Personally, I wish Iverson didn’t dress like a sixth grader when he shows up in public, mainly because, to some portion of the public, his choice of wardrobe perforce defines him as a thug. You can talk about his talent and his guts and his intensity and all of that, but it doesn’t make a scintilla of difference to that portion of the public that defines him by his cornrows, his tats, and his sideways cap. But to levy fines against a grown man for what he wears just seems wrong. Had the code been in effect in the 1970s, a whole generation of leisure-suit-wearing players and coaches would’ve spent half their waking hours writing checks to the league office.
Actually, it’s interesting how few player protests there have been during the season. Both the fines and the subsequent team appeals were made quietly. One wonders if the red states noticed how well players reacted to rules that most of them detested.
Out at courtside, L.A. superfan Penny Marshall, who by now has seen way too much of the Suns, having attended almost every game in both the Laker and Clipper series, is tapping Robert Sarver on the shoulder. (Behind her a fan holds a sign that says KOBE STILL SUCKS.)
“Are you the owner?” she asks.
“Yes I am,” says Sarver.
“I don’t like the Gorilla,” she says, talking about the Suns’ well-known mascot. “I don’t like some of the things he does.”
“I’m sorry about that,” says Sarver. “He’s been around for a long time.”
“Some of the things he does aren’t right. I think you should get rid of him.”
Sarver considers that for a second, then says: “We’ll get rid of you before we get rid of the Gorilla.”
Sarver reports that Penny, who is friends with Gentry from his stint coaching the Clippers, calls him an asshole. If it’s true, again, it’s not the first time.
On the blackboard in the locker room, Weber has written the phrases mental toughness, we have been here before, stay focused, and be ready to ride the wave.
“What does that last one mean?” I ask Gentry.
“Nobody knows exactly, least of all Phil,” he says. “But we coaches have to say stuff like that once in a while. It’s expected of us.”
It’s Game 7 night in San Antonio, too, and the players are watching the Dallas Mavericks surprise the Spurs in the other Western Conference semifinal.
“Damn, Dallas is playing hard,” says Kurt Thomas.
“In about one hour,” says Raja Bell, “the motherfucking Phoenix Suns are going to be playing harder.”
D’Antoni’s speech is calm and routine. He goes over the matchups and reminds them again and again: They have no answer for our speed. They have no answer if we keep running and moving. “All right, go ahead, Noel.”
Gillespie puts on the video, and, with Lionel Richie’s “All Night Long” playing in the background, the players watch a smorgasbord of fast breaks, dunks, nifty passes, and three-point shots. Marion is mouthing the words. Bell is grinning and nodding his head in rhythm. Tim Thomas looks so relaxed he might be going to the beach instead of a Game 7. Of course, he always looks like that.
“I could be wrong,” D’Antoni says, “but I think we’re ready.”
Dunleavy deeply respects Nash, but he couldn’t help having some gentle fun with all the talk about Nash’s fatigue. When someone asked him about Sam Cassell, Dunleavy, obviously referencing Nash, said, “Sam is really worn out. Very tired. Old legs. I don’t know if he can make a shot.”
Whether it is the Celebrini visit, the three days’ rest, or simply the blood rush of the moment—Nash has a 3-0 record in Game 7s—Nash looks like he is playing on a different pair of legs than he had over the past two weeks. He makes his first three-point shot, grabs a rebound, assists Marion on a three-pointer, assists Diaw on a layup, hits his own drive, and makes a steal in staking the Suns to a promising though hardly comfortable 32–28 lead. An even better sign for the Suns is what happens when Nash goes out for a four-minute rest in the second period—behind Bell and Barbosa, they extend the lead to nine points, and, when Nash comes back, he and Marion play well as the Suns protect the margin.
The 65–57 halftime lead somehow seems safe despite the Suns’ well-established predilection for letting opponents back in the game. If not safe, then safer than other such leads in the immediate past. Perhaps it’s because Nash (fourteen first-half points), his body mechanics having been fixed, has rediscovered his long-distance shooting touch (three of four three-pointers). Perhaps it’s because Marion (ten points, including two three-pointers) seems so comfortable. Perhaps it’s because the indefatigable Elton Brand (twenty points, five rebounds) seems to be the only Clipper doing damage, much as Bryant seemed to be playing as a one-man team in the first half of Game 7 of the Laker series. “Elton’s played every damn minute at top speed,” says Gentry, “so maybe he’ll wear down.” Perhaps it’s because Bell sent Livingston into the seats to break up a layup, setting the tone that this is the Suns’ house and this is the Suns’ game, and managed not to get called for a flagrant.
Dan D’Antoni makes one plea to the assistants: Stop yelling en masse at L.B. “You’re getting him all excited and confused,” says Dan. Everyone agrees that they had shouted too loudly and forced Barbosa into taking a hurried shot with the 24-second clock winding down.
Late in the third period, Barbosa’s brief, turbo-charged career is capsulated in one play. With the clock running down and the best option clearly being his one-on-one isolation drive against Livingston, he inexplicably gives up the ball to James Jones, the one Sun guaranteed not to be able to make a play. The bench goes apoplectic, so Barbosa runs over, gets the ball back from Jones, and takes it hard to the basket, all at warp speed. In two different spots in the pregame tip sheet he gives Barbosa, Dan D’Antoni had used the words “be aggressive.” Barbosa’s driving layup gives Phoenix a 94–79 lead after three periods.
The Clippers, relatively unshakeable throughout the series, finally fold, much as they did in the second overtime of Game 5. Marion scores twelve points in the fourth quarter to finish with thirty, and, with 1:52 left, D’Antoni takes him out to a huge ovation. Nash is still scurrying around when the buzzer sounds, wrapping up a deeply satisfying twenty-nine-point, eleven-assist game. The final is 127–107.
And, so, for Nash, it is on to Dallas, the team that let him ride off into free agency, something that has unquestionably helped his career but still hurts him inside.
Bell, who played with Nash for one season (2002–03) in Dallas before leaving to sign a free-agent contract with Utah, encounters Jerry Colangelo in the deliriously happy locker room.
“Thanks for bringing me here,” Bell tells him.
“It’s been our pleasure,” says Colangelo.
D’Antoni’s words are typically brief. Again, there is no time for celebration, Game 1 of the Western Conference final being two nights hence.
“All right, we’re going to Dallas,” he says. “What you guys did was unbelievable. We run into Dirk Nowitzki, but I don’t know if he can be too much better than Elton Brand. Wednesday comes quick. So get with Aaron, take care of your bodies. Let’s go. Let’s keep it rolling.” Then he goes into the coaches office and grabs a handful of the ubiquitous popcorn. “I’m so happy I can’t see straight,” he says. He turns up the TNT recap of the game. Charles Barkley is on the tube, now saying that, Okay, yes, I admit it, the Suns have been surprising, but the Dallas series will absolutely be the end of the road for them.
“That’s officially the end of the Barkley Room,” D’Antoni says. He thinks for a second and conjures up a Suns’ player from the early days. “We’re renaming it the Neal Walk Room.”
Back in the training room, Nash and Bell are sitting in their respective tubs of restorative ice, Bell sipping a beer, Nash downing an energy drink. They, too, are watching the broadcast. Bell shakes his head and says to Nash, “Is Barkley retarded or what?”
At that moment, Robert Sarver leads a delegation of minority owners in a congratulatory processional throug
h the locker room and right into the training room, stopping to shake, wetly, with the be-tubbed Nash and Bell. Sarver has been the owner of the Phoenix Suns for exactly twenty-three months, and he will be going to his second straight Western Conference final. Donald Sterling has owned the Clippers for twenty-five years and has never gone once. This Robert Sarver is one lucky man.
Time-Out
March 31
TORONTO
Reuniting with a Departed Family Member
The Suns followed up disastrous losses in New Jersey and Milwaukee with a win over the Indiana Pacers. They arrive in Toronto at four a.m. after a marathon session at airport customs.
“I think I’ll call Bryan,” says D’Antoni. “See if he’s up.”
“He probably is, worrying about the game,” says Gentry.
Six hours later, Bryan Colangelo, now the general manager of the Raptors and the protagonist in one of the most sudden general manager exits in sports history, picks up D’Antoni and shows him his new digs in Toronto. D’Antoni and Colangelo had a close relationship when they were together in Phoenix. In all likelihood, D’Antoni would never have made it to his present position had Colangelo not brought him in as an assistant in June 2002. Actually, Colangelo’s wife, Italian-born Barbara Bottini, was largely responsible. Long before D’Antoni and Colangelo knew each other, Bottini and Laurel D’Antoni had worked together for the Milan basketball team that participated in the first McDonald’s Open in Milwaukee in 1987. (When pressed, and sometimes when not pressed, D’Antoni will remind you that he had a triple-double in that game against the Bucks, although the Italians lost.) Bottini was always telling her husband, “You should keep your eye on this guy. Really sharp, really-popular over in Italy as a player, then a coach.” They finally met in Italy in the summer of 2001, when D’Antoni was still coaching Benetton Treviso, and, within a year, D’Antoni was an assistant with the Suns. And Colangelo, with the blessing of his father, was the one who elevated D’Antoni to the head position after Frank Johnson was fired in December 2003.
Colangelo seems energized by the challenge of being general manager of one of the least successful franchises in the league. But he is sad about how suddenly and bitterly it ended in Phoenix. He had been executive of the year for the 2004–05 season and he and Dave Griffin had arguably done a better job this year, bringing in players like Boris Diaw, Eddie House, and Kurt Thomas. True, the front office hadn’t been able to convince Sarver to keep Joe Johnson, but Phoenix had traded away Quentin Richardson (for Thomas) and, in truth, the Suns simply didn’t miss Richardson and felt the trade was a good one even after Thomas got hurt.
At Air Canada Centre that evening, Colangelo makes his appointed pregame rounds, shaking hands with the Suns’ players and sitting down for a few minutes with the coaches. Jerry Colangelo is along on the trip, too, though he is due back in Phoenix the following morning to make a breakfast speech at seven a.m. He has come to be with his son.
The big change since the younger Colangelo’s departure, the coaches tell him, is restaurant choices. Colangelo is a bit of a gourmand and oenophile; the tastes of D’Antoni, now the team’s GM and head coach (during the season he is concentrating almost totally on the latter and letting David Griffin do the former) and the one who whips out the credit card, run to pasta, burgers, and Diet Coke. “Yesterday in Indianapolis,” Gentry tells Colangelo, “we went to Steak ’n Shake. Kind of place you wouldn’t be caught dead in, B.”
Bryan Colangelo is wearing, as is his custom, a suit and custom dress shirt with a high collar. (No tie.) Dick Van Arsdale, a former Suns player and now a team executive, calls it the “Flying Nun look.” Colangelo seems reserved, but, then, he always is. Jerry is from the old school, a product of the era when you courted the press, told them stories so they would sell your product. Bryan used to joke that “the only way to keep a secret about the Suns was to keep it secret from Jerry.” The son, who has a degree in business management and applied economics from Cornell and worked in commercial real estate in New York City before his father asked him to come back and take a job with the Suns, is from the new school. He’s more official, more button-down. But in recent years Bryan had relaxed a little bit, the cumulative effect, possibly, of hanging around the casual D’Antoni.
Having a reporter around goes against Bryan’s essential nature, his “comfort level” to use Phil Weber’s phrase. But he fought those instincts and went out of his way to make me feel at home. And I felt bad when it went wrong between him and Sarver.
A schism was perhaps inevitable. Since 1968, the year that a twenty-eight-year-old Chicago Bulls executive and former University of Illinois point guard named Jerry Colangelo was asked by a group of owners to oversee the basketball operations of a new franchise in Phoenix, the Suns had been essentially a family organization. Or, more properly, a Jerry organization. Colangelo, a lower-middle-class kid from Chicago—his father worked in a mill and painted houses—shepherded the team through its early years, stepping in as coach on two occasions when he had to fire the incumbent. He turned down an opportunity to be the top sports exec at Madison Square Garden, running the NBA Knicks and the NHL Rangers, because “my instincts told me to stay in Phoenix.” Also his wallet. In October 1987, with the franchise at an all-time low because of a drug scandal, Colangelo and a team of investors paid $44.5 million to buy the Suns. He owned only 1 percent of the team but he was the chief exec. Eventually, he upped his stake to 38 percent. And in April 2004, he sold to Sarver and his group for $401 million, the highest price ever paid for an NBA franchise.
Through most of that time, 1968 to 2004, Jerry made the big calls. If Jerry didn’t like you, you were gone. Bye-bye, Dennis Johnson. If you had personal problems that made the newspapers, you were gone. Adios, Jason Kidd. In 1987, Jerry brought back a gravelly voiced college coach named Cotton Fitzsimmons, whom he had first hired in 1970, to run player personnel, then made him head coach a year later. A plaque outside of Griffin’s personnel office on the fourth floor of the arena still carries the name of Fitzsimmons, who died from lung cancer in July 2004. Probably not a week goes by when Cotton’s name is not conjured up somewhere in the building. During film sessions, Iavaroni is liable to offer up Fitzsimmons’s immortal quote about a poor albeit energetic effort put forth by a reserve. “You’re playing hard,” Cotton would say in his raspy voice, “but you’re killing us.” Cotton’s widow, JoAnn, still has two prime seats behind the Suns’ bench.
It was a close-knit, “small” organization. Many former Suns—Dick Van Arsdale, Alvan Adams, Connie Hawkins, Mark West, Eddie Johnson, John Shumate, Dan Majerle, Tom Chambers—took jobs with the franchise after their playing careers had ended. Cedric Ceballos is the arena emcee, becoming the first former player to debase himself in this manner. Al McCoy has been the Suns’ broadcaster since 1972. Ruthie Dryjanski came with Colangelo from Chicago in 1968 and is still his assistant.
Jerry brought in his son in 1990 to assist Fitzsimmons in personnel and six years later he made him the GM.
So along comes Sarver, an outsider, a banker who lives in San Diego. Sarver didn’t know, or particularly care, about the “Original Sun” (Van Arsdale) or the Hawk (Hawkins) or the infamous “heads” call on a 1969 NBA coin flip that turned up “tails,” and enabled Milwaukee to draft Lew Alcindor (who became Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, the leading scorer in NBA history) and Phoenix to end up with Neal Walk. Sarver had his own style. One of first questions he asked the Colangelos and D’Antoni was whether the Suns should pursue Kobe Bryant, a free agent at the time. Sarver was all about flash and dash. He danced with cheerleaders, cavorted with the Gorilla, started the wave, dunked from a trampoline, launched himself along the floor like a human bowling ball during a time-out diversion, waved a foam finger in the air, insulted the San Antonio Spurs. He fired, then “reassigned” a security guard who stopped him one night from going into a restricted area because he didn’t recognize the new owner. He e-mails D’Antoni quotes such as this one from Mario Andretti: �
��If things are running smooth, you’re not moving fast enough.”
Stylistically, Sarver is, let’s say, one hundred and thirty degrees removed from Jerry. And one hundred and eighty degrees removed from Bryan.
Before Sarver bought the team, he told Jerry that he would not be taking that active a role in running the team. It is beyond naive, however, that Colangelo counted on that. When you pay your $401 million, it’s your circus and you’re wearing the top hat. Going from the anonymity of banking to the large-font type on the daily newspaper clearly agrees with him.
One of the words Sarver never heard in the banking business was “renegotiation.” Banking is a heavily regulated industry, and, by and large, his top executives stayed without getting extensions or new deals. Bankers are generally not pursued in the open market. Customers do not form lines in front of Sarver’s banks and yell, “Yo, you gotta get Will Forrester here, man. He da man on mergers and acquisitions, dog.” Talk radio does not jawbone about your accounting department.
But it is what happens in sports. And in early February, the Raptors, having fired Rob Babcock, came at Colangelo, whom they had first identified as a candidate in 2004. Bryan said he wasn’t interested, though their financial package was lucrative, perhaps as much as $3 million per year, more than three times what Colangelo was making with the family organization that was becoming less like family. But Sarver, surprisingly, gave Colangelo permission to talk to the Raptors. The implication was: I hope they do talk.
As Colangelo’s discussions with the Raptors grew increasingly serious, that would’ve been the time for Sarver to intercede and guarantee that Colangelo would get a new deal commensurate with his track record of drafting players and making free-agent deals that turned the Suns into a contender. Colangelo never asked Sarver to match the Toronto offer. He wanted a three-year package worth about $5.2 million, broken into $1.5, $1.7, and $2 million. Given the size of the Raptors’ offer and his accomplishments, the request seemed beyond reasonable. But Sarver wouldn’t say yes, agreeing only to the possibility of giving him a new contract at the end of the season. It was then that Colangelo decided that he was not wanted by Sarver, and he accepted the Raptors deal. He was officially introduced as the new general manager on February 27. The kid who had once been a Suns’ ballboy; the kid who told his father that he shouldn’t trade Dennis Johnson for Rick Robey; the kid who had learned the business through a kind of genetic osmosis, listening to Dad negotiate with agents during summer vacations or exchange information with talent scouts; the kid who had drafted Shawn Marion and Amare’ Stoudemire and signed Steve Nash—that kid was leaving.
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