God and Starbucks

by Vin Baker

  So there I was, watching him walk toward me, smiling and shaking his head theatrically.

  Oh, man . . . GP’s got me in his sights. What’s he gonna do?

  “Yo, Vinnie!” he shouted. “You missed it, man. Steve shouted you out last night.”

  “Steve who?”

  Gary rolled his eyes, like I’d asked the stupidest question.

  “Steve, man. Steve Harvey.”

  Back in those days Steve Harvey was less a talk show personality or game show host than a stand-up comic. GP was a big fan of Steve’s, so naturally when his tour passed through Seattle, Gary was in attendance.

  “What do you mean he shouted me out?” I asked.

  “He said, ‘Hey, it’s crazy what the Sonics just did, huh? You guys got rid of the devil and brought in a preacher!’”

  Gary laughed, long and hard; so did everyone else within earshot. I just sort of stood there, the discomfort coursing through my body. On one hand, I was relieved to know that my new teammates found this funny—maybe they really were happy to see Shawn go. On the other hand, I didn’t really like being contrasted to Shawn in this way. I had admired Shawn as a player and sympathized with his off-court struggles. There were issues with drugs and alcohol, there were multiple paternity suits (during my first year in Seattle, it would be revealed that Shawn had fathered at least fourteen children with thirteen different women). By comparison, at the time, I was a choirboy, if not exactly a preacher, but I knew that I had flirted with disaster. I’d played more than a hundred games while high, so I certainly wasn’t going to throw any stones. I had a chance to start over in Seattle, with one of the league’s most esteemed franchises, and a smart coach who was happy to have me on his team.

  I nodded at Gary. “Funny guy.”

  Life with the Sonics differed in ways that extended beyond the court. For one thing, I discovered right away that there was a lot of heavy drinking among players. Some guys smoked weed, too, but there was a small and dedicated group of partiers—guys who liked to go out after games, at home and on the road, and really cut loose, even more so than we had in Milwaukee. I was a casual drinker when I first got to Seattle, semi-intent on cleaning up my act, but quickly became one of the boys. And the leader of the boys was Gary Payton. On the basketball court he was relentlessly antagonistic and ornery, but off the floor I discovered that Gary was a lot of fun to be around, and we quickly became good friends.

  He also was a prodigious drinker. I’ve never seen anyone who could drink like Gary and seem to be unaffected. It was otherworldly. When I got to Seattle, I was almost in awe of Gary (despite the fact that he was only a couple of years older than me), but once we started drinking together, it kind of put us on the same level. For all the reasons that I had started drinking in Milwaukee, I resumed heavy drinking in Seattle. My energy was different. I was comfortable, less anxious.

  And Gary noticed.

  “Man, you ain’t Old Saybrook,” he’d say. “You kinda Oakland.”

  This was exactly what Coach Karl and the Sonics had wanted when they traded for me—not the drinking, but a young player (younger than Kemp) who would not only perform on the court, but would also be likable and would bond with his teammates; a positive addition to the locker room environment. And GP ran that locker room. What Gary discovered was that Shawn and I were on basically the same level as players, but that I could hang with him, too.

  In Seattle it was just fun, both on and off the court. Coach Karl is an interesting guy. He knows how to motivate and he really knows the game from a technical standpoint. He’s had issues with some players over the years, and with some front office people, which doesn’t really surprise me. Back then, at least, George was an extremely confident guy; his confidence bordered on cockiness or even arrogance, although in a good sort of way. George had been knocked around a bit in his career, but the experience only seemed to make him stronger. He was a Dean Smith disciple, having played at North Carolina before spending five years with the San Antonio Spurs. When his playing days were over, George slid right into coaching, first as an assistant with the Spurs, and then as head coach of the Montana Golden Nuggets of the Continental Basketball Association. The CBA was minor-league ball, but George proved he could coach there by twice reaching the finals and twice being named CBA coach of the year.

  For this he was rewarded with a promotion to the NBA. He spent a couple of tumultuous years with the Cleveland Cavaliers, and then two more with the Golden State Warriors before resigning near the end of the 1988–89 season. Then he bounced between the CBA and the European professional leagues for four years, always winning far more games than he lost, before finally making it back to the NBA in 1992, as head coach of the Sonics. I think George gained a lot of perspective about dealing with both coaches and front office personnel during his travels, and he remained one of the most competitive guys I have ever known.

  I was excited to play for George. I thought he would make me better, and I felt like we had a good chance to win a title. I came away from those early meetings and practices with the unmistakable impression that the Sonics felt they had gotten the better part of the deal, and I wanted to prove them right.

  Gary Payton had something to prove as well: that he could be the leader on one of the NBA’s best teams, and could carry that team to a championship despite the departure of an acknowledged superstar. So, we had that in common. Each of us was playing with a chip on his shoulder. Coach Karl had said something to me about how Gary and Shawn never really had the type of relationship that he, as a coach, wanted them to have. Their personalities simply didn’t mesh well.

  “Same as you and Glenn Robinson in Milwaukee,” George opined. “But you and Gary? This could be great.”

  Dog and I worked well together in Milwaukee—we just didn’t have enough supporting players to be a strong team. You need talent as well as chemistry to win in the NBA, and the Bucks had too little of both. Although Glenn appeared laconic and isolated to outsiders, and I was perceived as social but relatively straight, we were practically attached at the hip. There was also the perception that both Gary and I (me more than Gary) had not fully blossomed because of the long shadows cast by our more famous teammates. And so we met at a time when we were both trying to establish our identities. Milwaukee had basically said to me, You’re not a winner and we’re tired of losing with you. Meanwhile, Seattle was saying to Gary, Let’s see you win without Shawn.

  Each of us knew that the other felt pressure. It could have been a disastrous pairing, but it worked for reasons I had not anticipated, and that the Sonics probably did not expect. We didn’t have to discuss it. We just knew that the eyes of basketball fans in Seattle, and throughout the league, were going to be on us. Could Gary Payton lead this team to sixty wins? And could Vin Baker be part of a winning team? We were considered complementary players (point guard and center/power forward), as well as complementary personalities: Gary’s dad was Al Payton, a legend in Oakland basketball circles who went by the nickname “Mr. Mean.” Gary picked up his own nickname—“the Glove,” because of his tenacity on the defensive end of the floor—but he may just as well have been “Mr. Mean Jr.” Sometimes his desire to win would collide with his generally temperamental nature, resulting in dustups not merely with opposing players, but also with his own teammates and coaches. All of this was overstated, in my opinion—just as it was understated about me. ESPN did a feature on the two of us that first season, focusing not only on the way we meshed on the court, but also on what was perceived to be an unlikely friendship. I can still see one of our teammates, Hersey Hawkins, looking into the camera and smiling, and describing our partnership this way: “I guess opposites attract.”

  That was the popular notion in those days, and while there may have been a kernel of truth to it, the reality was this: Gary and I had more in common than anyone realized. I may have been the son of a preacher, but, like Gary, I could also be a son of a bitch. The transformation did not come as easily to me as it
did to Gary, but it was real, and it was lurking just beneath the surface. The ability to summon that persona on demand, rather than melt into a puddle of tears when provoked, as I had when I was younger, was critical to my development as an athlete. Like Gary, I had been raised by tough, demanding parents; my dad may not have been called Mr. Mean, but there was certainly a time when that nickname would not have been inappropriate.

  As for our respective reputations off the court? Gary was known to be a guy who liked going out after games and hitting the clubs, but it never seemed to affect his ability to play, so not much was made of it. Even a daily weed smoker wouldn’t draw much attention so long as he continued to perform well on game days.

  I had no long-term plans when I got to Seattle. I figured I would play out the remainder of my contract and then test the waters of free agency. If everything went well with the Sonics, maybe they’d be willing to dig deep into their pockets to keep me there. But there were no guarantees. I spent the first month in a hotel, then rented a house in a nice suburban area near Cougar Mountain. (True story—I was told that the Seattle Mariners pitcher Randy Johnson lived down the street, which for some reason was a huge selling point to me. In all the time I lived there, I never saw Randy. But it was a nice neighborhood.) My college buddy Mike, who had spent a lot of time with me in Milwaukee as well, moved in with me. He was pretty happy with this turn of events, since his girlfriend, a former soccer player at the University of Hartford, was already living in Seattle. And, obviously, Seattle is just a beautiful place, truly one of the most livable cities in the United States.

  The first couple of months in Seattle were all business. I worked my butt off to fit in and present a serious, professional image. I could tell right away from our pickup games that I was going to enjoy playing for the Sonics. I’d heard a lot about how Western Conference basketball was different from Eastern Conference ball, but until I got to Seattle I thought it was mostly just a matter of perspective and reputation. There really were fundamental differences, though, in philosophy and style of play. East Coast teams played a more deliberate style of game: walk the ball up the floor, run the half-court offense to death, pound the boards, use your fists and elbows when necessary, lots of dirty work on defense. The East was the home of the Celtics, Bulls, and, especially, the Detroit Pistons—whose “Bad Boys” teams of the nineties featured such noted tough guys as Bill Laimbeer, Dennis Rodman, and Isaiah Thomas. I’d played in the East, so I knew what it was like: low and slow. I didn’t mind, because I was a low-post ballplayer and much of what we ran in Milwaukee went through me. Lots of touches, plenty of chances to score.

  In Seattle I discovered there was another way to play basketball, one that did not necessarily revolve around the half-court offense, and therefore might not mean as many opportunities for me, but which was a whole lot more fun to execute. The West, after all, was the home of the LA Lakers, the “Showtime” Lakers of Magic Johnson and James Worthy, of Kareem and Kobe and Shaq. It was all about running and pushing the pace of the game: get the rebound, make the outlet pass, fill the lanes, spread the floor. Everyone was expected to run and to score; there was less emphasis on specific positions, and more focus on simply playing basketball. Forget about backing the ball down, forget about double-teams in the post and kicking the ball out. This was like a controlled version of pickup ball, like being a kid back on the playground, where you played for the sheer joy of the game. In Milwaukee I had begun the process of adapting to an old man’s game. Centers and power forwards can play a long time in the NBA because they do not run as much. They get beat up inside, in the paint, but their legs take less pounding than the legs of a smaller man. Fewer miles on the engine result in a longer professional life. But I wasn’t worried about that. I was still young (just twenty-six when I arrived in Seattle), and I quickly discovered that I could get up and down the floor with the best of them.

  “Coach, I am made for this,” I said one day to George Karl, a trace of incredulity in my voice.

  George smiled. “Yes, you are.”

  There were other differences as well. Coach Karl was calm and confident. George was in charge and we all knew it. There was no need for him to beat his chest or impose silly rules as a way to demonstrate authority. George would even sometimes open practices to the friends and family of his players, which was unheard of with the Bucks (and with many teams, I would imagine). I can remember looking over at my buddy Mike during an early practice and smiling in disbelief as he sat courtside, quietly watching us run through drills.

  “Can you believe this?” I said as I ran past him. Mike just shrugged.

  It goes without saying that even up-tempo ball isn’t a lot of fun if you’re not winning games, and in order to win games, you need talent. While I was considered a significant acquisition for the Sonics, I did not have to shoulder the burden of being a franchise player, or at least not the only franchise player. In addition to GP and Hersey Hawkins, a high-scoring shooting guard, the Sonics returned the veteran forwards Sam Perkins and Detlef Schrempf and shooting guard Dale Ellis. Gone were Shawn Kemp’s 19 points and 10 rebounds per game, but my numbers were nearly identical (a little higher, actually), so we were okay in that regard. It was a strong team with an interesting and eclectic mix of players, with a very good coach on the bench. Although George’s prediction of winning sixty games spooked me a bit at first, I came to accept it as an ambitious but attainable goal. And when we added two solid players in point guard Greg Anthony and the small forward Jerome Kersey fairly early in the season, we got even stronger. A championship run seemed possible.

  Chemistry is so important to a team, and we had it in abundance. By “chemistry,” I don’t necessarily mean that everyone hung out together all the time. I’m talking about assembling a group of professionals who like and respect each other, and who are able to work toward a common goal, regardless of their similarities and differences. Gary was a big personality, and very intense. You want a guy like that on your team, but you don’t necessarily want six or seven guys like that, because they’ll tear each other apart. Too many alpha dogs is not a good thing. Detlef was a terrific shooter and fundamentally sound, but he was a quiet man. Same with Sam Perkins. I could be quiet or gregarious, depending on the situation and the climate, so I got along with everyone. I could go out to a club with Gary or read the Bible with Hersey Hawkins, who was a devout Christian. I’d been deep in both worlds, and I was comfortable in both. After four years in Milwaukee, where losing was part of the culture, I felt blessed to be in Seattle, where winning was not a dream, but an expectation, and where everyone seemed fully committed to the greater good.

  Things would end badly for me in Seattle, through no one’s fault but my own, but I learned a lot while I was there about the value of teamwork, of shared responsibility and sacrifice, and of embracing diversity.

  In Seattle my focus changed and I became the basketball player I had always wanted to be: a player who could not only stuff the stat sheet—I’d been doing that since high school and didn’t have a single championship to show for it—but also help make his teammates better. In the process, maybe we’d achieve something close to greatness; maybe we’d compete for an NBA title. I believed that with all my heart. And from the very first practice I tried to prove it. I came through the door and kicked ass. I tried to grab every rebound, block every shot. I was in the best shape of my life. Not since I first came into the NBA had I been so completely immersed in the game. Back then I was just happy to be a pro, and to be getting paid for playing a game I loved. After four years of losing basketball in Milwaukee, I wanted something more. I wanted to be part of something bigger. Now that was within reach.

  8

  Ego Gets in the Way

  It took only one month of the 1997–98 season for an NBA narrative to emerge: the Seattle Sonics were the best team in the Western Conference and perhaps the best team in the league. We were 13–3 at the end of November, with a signature victory over Michael Jordan and t
he Chicago Bulls, who were the defending NBA champs. I had 19 points and 12 rebounds that night, hit the game-winning shot, and then blocked a potential game winner by Toni Kukoc at the other end as time ran out.

  Looking back on it now, I can honestly say that game was among the high points of my entire career, and it came just as I was beginning to slip back into a pattern of heavy drinking—not every night, mind you, but two, three, even four times a week. Still, I was so young and fit that it took a while for the effects to become noticeable. And we kept winning, which tends to deflect all manner of criticism.

  In January we traveled to Cleveland for a game against the Cavaliers. Ordinarily, a nonconference game in the dead of winter would not provoke a lot of excitement, but this one created some buzz. We were on a roll at the time, leading the Western Conference with an eye-popping record of 27–6. I mean, we were just killing people. For a team that had added a lot of new pieces, we were playing with an impressive amount of chemistry. Just about every night I’d think back to what Coach Karl had said about his expectations for the season, and how initially I had wondered if the bar was set too high. Now it seemed to be positioned at precisely the appropriate level.

  Cleveland, meanwhile, had improved significantly and was now one of the better teams in the East, thanks in part to the arrival of Shawn Kemp. The Cavs were 20–11, only a couple of games behind the Bulls in the Central Division, and Shawn led the team in both scoring and rebounding. The media handled the buildup to this game in predictable fashion, focusing on the fact that it would be Shawn’s first opportunity to play against the team that had cut him loose, and it was my first opportunity to play against the team’s former star. During shootaround that morning we walked through our offensive sets, talked about various matchups, and generally mapped out a game plan. Nothing out of the ordinary. But when we began talking about defensive assignments, Dwane Casey, one of our assistant coaches, said something that surprised me.