’s competitiveness. But by that time there were no concerns about his talent. D’Antoni had started spotting him in at center (almost by default with Stoudemire out), and his ball-handling dexterity and court sense had become endemic to the Suns’ attack. (It used to be that the coach would never have Nash and Marion out at the same time; now it’s Nash and Diaw.) But now he’s being asked to go to battle with a beast. Stoudemire’s instructions from Aaron Nelson are: Go hard.
Everyone’s attention is focused on Stoudemire at first. Nelson looks on with a critical eye, but Stoudemire appears fine. As the game goes on, something else happens: The bystanders begin to realize how incredibly gifted Diaw is as a one-on-one player. In games, he has for the most part resisted driving to his left, largely because he can usually get by his bigger and slower opponents by going right, but in this one-on-one duel he crosses over, backs Stoudemire down, and spins to his left for a couple of hoops. He even makes a baby left-handed hook.
After the highly entertaining twenty-minute showdown is over, most of the conversation is about Stoudemire, which is to be expected. Everyone is happy that, physically, he held up and that, while his conditioning must get better before he can return to action, it wasn’t bad. Stoudemire himself looks pleased.
But it remains for Eddie House to give voice to what everyone is really thinking: “Boris
brought the French pastry on Amare’s ass.”
Back in the locker room, Thomas smiles with pleasure. “Man,” he says, “this is a lot different than teams I’ve been on. Mike is great, real loose. And that guy [he points to Nash] is somebody everybody wants to play with.”
Later, I ask Nash what his history is with Thomas.
“I barely know him,” says Nash. “I was surprised when he hugged me, too. It was great.”
It could’ve been the most telling compliment Nash received all season.
Chapter Eleven
[The Second Season]
Phoenix, May 6……………….
SERIES TIED 3–3
“So, let me get this straight. The Clippers series is four-out-of-seven, right? Because this one we needed five.”
The last time the Lakers were in town, one of them left behind a page of their first-round scouting report at the Ritz Carlton. A friend of the Suns found it and passed it along. It isn’t the first time the Suns had picked up a smidgen of Laker intelligence. Early in the season, they were preparing for a shootaround for that night’s game at the Staples Center when audio of a Laker practice session filtered into their dressing room. The L.A. coaches were discussing how they were going to defend a certain Suns’ play. So late in the game that night, D’Antoni changed the play and got Eddie House an easy basket.
The scouting report isn’t that revealing and is not nearly as entertaining as the Orlando Magic scouting report on the Suns that was inadvertently left in a locker room last season. In describing the Phoenix offense, one of the Magic assistants had written: “Literally nothing is frowned upon.”
It was one of D’Antoni’s favorite moments of the season, and he referred back to it often, this idea that at least one team in the league saw the Suns’ environment as rather the basketball counterpart of Lord of the Flies, chaos the rule of the day. “Remember, guys,” he would say after the Suns ran an opponent out of the gym, “literally nothing is frowned upon.”
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