Got to Give the People What They Want: True Stories and Flagrant Opinions from Center Court

by Jalen Rose

  Copyright © 2015 by Jalen Rose

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Crown Archetype, an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  www.crownpublishing.com

  Crown Archetype and colophon is a registered trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.

  ISBN 9780804138901

  eBook ISBN 9780804138918

  Cover design by Elena Giavaldi

  Cover lettering by Luca Barcellona

  Cover photograph by Zach Cordner

  v4.1

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  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Foreword by Bill Simmons

  Introduction

  First Quarter: Growing Up

  1. From a Freezing-Cold Night to a Dusty Film Room, or How I Discovered That I Was Meant to Be an NBA Player

  2. How I Learned What It Really Takes to Become a Hustler

  3. From Sitting at a Bar to the Sneaker Wars of the Twenty-first Century

  Second Quarter: Five Times

  4. The Revolution

  5. Nut Check

  6. The Inside Story of One of the Most Famous Plays in Basketball History

  7. What Didn’t Happen and What Really Happened

  Photo Insert

  Third Quarter: The NBA Life

  8. What the NBA Can Teach You About Life, Luck, and Fate

  9. The Three Things That Mean More than Anything in the NBA

  10. From the NBA Finals to a Grand Tour of Basketball’s Worst Teams (and Almost Being Assassinated in Between)

  Fourth Quarter: Press Pass

  11. From BET to ESPN and All Points in Between, or Why Chris Webber and I Haven’t Spoken in Five Years

  12. Always Imperfect, Always Trying to Be Better, and How to Save the Ones Everyone Else Forgot About

  Acknowledgments

  With love and humble thanks to my ma and grammie for teaching me how to be a man. Failure was never an option!

  FOREWORD BY BILL SIMMONS

  In February of 2014, Jalen Rose and I were in New Orleans for NBA All-Star Weekend. Jalen had just turned forty-one, so we taped our NBA Countdown show and headed out for a belated birthday dinner in the French Quarter. I ordered a Moscow Mule (vodka, ginger beer, and lime), which arrived in a fancy copper mug. Jalen had already gotten wine, but he became jealous of my special mug and ordered one, too. (Just like that, Jalen had a new favorite drink. He’s that easy.) He also requested a well-done lobster for his entrée, which happens at every nice Jalen dinner for three reasons: First, he loves lobster, but doesn’t like when it’s squishy. Second, he grew up in Detroit with absolutely nothing, about as poor as a little kid can possibly be, which continued to be the case even after the Fab Five started printing millions for Michigan (Jalen and his teammates weren’t seeing a dime). You know what Jalen Rose wasn’t seeing a lot of from age one to age twenty? Lobster. You don’t have to be a psychology major to understand the symbolism there; even Jalen admits as much. He ended up playing in the NBA for thirteen years. At some point—and he doesn’t remember exactly when—he could afford fancy dinners, and he could afford the freaking lobster. Well done. Or he’s sending it back like Mutombo.

  Jalen is a creature of habit. He orders the same entrées and drinks and junk-food items. He haunts the same eating and drinking establishments. He falls asleep on airplanes during the exact same time (about five minutes before it takes off) and wakes up during the exact same time (right before it lands). There are thirty funnier things that I wish I could list (but can’t). Maybe for the next book. He’s the most unpredictably predictable friend I ever had. And that French Quarter dinner was the perfect example. I knew he’d order the lobster, and I knew he’d get jealous of my Moscow Mule and want one for himself. But I didn’t know that one of Jalen’s friends would randomly deliver a homemade birthday cake that night, or that Jalen would be touched enough to cruise down Bourbon Street while lugging that unwieldy box. My biggest regret of my entire Jalen friendship was never snapping a picture—there was Jalen Rose moving through a swarm of mostly drunk people, all six feet eight and a half inches of him, holding a birthday cake box as people stared and shouted his name. It just seemed fitting and weird and funny and all so Jalen.

  The man isn’t even sneaky-famous; he’s openly and undeniably famous. In the early 1990s, the Fab Five was just as well known as Arsenio, Tupac, Denzel, Snoop, and Dre. Something like forty million people watched C-Webb mistakenly call timeout in that Carolina game. Everyone who played basketball, at any level, started wearing baggier shorts and infusing extra swagger in their game because of Jalen and Jalen first. (And yeah, I include myself, a dorky white kid attending a mostly Irish-Catholic college in Massachusetts.) In 1998, Jalen’s Pacers took Jordan’s Bulls to the brink of a stunning Game 7 home defeat, the closest MJ came to blowing any of his six titles. In the 2000 finals, the Pacers gave Shaq and Kobe everything they could handle. You’re talking about twelve to twenty million viewers per night for any of those games. It’s one of many reasons why people always approach Jalen just to say they named their child after him—not just male babies, but female babies, too. I stopped noticing after a while. It’s just part of being around him. People loved those teams, and those games, and especially, him. He was always the coolest member of the Fab Five, their heart and soul, their trendsetter, their chief trash-talker, their best interview, their fearless leader and crunch-time creator.

  I never knew him in college, but like so many others, I felt like I did. He’s been famous since he was eighteen years old, only he never went Macaulay Culkin on us. Fame suits him. He knows every famous black person between the ages of twenty-five and fifty-five—literally, all of them—but he’d never brag about it. He loves being around all types of people. When he moves in crowds with people yelping his name (JAAAAA-LENNNNNNNN!!!), he’s learned to never stop moving. Puts in the time, makes people feel good…but never comes to an actual stop. If he stops, that’s it. He’ll get swarmed. Even on Bourbon Street—while wearing a suit and hauling a birthday cake. It made no sense at all, but it made total sense, because that’s Jalen Rose.

  We became friends because we love basketball, we love to work hard, we make each other laugh, we love early hip-hop, we love Good Times, we love our daughters, and we love Larry Bird. That’s really it. In so many ways beyond the obvious ones, we’re polar opposites. My dad is my best friend; Jalen never met his father. I’m a Celtics fan; he’s a Pistons fan. I grew up in a Boston suburb and went to prep school in Connecticut; he had the flip side of that experience in every respect. Same for our college experiences. Same for our professional experiences—me writing about sports, him playing them—and then eventually, we crossed paths and became mismatched brothers for life. My favorite Jalen quality: his uncanny ability to slide into any social situation. It’s truly remarkable, surpassed only by his generosity and steadfast determination to remain a role model for everyone back home. Everything he’s done with his charter school in Detroit, the Jalen Rose Leadership Academy, will outlive him long after he’s gone. And like everything else Jalen does, he’s involved. Didn’t just slap his name on the school and hand it over to people. He runs the thing.

  When I found out Jalen was writing a book, I knew it would work because he’s lived the most
fascinating life, hands down, of anyone I ever met. (If you’re keeping score, Jalen left out about 298 Jalen After Dark classics that would have sold more copies. It’s really a shame. THE MAN STARRED IN THE NBA FOR THIRTEEN YEARS! AND WAS REALLY REALLY FAMOUS! For a married guy with two kids, there is nothing more exciting than Jalen saying the words “I shouldn’t tell this story…”) Over the past four decades, he crossed paths with hundreds of characters, overcame more adversity than anyone realizes, and somehow kept his trademark sense of humor the entire time. Jalen has no secrets; he’s the most up-front person I know. Most ex–NBA stars avoid discussing life on the road, or the reasons behind petty feuds, or even the things most players really care about (like women, women, and also, women), but Jalen has been candid in his Grantland podcasts for four years and counting. He can’t hide anything. It’s just not in him. Most celebrities would be ashamed to discuss the days when they had bad acne or choppy teeth, or the ghastly Draft Day suit they never should have worn. Jalen brings that stuff up all the time. He’s proud that he came from nothing. He wears every life scar like a badge of honor. He has a fear of conflict that’s both hilarious and adorable; our buddy Jacoby and I tease him about it all the time. He tells his friends that he loves them, tells them that he’s proud of them for no reason, hugs them just for the sake of hugging them. If he was your friend or your teammate, at any point in time, then he has your back for life.

  I feel the same way about my own friends, actually. That’s probably why we gravitated toward each other. One time we traveled to Austin to film a barbecue video for Grantland. We stayed at the St. Cecilia Hotel, only the most unexpectedly beautiful hotel in America. Jalen had a garden in the back of his room, as well as a flowered blue robe that he immediately threw on. He lounged on a swinging bench facing the garden, immediately falling sound asleep in his robe; naturally, I snapped multiple photos for blackmail material later. (He looked like a failed 1980s WWE character that was loosely based on Prince Akeem from Coming to America.) After Jalen woke up, we headed to a local bar to play shuffleboard and watch hockey. (Two things you wouldn’t expect Jalen to do, right?) The locals kept approaching Jalen and grabbing their ninety seconds apiece before eventually leaving him alone. Since we were surrounded by Jacoby, a few other Grantlanders, and my two best friends from college, we might have ordered a beverage or two. Jalen was especially giddy because Fab Five teammate Ray Jackson was en route; once Ray waltzed through the door, it felt like watching Andy and Red reunite at the end of College Hoops Shawshank. And I was so happy to see my two college buddies again, and Jalen was so happy to be with his old college buddy again…and everything just kind of made sense. We had nothing in common and everything in common. For one night only, we had mutated into the new Fab Five. It’s ridiculous, but that’s how it felt. And it was because of Jalen Rose. The man has a knack for making everyone feel like he’s been their friend forever. I bet you feel that way after you finish this book.

  INTRODUCTION

  I’ve always tricked out my cars, even when I didn’t have enough money for gas. I’m from Detroit, the automobile capital of America, so I take pride in my rides. Back in high school, my friends used to call me Inspector Gadget because I messed with my cars so much. I once had a Dodge Omni that you had to start by turning the key, pressing the gas, and then hitting a switch by the clutch. It was like opening a trick door—no one could do it but me.

  When I got to the NBA, I bought the biggest vehicles on the market, including a burgundy Chevy Suburban I called the Ice Box and, later, a Ford Excursion. I refashioned the Excursion’s entire back half like a limousine, with a leather U-seat, a divider, and two TVs. It was unlike anything else on the road, which was exactly what I wanted.

  But inside that Excursion, I came to a realization I’ll never forget:

  If you’re driving alone at 2:00 a.m., wondering What the hell am I going to do now?, it doesn’t matter what kind of car you’re in.

  You might have expected this book to start on a basketball court with the Fab Five at the Final Four. Or maybe at the NBA Finals, when I went up against Shaq and Kobe. But there’s plenty of time to get to all of that. The best place to start is the day my life changed: Tuesday, February 19, 2002, driving north on I-65.

  That night, the playoff-bound Pacers traded me, their leading scorer, to the Bulls, the absolute worst team in the NBA. The deal was preceded by shady leaks to the press and untruths (more on that later), but the only thing I said publicly at the time was “In every adverse situation, successful people find opportunity.”

  I was serious.

  I could have taken a day or two to get myself together before I traveled to Chicago. Instead, I’d gotten on the road right away. A few days before, I had packed most of my stuff, knowing what was coming. When I got the call that the deal was done, I threw it all into my truck, got on the road, and drove north on I-65, straight to a hotel in downtown Chicago. The next morning, I woke up early, took my physical at 7:00, met with coach Bill Cartwright at 8:00, and got cleared to play. That night, without ever practicing with my new team, I scored thirty-six points to lead us to victory over the Knicks. Win number thirteen of the season. The Bulls won three straight games after my arrival before we spiraled back down into another stretch of losses. Which confirmed what I already knew driving to Chicago.

  I was going to have to find something to keep me busy during the playoffs.

  —

  THREE OF the previous four years I’d played basketball through Memorial Day with the Pacers. We had gone to two Eastern Conference finals and one NBA Finals. In college, I’d been to two Final Fours with Michigan. In high school, I’d been on two state title-winning teams. But the Bulls weren’t going anywhere after the regular season except home. And I knew I wasn’t going to be ready to go home in April.

  A few weeks into my time in the Windy City, I called a producer I’d met a few years earlier during a BET interview. She’d given me her card and told me to call her if I ever had any ideas. Now I did. The idea I pitched her was simple: to have their show MAAD Sports send me to the NBA Finals and let me report on the series. All she had to do was send the camera. I’d take care of credentials, access, and everything else. After a bit of selling, I got her to agree.

  That was the start of my second career, begun while the first one was still going strong. I became a member of the media.

  Now, more than a decade later, ESPN pays me good money to talk about basketball almost every day throughout the season. I dedicate a lot of time to my job, but like playing basketball, it doesn’t feel like hard work because it’s what I want to be doing. If you’ve listened to my podcast or follow me on Twitter, you know I have a mantra for what I try to do on my job:

  Got to give the people what they want.

  What do I mean? Be honest, unfiltered, unbiased. Raw, refreshing, real. Give people the kind of insight and understanding they don’t get anywhere else. Be an alternative in a space that is too often preoccupied with people being politically correct. Explain why conventional wisdom often doesn’t have a clue. And do it all without getting fired.

  Millions of people follow sports every day, but too often they’re reading contrived story lines that have nothing to do with the truth. People want the real story, and that’s what you’ll get from me in this book. I’m here to share some tales and make you laugh, and also to be truthful and to make you think. I hope you learn from this book, but I also hope that you don’t agree with everything I have to say. I want to start conversations, and even better, arguments.

  I’ve faced a ton of adversity, and made a ton of mistakes. I’ve learned from all of it, and I’ve become a better man because of it. That said, if you told me I was going to end up here when I was driving to Chicago that night, I would have been a whole lot happier.

  Because it was February, and the Bulls had twelve wins.

  Twelve.

  1. From a Freezing-Cold Night to a Dusty Film Room, or How I Discovered That I Was Meant
to Be an NBA Player

  You can still see the bump on my forehead.

  It was January 30, 1973, the middle of the night in the middle of winter in Detroit—which means it was damn cold—and my mom started feeling things. She already had three kids, so she knew what those feelings meant. But unlike with those previous kids, she didn’t have a husband to get her to the hospital. She’d gotten divorced, and the father of this new baby was nowhere to be found. So she called her brother, my Uncle Len, and told him she needed a ride to the hospital.

  Two quick things about my Uncle Len that make him a good person to call in that situation: one, he is as cool as Marvin Gaye under pressure, even if you wake him up in the middle of the night; and, two, he has always had a lot of automobiles. Everyone’s into cars in the Motor City—we care about our cars as much as we care about our houses. Len was a mechanic, and for this particular urgent voyage, he chose the 1970 Fiat, which could go for a month on six dollars of gas.

  Len lived about ten minutes from us, but the hospital my mom wanted him to go to, Botsford General Hospital, was miles away, in the suburbs. There was a hospital in our neighborhood, but my mom was smart and knew the difference between city hospitals and suburban hospitals. Botsford General was going to be cleaner, with better doctors, better nurses—better everything. Still, there was a problem: I was coming out fast. The Fiat could weave through traffic pretty good, but Uncle Len didn’t start actually running reds until after her water broke. When he pulled into the driveway, he was honking his horn nonstop for the emergency room staff to run out. They rushed over with a gurney, but it was just a little too late. When I came out, with my mom still halfway in the car, I basically fell out onto the street, on my head.