People keep overlooking a critical aspect of the Spurs: they don’t care if you don’t care about them. In a strange way, the thing I respect the most about them is that they’re not concerned about whether or not I respect them.
When Tony Parker, fresh off beating the Clippers and outplaying Chris Paul, was asked if he should be ranked higher among the elite point guards he responded, “I gave up on that dream a long time ago. Since I’m in San Antonio, we’re under the radar all the time, I don’t really care about that. For me, the most important opinion is Coach Popovich. As long as Coach Pop is happy, I’m good.”
You’ll find a similar sentiment throughout the locker room. You definitely won’t hear anything like what Danny Granger of the Pacers recently had to say about how his team felt disrespected because of its lack of national TV appearances.
The goal is the Larry O’Brien trophy, not the Nielsen ratings. The Spurs recognize that better than any other franchise. That’s why they stay winning. And if their winning ways doesn’t make any national noise, their response is more silence.
Whether or not you enjoy the Spurs, we all can appreciate a little peace and quiet.
5.26.2012
5.24.2012
SPURS - SWEEP CLIPPERS
I was at the Staples Center to watch the Clippers get swept by the Spurs.
If you love basketball and (more important) love watching basketball played correctly, the 2012 San Antonio Spurs have a way of grabbing your attention. They play beautifully together. They pull for each other. They make each other better. They score so easily, and in so many different ways, that you almost can't even process all the different plays as a whole. On Saturday, they eviscerated the Clippers by scoring 24 straight points in the third quarter, bringing back memories of the '86 Celtics dropping 25 straight against the Hawks in the Eastern Conference Semifinals. The biggest difference: The Spurs did it on the road. The biggest similarity: Everything else.2
You don't score 24 straight points because a couple of your guys caught fire. It happens because you're toying with the other team. It happens because you're getting so many good shots in a series that, occasionally, they end up clustering together and forming something special. It happens because you know you're great, and because great teams have a way of smelling blood and finishing opponents off — but also, you're doing it with a little extra flair because you're competing against the ceiling of what you can achieve (not your opponents). The last NBA team that said to itself, "We're playing for something beyond just a title here" was the 2001 Lakers — the best Shaq/Kobe team, as well as the last time those two guys were fully invested in each other's success. It hasn't happened since. It's happening right now, it happened at Staples Center, and it's going to keep happening through next month's Finals (and yes, they're going to win, barring an injury).
Beyond the creative brilliance of Parker and Ginobili, Popovich's superior coaching and Duncan's undeniable rejuvenation on both ends — just three months ago, he played the Clippers on one leg, passed up the chance to post up Caron Butler in big spots and made me mutter the words, "Man, I hate seeing Duncan like this," then something shifted for him, and now, he's playing his best basketball in five years — it's the chemistry of the 2012 Spurs that leaves you breathless. I know, that's a weird thing to write. How can chemistry leave you breathless? But in person, the little things stand out — you know, teammates feeding off each other, bench guys reacting to big plays, players always making the extra pass, guys constantly talking to each other, even simple moments like Duncan gleefully congratulating Danny Green after Green stopped Chris Paul at the end of Game 4. Duncan wasn't happy that Green came through for the Spurs; he was happy for Green as a friend. Big difference.
And once you build a foundation that strong — when guys aren't just teammates but friends, when nobody looks at their numbers, when everything revolves around the question, "What's the best way to win today's game?" — everything else is cake. On Saturday, the Clippers played their best possible basketball for the first 12 minutes, nailed the Spurs with every conceivable haymaker and had their fans standing and screaming. You couldn't have scripted a better first quarter. The Spurs never flinched, chopping the lead to 15 and eliciting the first of many panicked Clippers timeouts. Watching the Spurs and their bench reacting to that moment (totally locked in, totally expecting the Clippers to cave), you could just tell where the game was going. I even tweeted about it. Great teams know they're great. They trust the process. Scores don't matter, crowds don't matter, momentum doesn't matter — eventually, the process will win out. And they know it.
The following night, they staved off another Clippers rally and took a three-point lead with 1:47 to play on Parker's pretty floater, only the 790th easy shot San Antonio had gotten in those past two games. Lob City called a 20-second timeout and Layup City skipped over to its bench to celebrate what just happened. Duncan led the way, a small grin spread across his face, doling out dorky high-fives and generally enjoying himself. That grin said the following four things:
We are better than them. I couldn't be less worried. This game shouldn't have even been this close. Let's go home.
A few minutes later, they did. And so did we. Over everything else that happened during the Playoff Eclipse, I will remember the San Antonio Spurs waltzing through town, laying the smack down and leaving with a smile.
If you love basketball and (more important) love watching basketball played correctly, the 2012 San Antonio Spurs have a way of grabbing your attention. They play beautifully together. They pull for each other. They make each other better. They score so easily, and in so many different ways, that you almost can't even process all the different plays as a whole. On Saturday, they eviscerated the Clippers by scoring 24 straight points in the third quarter, bringing back memories of the '86 Celtics dropping 25 straight against the Hawks in the Eastern Conference Semifinals. The biggest difference: The Spurs did it on the road. The biggest similarity: Everything else.2
You don't score 24 straight points because a couple of your guys caught fire. It happens because you're toying with the other team. It happens because you're getting so many good shots in a series that, occasionally, they end up clustering together and forming something special. It happens because you know you're great, and because great teams have a way of smelling blood and finishing opponents off — but also, you're doing it with a little extra flair because you're competing against the ceiling of what you can achieve (not your opponents). The last NBA team that said to itself, "We're playing for something beyond just a title here" was the 2001 Lakers — the best Shaq/Kobe team, as well as the last time those two guys were fully invested in each other's success. It hasn't happened since. It's happening right now, it happened at Staples Center, and it's going to keep happening through next month's Finals (and yes, they're going to win, barring an injury).
Beyond the creative brilliance of Parker and Ginobili, Popovich's superior coaching and Duncan's undeniable rejuvenation on both ends — just three months ago, he played the Clippers on one leg, passed up the chance to post up Caron Butler in big spots and made me mutter the words, "Man, I hate seeing Duncan like this," then something shifted for him, and now, he's playing his best basketball in five years — it's the chemistry of the 2012 Spurs that leaves you breathless. I know, that's a weird thing to write. How can chemistry leave you breathless? But in person, the little things stand out — you know, teammates feeding off each other, bench guys reacting to big plays, players always making the extra pass, guys constantly talking to each other, even simple moments like Duncan gleefully congratulating Danny Green after Green stopped Chris Paul at the end of Game 4. Duncan wasn't happy that Green came through for the Spurs; he was happy for Green as a friend. Big difference.
And once you build a foundation that strong — when guys aren't just teammates but friends, when nobody looks at their numbers, when everything revolves around the question, "What's the best way to win today's game?" — everything else is cake. On Saturday, the Clippers played their best possible basketball for the first 12 minutes, nailed the Spurs with every conceivable haymaker and had their fans standing and screaming. You couldn't have scripted a better first quarter. The Spurs never flinched, chopping the lead to 15 and eliciting the first of many panicked Clippers timeouts. Watching the Spurs and their bench reacting to that moment (totally locked in, totally expecting the Clippers to cave), you could just tell where the game was going. I even tweeted about it. Great teams know they're great. They trust the process. Scores don't matter, crowds don't matter, momentum doesn't matter — eventually, the process will win out. And they know it.
The following night, they staved off another Clippers rally and took a three-point lead with 1:47 to play on Parker's pretty floater, only the 790th easy shot San Antonio had gotten in those past two games. Lob City called a 20-second timeout and Layup City skipped over to its bench to celebrate what just happened. Duncan led the way, a small grin spread across his face, doling out dorky high-fives and generally enjoying himself. That grin said the following four things:
We are better than them. I couldn't be less worried. This game shouldn't have even been this close. Let's go home.
A few minutes later, they did. And so did we. Over everything else that happened during the Playoff Eclipse, I will remember the San Antonio Spurs waltzing through town, laying the smack down and leaving with a smile.
5.22.2012
SPURS - THEIR FORMULA
The San Antonio Spurs just absolutely bowled over the L.A Clippers, a week after absolutely bowling over the Utah Jazz. They are on an 18-game winning streak, 24-point deficits be damned, and have been thoroughly untroubled on their way to the Western Conference Finals. Over the last month of the season, they have been the best team in the league, and it’s not been especially close.
Like a fine wine, and completely unlike gum disease, the Spurs only seem to improve with age. They have won four of the last 14 championships, and made the playoffs for 15 straight years, winning no fewer than 50 games in any full length regular season during that time and only failing to get out of the first round three times. Their winning percentage in that time is about 135 percent. And they never, ever seem to fall off.
It is not a coincidence that, 15 years ago, they drafted Tim Duncan, the unquestionable best power forward of all time even if he is a center. It is too simple, however, to credit the Spurs’ two decades of continued success solely to him. Nor is it fair to credit it all to Gregg Popovich, the NBA’s longest tenured coach in his first and only NBA gig. San Antonio’s continued success is multifaceted, contingent not just upon Duncan, Tony Parker, Manu Ginobili, Gregg Popovich, R.C. Buford or the role players, but all of it. The pattern. The formula. The Spurs way of doing things. Spurs basketball. Whatever that is.
One alpha dog, two beta dogs, and a few puppies. Few bad eggs, and even the bad eggs they have will play hard. A mixture of age and youth, athleticism and guile, defense and offense, jumpshooting and paint production, transition and halfcourt. Doing so on a smaller budget than most, constantly flirting with (and sometimes paying) the luxury tax, but without ever wanting or wishing to. Finding cheapies, plugging them in, building them up, letting them leave, finding new cheapies.
Moving the ball, shooting the ball, rotating, picking and rolling, carpe dieming, with precisely one All-Star in this superteams era. It doesn’t seem that hard, but seemingly no one else can do it this well.
The Spurs continue to milk this formula, with an alpha dog whose averages are only slightly better than those than Carlos Boozer. And yet Tim Duncan never declines significantly. He plays less now, but he plays just as well. He passes just as well. He reads the defense just as well. He shoots bankers just as well. His driving righty flip-hook-layup-whatever-it-is thing is just as good. He still never, ever goaltends. He produces 90 percent of what he did when he won his first title, 14 years on. And now, rather than relying on Mario Elie, Malik Rose and Jaren Jackson for support. Duncan has a deep, deep supporting cast.
San Antonio seeks out these role players, and get them comparatively cheaply, because there is ultimately nothing special about them. Danny Green can’t do anything that hundreds of other wing players can’t do. He shoots well, but they are mostly catch-and-shoots. He plays good defense, but locks nobody down. He passes well, but merely moves the ball and runs no offense. Gary Neal handles it sufficiently, shoots it well, yet does nothing remarkable. Matt Bonner has two moves — the jumpshot, and the up-fake-to-clumsy-drive countermove. Yet on the Spurs, they have become high caliber role players, guys who do a few things right, no things wrong, and fit perfectly within a simple but clinical offense designed to fit their needs. Because that’s Spurs basketball.
The formula was created by Duncan and Popovich. It was tweaked for Parker, refined for Manu, and adhered to by the rest. They look for only about four different looks on offense, mostly stemming from the incessant pick-and-roll. The bigs can roll or pop, the guards can wriggle into the lane and finish, and the floor is dotted with shooters, with rarely (if ever) less than two quality shooters on the court at any one time. The Spurs play for the corner three, play for the driving lineup, play of the open 18-footer. It is largely mistake-free basketball that prioritizes efficiency, yet also has versatility.
There are similarly few mistakes on roster decisions, and those that are there — say, for example, Richard Jefferson — get cleared for the cost of a first round pick. That pick is then replaced by a quality free agent signing, and a couple of midseason pickups. Rinse and repeat, repeat to fade, et cetera. Everybody makes mistakes, but you don’t notice San Antonio’s, which is as glowing of an endorsement as there can be.
This is not to say that they are beyond reproach. In theory, you can beat Tony Parker off the dribble, pressure him when on the ball, and dare him to shoot. In theory, you can expose a lack of size, the lack of post defenders outside of Duncan, and a lack of post offense, as only Duncan gets it done on the interior and it’s the aspect of his game to have slipped the most. In theory, you can expose the age of a team whose stars have 3,044 games under their belt, before international or pre-NBA commitments are even accounted for. No matter how young their supporting cast.
But that’s all just theory. In practice, the Oklahoma City Thunder, next in the firing line, don’t have the pieces to attack Duncan, and Parker feeds on Russell Westbrook just as much as Westbrook feeds on Parker. Without being invincible, it is hard to know how to beat the Spurs. By keeping their minutes down over the years, Popovich has his big three, now into their second decade of implicit dominance, almost as effective as ever on a team as good as ever. And now they have far more support to pick up the slack.
At some point, a precipitous decline really will happen. But it won’t be any time soon. The Spurs might not win the title this season, but they most certainly could. That, simply, is quite remarkable.
Like a fine wine, and completely unlike gum disease, the Spurs only seem to improve with age. They have won four of the last 14 championships, and made the playoffs for 15 straight years, winning no fewer than 50 games in any full length regular season during that time and only failing to get out of the first round three times. Their winning percentage in that time is about 135 percent. And they never, ever seem to fall off.
It is not a coincidence that, 15 years ago, they drafted Tim Duncan, the unquestionable best power forward of all time even if he is a center. It is too simple, however, to credit the Spurs’ two decades of continued success solely to him. Nor is it fair to credit it all to Gregg Popovich, the NBA’s longest tenured coach in his first and only NBA gig. San Antonio’s continued success is multifaceted, contingent not just upon Duncan, Tony Parker, Manu Ginobili, Gregg Popovich, R.C. Buford or the role players, but all of it. The pattern. The formula. The Spurs way of doing things. Spurs basketball. Whatever that is.
One alpha dog, two beta dogs, and a few puppies. Few bad eggs, and even the bad eggs they have will play hard. A mixture of age and youth, athleticism and guile, defense and offense, jumpshooting and paint production, transition and halfcourt. Doing so on a smaller budget than most, constantly flirting with (and sometimes paying) the luxury tax, but without ever wanting or wishing to. Finding cheapies, plugging them in, building them up, letting them leave, finding new cheapies.
Moving the ball, shooting the ball, rotating, picking and rolling, carpe dieming, with precisely one All-Star in this superteams era. It doesn’t seem that hard, but seemingly no one else can do it this well.
The Spurs continue to milk this formula, with an alpha dog whose averages are only slightly better than those than Carlos Boozer. And yet Tim Duncan never declines significantly. He plays less now, but he plays just as well. He passes just as well. He reads the defense just as well. He shoots bankers just as well. His driving righty flip-hook-layup-whatever-it-is thing is just as good. He still never, ever goaltends. He produces 90 percent of what he did when he won his first title, 14 years on. And now, rather than relying on Mario Elie, Malik Rose and Jaren Jackson for support. Duncan has a deep, deep supporting cast.
San Antonio seeks out these role players, and get them comparatively cheaply, because there is ultimately nothing special about them. Danny Green can’t do anything that hundreds of other wing players can’t do. He shoots well, but they are mostly catch-and-shoots. He plays good defense, but locks nobody down. He passes well, but merely moves the ball and runs no offense. Gary Neal handles it sufficiently, shoots it well, yet does nothing remarkable. Matt Bonner has two moves — the jumpshot, and the up-fake-to-clumsy-drive countermove. Yet on the Spurs, they have become high caliber role players, guys who do a few things right, no things wrong, and fit perfectly within a simple but clinical offense designed to fit their needs. Because that’s Spurs basketball.
The formula was created by Duncan and Popovich. It was tweaked for Parker, refined for Manu, and adhered to by the rest. They look for only about four different looks on offense, mostly stemming from the incessant pick-and-roll. The bigs can roll or pop, the guards can wriggle into the lane and finish, and the floor is dotted with shooters, with rarely (if ever) less than two quality shooters on the court at any one time. The Spurs play for the corner three, play for the driving lineup, play of the open 18-footer. It is largely mistake-free basketball that prioritizes efficiency, yet also has versatility.
There are similarly few mistakes on roster decisions, and those that are there — say, for example, Richard Jefferson — get cleared for the cost of a first round pick. That pick is then replaced by a quality free agent signing, and a couple of midseason pickups. Rinse and repeat, repeat to fade, et cetera. Everybody makes mistakes, but you don’t notice San Antonio’s, which is as glowing of an endorsement as there can be.
This is not to say that they are beyond reproach. In theory, you can beat Tony Parker off the dribble, pressure him when on the ball, and dare him to shoot. In theory, you can expose a lack of size, the lack of post defenders outside of Duncan, and a lack of post offense, as only Duncan gets it done on the interior and it’s the aspect of his game to have slipped the most. In theory, you can expose the age of a team whose stars have 3,044 games under their belt, before international or pre-NBA commitments are even accounted for. No matter how young their supporting cast.
But that’s all just theory. In practice, the Oklahoma City Thunder, next in the firing line, don’t have the pieces to attack Duncan, and Parker feeds on Russell Westbrook just as much as Westbrook feeds on Parker. Without being invincible, it is hard to know how to beat the Spurs. By keeping their minutes down over the years, Popovich has his big three, now into their second decade of implicit dominance, almost as effective as ever on a team as good as ever. And now they have far more support to pick up the slack.
At some point, a precipitous decline really will happen. But it won’t be any time soon. The Spurs might not win the title this season, but they most certainly could. That, simply, is quite remarkable.
DAVID LEE - BLUE COLLAR
After David Lee tweaked his quadriceps in practice Oct. 4, he went home and estimates that he iced it "about 65 times." He spent the next day, an off day, at the Warriors' training facility and returned early the next morning to test his leg.
All of that, just so he wouldn't miss Wednesday's practice.
Yes, we're talking about practice!
Those are not the actions of a typical NBA All-Star.
Lee's the type of guy who puts no stock in a phrase like "All-Star status," because he has had plenty of days filled with phrases like "above average," "good enough" and "end of the bench."
"There are some guys in the league who can sit out every practice and take a couple of casual jumpers right before the game - not even go through the layup lines - and go out there and perform," the power forward said. "I can't do that. I'll have an anxiety attack.
"I have this fear of failure. I have this fear about not getting any better, about somehow starting to level off, and I can't allow that to happen."
So Lee practices.
First. Longest. And hardest.
When coach Keith Smart granted "veteran days off" to Monta Ellis, Stephen Curry and Dorell Wright during training camp, Lee declined. When Andris Biedrins joined Ellis, Curry and Wright on the sideline during the last portion of Monday's practice, Lee was still sweating away with the reserves.
He is like the tennis player who realizes he'll never be as good as the wall, so he keeps slamming forehand after backhand. It's like he's doing a day-to-day experiment to see how much further he can push his body.
"I've gone from the last guy on the bench to the captain, and my work ethic hasn't changed," said Lee, who was acquired by the Warriors in a sign-and-trade deal after five seasons in New York. "In a lot of ways, I still see myself as the last guy on the bench, and that drives me.
"I had to pinch myself (at the All-Star Game) last year in Dallas. When I came into the league, I was hoping to hang on as the last guy on the bench for eight to 10 years."
A PHILOSOPHY OF WORK:
Lee, 27, seems to be indulging in false modesty for a 6-foot-9, 250-pound man who was one of three players in the league to average 20 points and 10 rebounds a game last season. But his original goal of finding a way just to stick in the league probably was logical five seasons ago.
That's when the Knicks drafted him with the final pick of the first round. Coach Larry Brown said Lee was eighth on the depth chart on a team that didn't have eight power forwards. He averaged 5.1 points and 4.5 rebounds a game as a rookie.
"I realized that I had to outwork everyone," Lee said. "I had to go after every rebound and bring an energy that no one else could match. That's the only way I could get on the court."
He knew what to do once he got there. Lee averaged a double-double in three of the next four seasons, including 20.2 points and 11.7 rebounds last season.
Lee had pulled similar transitions in college and high school. At the University of Florida, Lee was plodding through a mediocre career until he decided to flip the switch.
"I was still trying to burn the candle at both ends," Lee said. "Basketball was secondary to being cool."
"I've got a big contract, I've been an All-Star and I've accomplished a lot of things that should make me personally happy, but I haven't been to the playoffs. I haven't won a championship," Lee said. "If I average a double-double and am an All-Star, but we win 25 games, in my opinion, my season has been a failure and I expect to be reviewed as a failure."
What if the Warriors win a championship?
"Oh, I'll always find something new to chase."
All of that, just so he wouldn't miss Wednesday's practice.
Yes, we're talking about practice!
Those are not the actions of a typical NBA All-Star.
Lee's the type of guy who puts no stock in a phrase like "All-Star status," because he has had plenty of days filled with phrases like "above average," "good enough" and "end of the bench."
"There are some guys in the league who can sit out every practice and take a couple of casual jumpers right before the game - not even go through the layup lines - and go out there and perform," the power forward said. "I can't do that. I'll have an anxiety attack.
"I have this fear of failure. I have this fear about not getting any better, about somehow starting to level off, and I can't allow that to happen."
So Lee practices.
First. Longest. And hardest.
When coach Keith Smart granted "veteran days off" to Monta Ellis, Stephen Curry and Dorell Wright during training camp, Lee declined. When Andris Biedrins joined Ellis, Curry and Wright on the sideline during the last portion of Monday's practice, Lee was still sweating away with the reserves.
He is like the tennis player who realizes he'll never be as good as the wall, so he keeps slamming forehand after backhand. It's like he's doing a day-to-day experiment to see how much further he can push his body.
"I've gone from the last guy on the bench to the captain, and my work ethic hasn't changed," said Lee, who was acquired by the Warriors in a sign-and-trade deal after five seasons in New York. "In a lot of ways, I still see myself as the last guy on the bench, and that drives me.
"I had to pinch myself (at the All-Star Game) last year in Dallas. When I came into the league, I was hoping to hang on as the last guy on the bench for eight to 10 years."
A PHILOSOPHY OF WORK:
Lee, 27, seems to be indulging in false modesty for a 6-foot-9, 250-pound man who was one of three players in the league to average 20 points and 10 rebounds a game last season. But his original goal of finding a way just to stick in the league probably was logical five seasons ago.
That's when the Knicks drafted him with the final pick of the first round. Coach Larry Brown said Lee was eighth on the depth chart on a team that didn't have eight power forwards. He averaged 5.1 points and 4.5 rebounds a game as a rookie.
"I realized that I had to outwork everyone," Lee said. "I had to go after every rebound and bring an energy that no one else could match. That's the only way I could get on the court."
He knew what to do once he got there. Lee averaged a double-double in three of the next four seasons, including 20.2 points and 11.7 rebounds last season.
Lee had pulled similar transitions in college and high school. At the University of Florida, Lee was plodding through a mediocre career until he decided to flip the switch.
"I was still trying to burn the candle at both ends," Lee said. "Basketball was secondary to being cool."
"I've got a big contract, I've been an All-Star and I've accomplished a lot of things that should make me personally happy, but I haven't been to the playoffs. I haven't won a championship," Lee said. "If I average a double-double and am an All-Star, but we win 25 games, in my opinion, my season has been a failure and I expect to be reviewed as a failure."
What if the Warriors win a championship?
"Oh, I'll always find something new to chase."
J.J. Redick
1.He is the NCAA’s career leader in free throw percentage at 92.1%.
2.He’s not perfect – Redick wasn’t always so committed to extraordinary conditioning. He once was more committed to his social life. “I think a lot of college students, when they go through those first two years, they’re trying to figure out who they are and who they’re going to be, and I struggled with that for a while.”
Raised in what he calls “a conservative family,” he says he got to college and saw things he’d never seen. He did not avert his eyes. “Maybe if you’ve never partied before and you go to a party on Saturday night and have fun – in your eyes – well there’s another party on Sunday night. Should I go to that, too? You just kind of get caught up in what everybody else is doing.”
Eventually Redick figured everything out for himself. “It was kind of like, Man what are you doing? We’ve got a game tomorrow,” says forward Lee Melchionni “it’s sort of hard being in that place, but I needed to say that for the good of our team.”
“At some point, you wake up one day and think, ‘I’m not really headed down the road I want to head down.’ And I had that day. In mid-May 2004 he went to see Krzyzewski and spoke with him about redirecting his life. Ten months later, Redick was ACC Player of the Year.
3.Conditioning - “I was impressed with his physical conditioning,” says Texas coach Rick Barnes, whose team allowed Redick a career-high 41 points. “He’s like a mountain stream of running water. It goes up against one rock and turns another way – it never stops flowing.”
With help from assistant coach Chris Collins, Redick studied players such as Reggie Miller and Richard Hamilton, guys known for running defenders through an armada of screens. “Those guys never wear down as the game goes on,” Collins says. Redick averaged 36.8 minutes per game over the past two seasons.
2.He’s not perfect – Redick wasn’t always so committed to extraordinary conditioning. He once was more committed to his social life. “I think a lot of college students, when they go through those first two years, they’re trying to figure out who they are and who they’re going to be, and I struggled with that for a while.”
Raised in what he calls “a conservative family,” he says he got to college and saw things he’d never seen. He did not avert his eyes. “Maybe if you’ve never partied before and you go to a party on Saturday night and have fun – in your eyes – well there’s another party on Sunday night. Should I go to that, too? You just kind of get caught up in what everybody else is doing.”
Eventually Redick figured everything out for himself. “It was kind of like, Man what are you doing? We’ve got a game tomorrow,” says forward Lee Melchionni “it’s sort of hard being in that place, but I needed to say that for the good of our team.”
“At some point, you wake up one day and think, ‘I’m not really headed down the road I want to head down.’ And I had that day. In mid-May 2004 he went to see Krzyzewski and spoke with him about redirecting his life. Ten months later, Redick was ACC Player of the Year.
3.Conditioning - “I was impressed with his physical conditioning,” says Texas coach Rick Barnes, whose team allowed Redick a career-high 41 points. “He’s like a mountain stream of running water. It goes up against one rock and turns another way – it never stops flowing.”
With help from assistant coach Chris Collins, Redick studied players such as Reggie Miller and Richard Hamilton, guys known for running defenders through an armada of screens. “Those guys never wear down as the game goes on,” Collins says. Redick averaged 36.8 minutes per game over the past two seasons.
SPURS - POUNDING THE ROCK
“When nothing seems to help, I go look at a stonecutter hammering away at his rock, perhaps a hundred times without as much as a crack showing in it. Yet at the hundred and first blow it will split in two, and I know it was not that blow that did it, but all that had gone before.”
Spurs Head Coach Gregg Popovich spoke during a pregame press conference about the origins of the stonecutter quote and why he brought it to the team.
Here’s Pop’s quote in full: “That was a long time ago. It was back in the 90s and I was reading something about immigration in New York way back when, that kind of thing, and he was a reformer. He fought for better housing and better conditions, working conditions, that type of thing, for immigrants of all countries.
“He was relentless at it and that quote that we use is obviously his quote, and I thought it embodied anyone’s effort in any endeavor, really. It doesn’t have to be basketball. It can be a musical instrument or it can be learning mathematics or going to law school or figuring out how to turn the water off in your house because you’re an idiot. If you can’t figure that out you just keep looking, keep trying, keep going.
“The way he said it was very eloquent, and I thought that it fit. You get tired of all that other junk. ‘Winners never do this’ or ‘Losers always quit.’ ‘There’s no I in team’ — all the typical, trite silly crap you see in locker rooms at all levels. It’s always turned me off, so I thought that this was maybe a little bit more, I don’t know, intelligent. A different way to get to the guys and make them think about it.
“They’ve had that in their brains for a long time. They’re probably totally tired of it, but it’s worked well for us… They’ve been brainwashed pretty good by now… I’m leaving right after Ghadafi. They’re going to get rid of me… I’ve been here too long.”
Spurs Head Coach Gregg Popovich spoke during a pregame press conference about the origins of the stonecutter quote and why he brought it to the team.
Here’s Pop’s quote in full: “That was a long time ago. It was back in the 90s and I was reading something about immigration in New York way back when, that kind of thing, and he was a reformer. He fought for better housing and better conditions, working conditions, that type of thing, for immigrants of all countries.
“He was relentless at it and that quote that we use is obviously his quote, and I thought it embodied anyone’s effort in any endeavor, really. It doesn’t have to be basketball. It can be a musical instrument or it can be learning mathematics or going to law school or figuring out how to turn the water off in your house because you’re an idiot. If you can’t figure that out you just keep looking, keep trying, keep going.
“The way he said it was very eloquent, and I thought that it fit. You get tired of all that other junk. ‘Winners never do this’ or ‘Losers always quit.’ ‘There’s no I in team’ — all the typical, trite silly crap you see in locker rooms at all levels. It’s always turned me off, so I thought that this was maybe a little bit more, I don’t know, intelligent. A different way to get to the guys and make them think about it.
“They’ve had that in their brains for a long time. They’re probably totally tired of it, but it’s worked well for us… They’ve been brainwashed pretty good by now… I’m leaving right after Ghadafi. They’re going to get rid of me… I’ve been here too long.”
THE SPURS FORMULA
As Tim Duncan left the interview podium inside Quicken Loans Arena five years ago and started his walk down a corridor, LeBron James emerged on his way to deliver an NBA Finals concession speech. Duncan hugged James, and told him the NBA would soon belong to him. Duncan was grateful to have secured a fourth championship before the Cleveland Cavaliers star gobbled them for himself.
In these five years, the world has changed, and James started a movement that transformed the NBA: The pursuit of super teams. The Miami Heat, the New York Knicks and even these Los Angeles Clippers shredded their infrastructures and constructed themselves with starry, top-heavy rosters. This was the big-market championship blueprint that hustled the sport into a work stoppage, that left the two powerbrokers courtside here on Thursday night – NBA commissioner David Stern and Spurs owner Peter Holt – pushing to make that model obsolete in the post-lockout league.
Only, the Heat are undoing themselves in these playoffs. Perhaps it is the burden of those max contracts meeting the monumental expectations for victory. Suddenly, the Heat are threatening to fall apart in the Eastern Conference playoffs. Chris Bosh is down, Dwyane Wade is struggling and James is left with a burden that he never truly wanted. The Heat have little infrastructure to sustain the loss of Bosh.
Well, Duncan was partly right five years ago. Yes, LeBron has taken over the NBA, but he won’t stand between Duncan and a fifth NBA championship. Perhaps Oklahoma City will win the Western Conference finals, but make no mistake: These Spurs would absolutely take apart the Heat in the NBA Finals – with Bosh or without him. The Spurs beat the Los Angeles Clippers 105-88 in Game 2 of this Western Conference semifinal, and it has been 36 days since San Antonio lost a basketball game. The Spurs have won 16 consecutive games – including six to start the playoffs – and they keep coming with the greatness of Duncan, Tony Parker and Manu Ginobili, with waves upon waves of support around them. They come with a defensive scheme that’s stripped Chris Paul and Blake Griffin of everything they want to do, and an offensive system full of the complex and simple that always has the Clippers a step behind, a moment too late.
Five years later, Duncan finds himself surrounded with an eclectic ensemble of teammates borne out of general manager R.C. Buford’s scouting acumen and coach Gregg Popovich’s genius of integrating the talent into a victorious system. Five years later, Duncan is 36 years old, and the truth is unmistakable: He’s closer to his fifth championship than James is to his first.
“It’s been successful for us,” Duncan said. “It’s worked for us. We’ve stuck with that. We’ve been blessed to have the talent that we’ve had, the guys that we’ve drafted and developed over the years – and a couple of key finds along the way…
“Yeah, it’s worked for us.”
Privately, Spurs management will be the first to confess that they let themselves get swept away in the NBA's arms race. Three years ago, they watched the Los Angeles Lakers and Boston Celtics win championships with four and five elite players, and believed they had to find a big-money fourth player to surround Duncan, Parker and Ginobili. They made the mistake of trading for Richard Jefferson and the $29 million still owed on his contract three years ago, and they paid a price for it.
“All the really good teams at that time who were paying the top-end salaries – the Lakers and Boston – didn’t just have two or three good players,” Buford said.
“They had more than that, and we tried to answer it.”
Eventually, the Spurs moved Jefferson to the Golden State Warriors and brought back the toughest guy in the gym, Stephen Jackson. Danny Green and Gary Neal had been passed over elsewhere, discarded, and they found a place with the Spurs. Tiago Splitter emerged as the center to be groomed behind Duncan. As Popovich said, Boris Diaw has fit "seamlessly" into the Spurs. Kawhi Leonard has been the long, athletic young forward that they desperately needed, and now he starts with Diaw and Green. Ginobili shrugs, comes off the bench and still kills everyone.
The Spurs keep coming the way the Indiana Pacers have been built to do in the Eastern Conference: deep, versatile and able to attack in different ways. Oklahoma City has constructed its franchise the way the Spurs did: Superstars drafted, developed and surrounded with proper parts. That’s how you keep costs down, chemistry strong and talent deep on the bench.
As Buford said, “What happened with Pop’s approach to the season was this: We didn’t have practice time to prepare a group who hadn’t been used to playing together. But by not over-extending minutes for our top five players, that ability to develop came in game action to give us a much deeper team.
“But, listen, Pop is not doing any of this without including Tim, Tony and Manu. They had to be a part of this. This isn’t something that’s new to this season. Pop’s reduced minutes for all these guys for the last couple years. But I think there’s an appreciation there with [Duncan, Parker and Ginobili] that this can help to extend their careers.”
Five years later, Duncan takes a long look around him and sees something he understands he needs in his advancing years: Buford’s eye for talent, Popovich’s coaching genius and the fresh legs that get him where he needs to go. When Duncan misses three free throws late to lose a playoff game, you won’t hear him blaming it on how “taxing” it was to play out of position. Five years later, the stars chased each other to Miami, Los Angeles and New York, and the strangest thing happened: The Super Team still resided in San Antonio, where the Spurs' formula remained unmatched.
Yes, Tim Duncan said, it works for us.
In these five years, the world has changed, and James started a movement that transformed the NBA: The pursuit of super teams. The Miami Heat, the New York Knicks and even these Los Angeles Clippers shredded their infrastructures and constructed themselves with starry, top-heavy rosters. This was the big-market championship blueprint that hustled the sport into a work stoppage, that left the two powerbrokers courtside here on Thursday night – NBA commissioner David Stern and Spurs owner Peter Holt – pushing to make that model obsolete in the post-lockout league.
Only, the Heat are undoing themselves in these playoffs. Perhaps it is the burden of those max contracts meeting the monumental expectations for victory. Suddenly, the Heat are threatening to fall apart in the Eastern Conference playoffs. Chris Bosh is down, Dwyane Wade is struggling and James is left with a burden that he never truly wanted. The Heat have little infrastructure to sustain the loss of Bosh.
Well, Duncan was partly right five years ago. Yes, LeBron has taken over the NBA, but he won’t stand between Duncan and a fifth NBA championship. Perhaps Oklahoma City will win the Western Conference finals, but make no mistake: These Spurs would absolutely take apart the Heat in the NBA Finals – with Bosh or without him. The Spurs beat the Los Angeles Clippers 105-88 in Game 2 of this Western Conference semifinal, and it has been 36 days since San Antonio lost a basketball game. The Spurs have won 16 consecutive games – including six to start the playoffs – and they keep coming with the greatness of Duncan, Tony Parker and Manu Ginobili, with waves upon waves of support around them. They come with a defensive scheme that’s stripped Chris Paul and Blake Griffin of everything they want to do, and an offensive system full of the complex and simple that always has the Clippers a step behind, a moment too late.
Five years later, Duncan finds himself surrounded with an eclectic ensemble of teammates borne out of general manager R.C. Buford’s scouting acumen and coach Gregg Popovich’s genius of integrating the talent into a victorious system. Five years later, Duncan is 36 years old, and the truth is unmistakable: He’s closer to his fifth championship than James is to his first.
“It’s been successful for us,” Duncan said. “It’s worked for us. We’ve stuck with that. We’ve been blessed to have the talent that we’ve had, the guys that we’ve drafted and developed over the years – and a couple of key finds along the way…
“Yeah, it’s worked for us.”
Privately, Spurs management will be the first to confess that they let themselves get swept away in the NBA's arms race. Three years ago, they watched the Los Angeles Lakers and Boston Celtics win championships with four and five elite players, and believed they had to find a big-money fourth player to surround Duncan, Parker and Ginobili. They made the mistake of trading for Richard Jefferson and the $29 million still owed on his contract three years ago, and they paid a price for it.
“All the really good teams at that time who were paying the top-end salaries – the Lakers and Boston – didn’t just have two or three good players,” Buford said.
“They had more than that, and we tried to answer it.”
Eventually, the Spurs moved Jefferson to the Golden State Warriors and brought back the toughest guy in the gym, Stephen Jackson. Danny Green and Gary Neal had been passed over elsewhere, discarded, and they found a place with the Spurs. Tiago Splitter emerged as the center to be groomed behind Duncan. As Popovich said, Boris Diaw has fit "seamlessly" into the Spurs. Kawhi Leonard has been the long, athletic young forward that they desperately needed, and now he starts with Diaw and Green. Ginobili shrugs, comes off the bench and still kills everyone.
The Spurs keep coming the way the Indiana Pacers have been built to do in the Eastern Conference: deep, versatile and able to attack in different ways. Oklahoma City has constructed its franchise the way the Spurs did: Superstars drafted, developed and surrounded with proper parts. That’s how you keep costs down, chemistry strong and talent deep on the bench.
As Buford said, “What happened with Pop’s approach to the season was this: We didn’t have practice time to prepare a group who hadn’t been used to playing together. But by not over-extending minutes for our top five players, that ability to develop came in game action to give us a much deeper team.
“But, listen, Pop is not doing any of this without including Tim, Tony and Manu. They had to be a part of this. This isn’t something that’s new to this season. Pop’s reduced minutes for all these guys for the last couple years. But I think there’s an appreciation there with [Duncan, Parker and Ginobili] that this can help to extend their careers.”
Five years later, Duncan takes a long look around him and sees something he understands he needs in his advancing years: Buford’s eye for talent, Popovich’s coaching genius and the fresh legs that get him where he needs to go. When Duncan misses three free throws late to lose a playoff game, you won’t hear him blaming it on how “taxing” it was to play out of position. Five years later, the stars chased each other to Miami, Los Angeles and New York, and the strangest thing happened: The Super Team still resided in San Antonio, where the Spurs' formula remained unmatched.
Yes, Tim Duncan said, it works for us.
TIM DUNCAN
THE SAME OLD STORY
To see one Tim Duncan game is to have seen them all. You will be treated to bank shots, all fired with the same high, mechanical release. There will also be jump hooks, excellent post defense, effortless dissection of double teams and precise outlet passes. The same craggy, white-haired coach will pace the sideline, frowning the same disapproving frown. Throughout, Duncan's expression will run the gamut from stone-faced to indifferent.
On a spring night in Oakland near the end of the regular season, Duncan scored an impressive 13 points in 11 minutes against the Warriors. Even so, there were no oohs, aahs or even boos from the Warriors crowd. During player intros Duncan received the kind of polite applause you might hear at the end of a poetry reading. He could have been any opponent.
It's a bit shocking, of course. Duncan is arguably the greatest basketball player of his generation, inarguably its most successful. Yet compared with his peers, he remains practically anonymous.
How can this be?
THE SILENCE
"I have to warn you that I have a headache," Tim Duncan is saying in the lobby of a Denver Marriott. There is also the issue of time, he adds. The team flight was delayed getting in. Ice on the runway. Everyone's tired.
Duncan stares down at me with his wide, flat face. Maybe we could just scrap the interview, the face says. Anyone who interviewed Duncan knows the drill: He talks only after games or practices, and then only for a few minutes and in tiny bursts of spectacular blandness. He is a man who has achieved so much yet continues to flee from the very thing so many others chase with a white-hot desperation: fame. Year after year Duncan has turned down interviews and endorsements that could have netted him millions. He hasn't feuded with teammates, used the media as a back channel to tweak his G.M. or forced out a coach.
In this case both Spurs p.r. man Tom James and an assistant coach had to vouch for me. Then James had to wait until the time was right to bring up the idea of an interview—on the road, when Tim would have an off day he couldn't spend with his wife, Amy, and their two children, which Tim prefers to do 100 times out of 100 during the season. Even then, it was unclear how much time, if any, Duncan would grant. He has a reputation to uphold, after all.
NO SECOND ACT
This is problematic because who doesn't love a narrative about redemption and vindication? But Duncan? To recap: Tall, talented young man succeeds for four years in college, goes to NBA, succeeds immediately, then continues to do so for the next 15 years. Here are the numbers.
13: Consecutive seasons to begin his career in which Duncan was named All-NBA and All-Defensive team, six more than anyone else in league history.
.702: The Spurs' winning percentage during the Duncan era, the best 15-year run by any NBA team in history.
0: Number of teams in the four major pro sports with a better winning percentage over the last 15 years than the Spurs.
DNP—OLD
It happens almost every game now, including in these playoffs, during which the top-seeded Spurs blew through the first round in four games against the Jazz: Some opposing big man throws his weight into Duncan's 36-year-old back, digs out position and then asks the question, How many more years ya got in ya?
Each night, Duncan says the same thing: "I got at least one more game."
It's worse when the young guys guard him. "Hey, I grew up watching you," they'll say, and Duncan will try to ignore the implication. He understands how this works. "Your mortality as a player is not known," he says. "You don't see the end coming."
Even his coach gets into the act. Earlier this season, when Gregg Popovich held Duncan out of a game, he gave the reason as DNP—OLD.
Not surprisingly, Duncan's numbers dipped during the regular season; he averaged 15.4 points and 9.0 rebounds per game. However, inspect his production per 36 minutes—starter's minutes. Those figures rise to 19.7 points and 11.5 rebounds. Or almost exactly his career averages.
Watch him this week, as the Spurs begin their second-round series against the Clippers, and you'll note that he's moving better than he has in a while, that he looks fitter and that he appears rejuvenated by both the lack of double teams and the relative youth of his teammates. (San Antonio's average age, 26.9, is the lowest of the Duncan era.) Says Duncan, "It's the best I've felt in years."
HIS BUDDY KG
Just kidding, as this might count in his favor. In fact, Duncan hates Kevin Garnett. Hates him the way liberals hate Sean Hannity. This information comes from very reliable sources, who talk about how KG has made a career of trying to punk Duncan, baiting him and slapping him and whispering really weird smack into his ear. They talk about how funny this is, because the worst thing you can do as an opponent is piss off Duncan. Then, as Malik Rose says, "he f------ destroys you." Duncan's lifetime numbers versus Garnett's teams, by the way: 20.02 points per game, 12.15 boards and a 29--19 record, including the postseason.
Duncan is diplomatic about the topic. Asked if perhaps all those years battling Garnett have softened his feelings for the man, led to a Magic-Larry type of kinship, Duncan leans back on the couch in his hotel room and grins. There is a pause. A longer pause. Finally he says, "Define kinship."
AN UNUSUAL STORY
The story of Duncan's career begins on an island, in the summer of 1997. That's when Popovich flew down to St. Croix to meet his team's No. 1 draft pick. On the first day, Duncan took his new coach swimming. Out they went, one man tall and assured, the other short and as pale as the sand, his arms churning furiously. Duncan led them past rocky outcroppings into deeper water, the shoreline of the island quickly receding. Popovich began to think about how far out they were, about what lay beneath, about the waves cresting off the rocks. Still, he kept going, determined not to show weakness.
Over the next three days—or two or maybe four, neither can remember—the two men swam and lay on the beach and ate, talking about life and family and priorities. Everything but basketball. Despite a difference of nearly 30 years, they connected in a way few athletes and coaches do. Today Popovich tears up just talking about it. "I really cherish that time," he says. "It was like an instant respect and understanding of each other. Almost like we were soul mates."
From that point on, the two were on the same page. Other than a brief flirtation with the Orlando Magic in 2003, when Duncan was a free agent—he and Pop stayed up late drinking beers in Pop's backyard, talking it through—Duncan never wavered in his commitment to the team. This, in turn, allowed Popovich to build his highly successful system, the tenets of which were simple: The offense runs through Duncan, the defense runs through Duncan, and if you don't like it, you're gone. It holds true to this day. "I like role players who aren't very good but have a skill," Pop says with a chuckle, though he is not joking. "I know who's going to have the ball on our team, and need players who understand this."
CAPTAIN JACK
In 2001, when Stephen Jackson was in his second year and Duncan in his fourth, Jackson used to get so mad when he was subbed out of the game that he'd walk in a giant arc to the bench, nearly reaching the opposite baseline in an attempt to stay as far from Popovich as possible. Once seated, Jackson would unleash a stream of profanity so curdling that nearby fans would turn ashen. When it got to be too much, Duncan would approach Popovich. "I got him," Duncan would say.
And the funny thing is, Duncan did. He'd take Jackson aside, put a big, lanky arm around him and break it down. He'd joke with him, hang with him, make plans to play paintball with him. They made for an odd couple: Duncan, one of the squarest players in the league, and Jackson, who never met a club he couldn't close down, a team he couldn't tear apart or a bottle he couldn't pop.
This season, after an 11-year separation as Jackson moved from one team to another, seven in all, the two men are reunited in pursuit of another championship, and this is what Jackson has to say about Duncan: "I'm humbled to be able to say that Tim Duncan is a good friend of mine."
Turns out lots of people feel that way. During his 15 years with the Spurs, Tim Duncan has had 116 teammates. They range from the celebrated (David Robinson) to the not-so-much (Cory Joseph), with a heavy emphasis on the latter. Last year Duncan tried to count them all but couldn't do it. Throughout, Duncan has been the center around which all else has orbited.
Most important, he's allowed Popovich to coach him. For 15 straight seasons Pop has gone after his franchise player in practice. We're talking neck veins bulging, spittle flying, a Gatling gun of obscenities. And all Duncan has done is stare back, absorbing it. "He hasn't always liked it," says former teammate Sean Elliott, now a team announcer, "but he takes it. You know how important that is for the rest of the team to see?"
Or, as one Spurs coach puts it, "How could a guy like Stephen Jackson complain when Pop was motherf------ Tim every day?"
THE SAGE
These days the tirades are less frequent, but Popovich leans on his star in other ways. When the Spurs call a timeout and you see the San Antonio coaches huddle a few feet from the bench, it's not to hash out strategy. Rather, Pop is giving Duncan, Manu Ginobili and Tony Parker time with the team. "You'll see Timmy over there with a young kid, talking about how he should do this or that or what we meant by such and such," says Popovich. "I'll come back to the timeouts sometimes and say, 'Are we square?' and Timmy will say, 'Yeah, we got 'em.'"
Popovich pauses. "He commands that type of respect because he doesn't demand it, if that makes sense."
HE'S SMALL TIME
One story among many: In the fall of 2003, during the Spurs' preseason training camp, most of the players stayed at a local hotel at the team's behest. Ferry and Steve Kerr, however, decided to commute from their homes. Both were nearing the end of their careers and had kids. They figured the hotel was intended for the younger players, to keep them in line.
On the third day of camp, Ferry and Kerr pulled up to the practice facility just as the team bus arrived from the hotel. A succession of rookies exited the bus. At the rear was Duncan, six years in the league already. He took one look at Kerr and Ferry. "Wait a second, are you guys staying at home?" Duncan asked, incredulous.
"Yup," said Kerr.
Duncan's eyes got wider. "You mean you can do that?"
Ferry stared back at him. "Tim, you're the league MVP. You can do whatever you want."
FLATLINING
"One of my biggest pet peeves as a player was when guys got some success in this league and they changed," says Elliott, who played with Duncan for four years. "Sometimes it happened in, like, two weeks. The reason is that the overwhelming majority of guys don't know who they are. They're trying to be someone they're not, to appease a certain type of crowd or niche."
And Duncan? "He's always known who he was and been comfortable in his own skin," Elliott says. "In 15 years he hasn't changed."
Ask Duncan about it, and this is what he says: "It sounds somewhat arrogant, but I don't really want to change. I like who I am, I like how I do things." He pauses. "I try to be that way."
THE ISLAND VIBE
There's no Hoosier heartland in Duncan's background, no housing projects or city streets or any of the other roots so familiar to the athlete narrative. Duncan grew up in St. Croix, raised by a loving jack-of-all-trades father and a mother whose mantra was, "Good, better, best/Never let it rest/Until your good is better and your better is your best." He watched his mother, Ione, die of cancer when he was 14, weathered Hurricane Hugo in the house his father helped build and left a promising swimming career to play basketball. To this day he is an island guy to the core.
DUNKING
Here is a partial list of the NBA players who dunked more often than Tim Duncan this season: Gordon Hayward, Landry Fields, John Wall, Byron Mullens, Trevor Booker. In all, 63 players threw down more often. Even when Duncan did put one down, it was invariably a one-handed job, raised above the rim and deposited with something close to disdain. In fact, you could make a credible argument that, with the exception of Larry Bird, no player in NBA history has been more successful while blessed with fewer hops.
THE SUBTLETY
On the other hand the stuff Duncan is good at really, really excites NBA assistant coaches. The corollary to this, of course, is that most Americans aren't NBA assistant coaches. Assistants will go on about the way he can pass out of the post to his wing shooters with his eyes shut, the way he faces up one foot farther from the basket than most big men, the way he blocks shots without jumping, the beauty of his bank shot (a shot the rest of the country has made a tacit agreement only to use in H-O-R-S-E) and countless other small but important details.
Here's Warriors assistant Mike Malone, one of the game's best defensive minds: "Tim loves the left block, going middle, turning over his left shoulder, getting to his righty jump hook. So, obviously if you can, you want to turn to the baseline, which is his countermove. But then when he faces up, he's so good at that bank shot, and if you get your hands up, he's going to come up and draw that foul. You have to be ready to contest, but if you have your hand out, he's too smart! You have to do your work early, take away the middle and still give some help from the nail, some double team help. And try to push him out a little farther. Don't let him get two feet in the paint so he can get to his righty jump hook. Be physical, try to send him baseline. Get a late contest."
And? "And it still doesn't work," Malone says. "It's like Kobe. You can say, 'Make Kobe go left,' but he still scores going left."
THE BIG-MAN BIAS
It's an accepted truth: The only reason most big guys get into the game is that when they're young, someone grabs them on the playground, says, "You're tall, so you need to play basketball." Then that person shoves a ball in their hands. It's why you see so many indifferent big men even at the NBA level, players such as Joe Barry Carroll and Eddy Curry and Stanley Roberts, even Andrew Bynum. As a result, fans become conditioned to expect mediocre effort from the game's biggest players.
Ask those who know Duncan what drives him, however, and they all say the same things: He loves the game. He cares just as much as the little guys do. It's one thing to claim to love the game and another, as Ferry says, "to make the sacrifices that are necessary to win." They point out how Duncan lost those 15 pounds in the last couple of years to protect his knees, at an age when most 7-footers only get stockier (and indeed, to see him in the locker room with his shirt off, devoid of body fat, is jarring). They talk about how, in contrast to David Robinson, who was lovable and smart and marketable but never could remember all the plays, Duncan "knows every play from front to back, position one through five." As longtime assistant coach Mike Budenholzer says, "Tim could coach the team if he needed to."
MIND GAMES
His on-court demeanor is so reserved that The Onion once ran a story titled, TIM DUNCAN HAMS IT UP FOR CROWD BY ARCHING LEFT EYEBROW SLIGHTLY. This impression is intentional, it turns out. Duncan has said he uses silence to "destroy people's psyches." He explains, "The best mind game you can run on someone is just to keep going at them and at them until they break." Don't respond, don't show emotion. Just keep playing. "Eventually," he says with a grin, "you'll piss them off."
THE ANTI-MARKETING OF A SUPERSTAR
There are no shoes. No line of wicking shorts. No, well, anything. Lon Babby, Duncan's longtime agent and now G.M. of the Suns, says that Duncan "turned down almost all of it" when it came to opportunities. "It just wasn't that important to him," Babby says. "I had to make sure I was doing what he wanted, not what I wanted."
The result is that it can be awfully lonely to be a Duncan acolyte. Ever seen a Duncan jersey outside Texas? Know any non--Spurs fans who'd call him their favorite player?
When this last question is posed on Twitter, a virtual scavenger hunt ensues. Dozens upon dozens try to help. They respond that they once knew this guy who had a friend who really liked Duncan, or that Duncan was their favorite player from 1997 to '99, or that Duncan is, like, their third favorite player and does that count? Then, finally, paydirt. An NBA fan in Canada, one in Cleveland and one in New York. I query them with e-mails, ask why they love Tim. An interesting theme emerges: In Duncan, they see themselves. They talk about how he's "old school," how "he's an introvert like myself" and how "he does his job and goes home."
Which is to say that Duncan is sort of like us. And what kind of hero does that make?
THE LAST WORD
The 20 minutes Duncan proposed have become 40, and he is still talking. He's comfortable here in his hotel room, having jacked up the heat. ("An island thing," he says.) He's thoughtful, possessed of a dry wit—Duncan is a big giggler—and gracious. It's a side his teammates are all familiar with.
The question has to be asked: Why not let the public see this side of you? "With the media, I just keep it basic, surface, to the point," he says. "You're here to talk about basketball. I'll give you what you want, and let's go home. I don't really care about anyone getting to know me, or getting into my life or anything else like that."
This is understandable, even admirable in a way. After all, how many of us would want total strangers knowing intimate details of our lives? Yet when Duncan's gone, will we suddenly realize how much we miss him? Will we realize how singular his career has been? Will we begin to appreciate him not just for all that he was but also for all that he was not?
Then again, maybe it's not too late to start. He's asked about it. Doesn't he care about how he's viewed, how he's remembered?
Duncan thinks for a second, pulls on the sleeve of his silver Spurs sweatshirt. "Why?" he says. "I have no control of that. All I can do is play and try to play well. Winning should be the only thing that matters. I can't manipulate how people see me."
But that's not true at all, he's told.
He considers this, then frowns. "I mean, I guess I could. I could be more accessible and be the darling for everybody. I could open up my life and get more endorsements and be out there and be a fan favorite. But why would that help?"
He pauses for a moment. "Why should it?"
To see one Tim Duncan game is to have seen them all. You will be treated to bank shots, all fired with the same high, mechanical release. There will also be jump hooks, excellent post defense, effortless dissection of double teams and precise outlet passes. The same craggy, white-haired coach will pace the sideline, frowning the same disapproving frown. Throughout, Duncan's expression will run the gamut from stone-faced to indifferent.
On a spring night in Oakland near the end of the regular season, Duncan scored an impressive 13 points in 11 minutes against the Warriors. Even so, there were no oohs, aahs or even boos from the Warriors crowd. During player intros Duncan received the kind of polite applause you might hear at the end of a poetry reading. He could have been any opponent.
It's a bit shocking, of course. Duncan is arguably the greatest basketball player of his generation, inarguably its most successful. Yet compared with his peers, he remains practically anonymous.
How can this be?
THE SILENCE
"I have to warn you that I have a headache," Tim Duncan is saying in the lobby of a Denver Marriott. There is also the issue of time, he adds. The team flight was delayed getting in. Ice on the runway. Everyone's tired.
Duncan stares down at me with his wide, flat face. Maybe we could just scrap the interview, the face says. Anyone who interviewed Duncan knows the drill: He talks only after games or practices, and then only for a few minutes and in tiny bursts of spectacular blandness. He is a man who has achieved so much yet continues to flee from the very thing so many others chase with a white-hot desperation: fame. Year after year Duncan has turned down interviews and endorsements that could have netted him millions. He hasn't feuded with teammates, used the media as a back channel to tweak his G.M. or forced out a coach.
In this case both Spurs p.r. man Tom James and an assistant coach had to vouch for me. Then James had to wait until the time was right to bring up the idea of an interview—on the road, when Tim would have an off day he couldn't spend with his wife, Amy, and their two children, which Tim prefers to do 100 times out of 100 during the season. Even then, it was unclear how much time, if any, Duncan would grant. He has a reputation to uphold, after all.
NO SECOND ACT
This is problematic because who doesn't love a narrative about redemption and vindication? But Duncan? To recap: Tall, talented young man succeeds for four years in college, goes to NBA, succeeds immediately, then continues to do so for the next 15 years. Here are the numbers.
13: Consecutive seasons to begin his career in which Duncan was named All-NBA and All-Defensive team, six more than anyone else in league history.
.702: The Spurs' winning percentage during the Duncan era, the best 15-year run by any NBA team in history.
0: Number of teams in the four major pro sports with a better winning percentage over the last 15 years than the Spurs.
DNP—OLD
It happens almost every game now, including in these playoffs, during which the top-seeded Spurs blew through the first round in four games against the Jazz: Some opposing big man throws his weight into Duncan's 36-year-old back, digs out position and then asks the question, How many more years ya got in ya?
Each night, Duncan says the same thing: "I got at least one more game."
It's worse when the young guys guard him. "Hey, I grew up watching you," they'll say, and Duncan will try to ignore the implication. He understands how this works. "Your mortality as a player is not known," he says. "You don't see the end coming."
Even his coach gets into the act. Earlier this season, when Gregg Popovich held Duncan out of a game, he gave the reason as DNP—OLD.
Not surprisingly, Duncan's numbers dipped during the regular season; he averaged 15.4 points and 9.0 rebounds per game. However, inspect his production per 36 minutes—starter's minutes. Those figures rise to 19.7 points and 11.5 rebounds. Or almost exactly his career averages.
Watch him this week, as the Spurs begin their second-round series against the Clippers, and you'll note that he's moving better than he has in a while, that he looks fitter and that he appears rejuvenated by both the lack of double teams and the relative youth of his teammates. (San Antonio's average age, 26.9, is the lowest of the Duncan era.) Says Duncan, "It's the best I've felt in years."
HIS BUDDY KG
Just kidding, as this might count in his favor. In fact, Duncan hates Kevin Garnett. Hates him the way liberals hate Sean Hannity. This information comes from very reliable sources, who talk about how KG has made a career of trying to punk Duncan, baiting him and slapping him and whispering really weird smack into his ear. They talk about how funny this is, because the worst thing you can do as an opponent is piss off Duncan. Then, as Malik Rose says, "he f------ destroys you." Duncan's lifetime numbers versus Garnett's teams, by the way: 20.02 points per game, 12.15 boards and a 29--19 record, including the postseason.
Duncan is diplomatic about the topic. Asked if perhaps all those years battling Garnett have softened his feelings for the man, led to a Magic-Larry type of kinship, Duncan leans back on the couch in his hotel room and grins. There is a pause. A longer pause. Finally he says, "Define kinship."
AN UNUSUAL STORY
The story of Duncan's career begins on an island, in the summer of 1997. That's when Popovich flew down to St. Croix to meet his team's No. 1 draft pick. On the first day, Duncan took his new coach swimming. Out they went, one man tall and assured, the other short and as pale as the sand, his arms churning furiously. Duncan led them past rocky outcroppings into deeper water, the shoreline of the island quickly receding. Popovich began to think about how far out they were, about what lay beneath, about the waves cresting off the rocks. Still, he kept going, determined not to show weakness.
Over the next three days—or two or maybe four, neither can remember—the two men swam and lay on the beach and ate, talking about life and family and priorities. Everything but basketball. Despite a difference of nearly 30 years, they connected in a way few athletes and coaches do. Today Popovich tears up just talking about it. "I really cherish that time," he says. "It was like an instant respect and understanding of each other. Almost like we were soul mates."
From that point on, the two were on the same page. Other than a brief flirtation with the Orlando Magic in 2003, when Duncan was a free agent—he and Pop stayed up late drinking beers in Pop's backyard, talking it through—Duncan never wavered in his commitment to the team. This, in turn, allowed Popovich to build his highly successful system, the tenets of which were simple: The offense runs through Duncan, the defense runs through Duncan, and if you don't like it, you're gone. It holds true to this day. "I like role players who aren't very good but have a skill," Pop says with a chuckle, though he is not joking. "I know who's going to have the ball on our team, and need players who understand this."
CAPTAIN JACK
In 2001, when Stephen Jackson was in his second year and Duncan in his fourth, Jackson used to get so mad when he was subbed out of the game that he'd walk in a giant arc to the bench, nearly reaching the opposite baseline in an attempt to stay as far from Popovich as possible. Once seated, Jackson would unleash a stream of profanity so curdling that nearby fans would turn ashen. When it got to be too much, Duncan would approach Popovich. "I got him," Duncan would say.
And the funny thing is, Duncan did. He'd take Jackson aside, put a big, lanky arm around him and break it down. He'd joke with him, hang with him, make plans to play paintball with him. They made for an odd couple: Duncan, one of the squarest players in the league, and Jackson, who never met a club he couldn't close down, a team he couldn't tear apart or a bottle he couldn't pop.
This season, after an 11-year separation as Jackson moved from one team to another, seven in all, the two men are reunited in pursuit of another championship, and this is what Jackson has to say about Duncan: "I'm humbled to be able to say that Tim Duncan is a good friend of mine."
Turns out lots of people feel that way. During his 15 years with the Spurs, Tim Duncan has had 116 teammates. They range from the celebrated (David Robinson) to the not-so-much (Cory Joseph), with a heavy emphasis on the latter. Last year Duncan tried to count them all but couldn't do it. Throughout, Duncan has been the center around which all else has orbited.
Most important, he's allowed Popovich to coach him. For 15 straight seasons Pop has gone after his franchise player in practice. We're talking neck veins bulging, spittle flying, a Gatling gun of obscenities. And all Duncan has done is stare back, absorbing it. "He hasn't always liked it," says former teammate Sean Elliott, now a team announcer, "but he takes it. You know how important that is for the rest of the team to see?"
Or, as one Spurs coach puts it, "How could a guy like Stephen Jackson complain when Pop was motherf------ Tim every day?"
THE SAGE
These days the tirades are less frequent, but Popovich leans on his star in other ways. When the Spurs call a timeout and you see the San Antonio coaches huddle a few feet from the bench, it's not to hash out strategy. Rather, Pop is giving Duncan, Manu Ginobili and Tony Parker time with the team. "You'll see Timmy over there with a young kid, talking about how he should do this or that or what we meant by such and such," says Popovich. "I'll come back to the timeouts sometimes and say, 'Are we square?' and Timmy will say, 'Yeah, we got 'em.'"
Popovich pauses. "He commands that type of respect because he doesn't demand it, if that makes sense."
HE'S SMALL TIME
One story among many: In the fall of 2003, during the Spurs' preseason training camp, most of the players stayed at a local hotel at the team's behest. Ferry and Steve Kerr, however, decided to commute from their homes. Both were nearing the end of their careers and had kids. They figured the hotel was intended for the younger players, to keep them in line.
On the third day of camp, Ferry and Kerr pulled up to the practice facility just as the team bus arrived from the hotel. A succession of rookies exited the bus. At the rear was Duncan, six years in the league already. He took one look at Kerr and Ferry. "Wait a second, are you guys staying at home?" Duncan asked, incredulous.
"Yup," said Kerr.
Duncan's eyes got wider. "You mean you can do that?"
Ferry stared back at him. "Tim, you're the league MVP. You can do whatever you want."
FLATLINING
"One of my biggest pet peeves as a player was when guys got some success in this league and they changed," says Elliott, who played with Duncan for four years. "Sometimes it happened in, like, two weeks. The reason is that the overwhelming majority of guys don't know who they are. They're trying to be someone they're not, to appease a certain type of crowd or niche."
And Duncan? "He's always known who he was and been comfortable in his own skin," Elliott says. "In 15 years he hasn't changed."
Ask Duncan about it, and this is what he says: "It sounds somewhat arrogant, but I don't really want to change. I like who I am, I like how I do things." He pauses. "I try to be that way."
THE ISLAND VIBE
There's no Hoosier heartland in Duncan's background, no housing projects or city streets or any of the other roots so familiar to the athlete narrative. Duncan grew up in St. Croix, raised by a loving jack-of-all-trades father and a mother whose mantra was, "Good, better, best/Never let it rest/Until your good is better and your better is your best." He watched his mother, Ione, die of cancer when he was 14, weathered Hurricane Hugo in the house his father helped build and left a promising swimming career to play basketball. To this day he is an island guy to the core.
DUNKING
Here is a partial list of the NBA players who dunked more often than Tim Duncan this season: Gordon Hayward, Landry Fields, John Wall, Byron Mullens, Trevor Booker. In all, 63 players threw down more often. Even when Duncan did put one down, it was invariably a one-handed job, raised above the rim and deposited with something close to disdain. In fact, you could make a credible argument that, with the exception of Larry Bird, no player in NBA history has been more successful while blessed with fewer hops.
THE SUBTLETY
On the other hand the stuff Duncan is good at really, really excites NBA assistant coaches. The corollary to this, of course, is that most Americans aren't NBA assistant coaches. Assistants will go on about the way he can pass out of the post to his wing shooters with his eyes shut, the way he faces up one foot farther from the basket than most big men, the way he blocks shots without jumping, the beauty of his bank shot (a shot the rest of the country has made a tacit agreement only to use in H-O-R-S-E) and countless other small but important details.
Here's Warriors assistant Mike Malone, one of the game's best defensive minds: "Tim loves the left block, going middle, turning over his left shoulder, getting to his righty jump hook. So, obviously if you can, you want to turn to the baseline, which is his countermove. But then when he faces up, he's so good at that bank shot, and if you get your hands up, he's going to come up and draw that foul. You have to be ready to contest, but if you have your hand out, he's too smart! You have to do your work early, take away the middle and still give some help from the nail, some double team help. And try to push him out a little farther. Don't let him get two feet in the paint so he can get to his righty jump hook. Be physical, try to send him baseline. Get a late contest."
And? "And it still doesn't work," Malone says. "It's like Kobe. You can say, 'Make Kobe go left,' but he still scores going left."
THE BIG-MAN BIAS
It's an accepted truth: The only reason most big guys get into the game is that when they're young, someone grabs them on the playground, says, "You're tall, so you need to play basketball." Then that person shoves a ball in their hands. It's why you see so many indifferent big men even at the NBA level, players such as Joe Barry Carroll and Eddy Curry and Stanley Roberts, even Andrew Bynum. As a result, fans become conditioned to expect mediocre effort from the game's biggest players.
Ask those who know Duncan what drives him, however, and they all say the same things: He loves the game. He cares just as much as the little guys do. It's one thing to claim to love the game and another, as Ferry says, "to make the sacrifices that are necessary to win." They point out how Duncan lost those 15 pounds in the last couple of years to protect his knees, at an age when most 7-footers only get stockier (and indeed, to see him in the locker room with his shirt off, devoid of body fat, is jarring). They talk about how, in contrast to David Robinson, who was lovable and smart and marketable but never could remember all the plays, Duncan "knows every play from front to back, position one through five." As longtime assistant coach Mike Budenholzer says, "Tim could coach the team if he needed to."
MIND GAMES
His on-court demeanor is so reserved that The Onion once ran a story titled, TIM DUNCAN HAMS IT UP FOR CROWD BY ARCHING LEFT EYEBROW SLIGHTLY. This impression is intentional, it turns out. Duncan has said he uses silence to "destroy people's psyches." He explains, "The best mind game you can run on someone is just to keep going at them and at them until they break." Don't respond, don't show emotion. Just keep playing. "Eventually," he says with a grin, "you'll piss them off."
THE ANTI-MARKETING OF A SUPERSTAR
There are no shoes. No line of wicking shorts. No, well, anything. Lon Babby, Duncan's longtime agent and now G.M. of the Suns, says that Duncan "turned down almost all of it" when it came to opportunities. "It just wasn't that important to him," Babby says. "I had to make sure I was doing what he wanted, not what I wanted."
The result is that it can be awfully lonely to be a Duncan acolyte. Ever seen a Duncan jersey outside Texas? Know any non--Spurs fans who'd call him their favorite player?
When this last question is posed on Twitter, a virtual scavenger hunt ensues. Dozens upon dozens try to help. They respond that they once knew this guy who had a friend who really liked Duncan, or that Duncan was their favorite player from 1997 to '99, or that Duncan is, like, their third favorite player and does that count? Then, finally, paydirt. An NBA fan in Canada, one in Cleveland and one in New York. I query them with e-mails, ask why they love Tim. An interesting theme emerges: In Duncan, they see themselves. They talk about how he's "old school," how "he's an introvert like myself" and how "he does his job and goes home."
Which is to say that Duncan is sort of like us. And what kind of hero does that make?
THE LAST WORD
The 20 minutes Duncan proposed have become 40, and he is still talking. He's comfortable here in his hotel room, having jacked up the heat. ("An island thing," he says.) He's thoughtful, possessed of a dry wit—Duncan is a big giggler—and gracious. It's a side his teammates are all familiar with.
The question has to be asked: Why not let the public see this side of you? "With the media, I just keep it basic, surface, to the point," he says. "You're here to talk about basketball. I'll give you what you want, and let's go home. I don't really care about anyone getting to know me, or getting into my life or anything else like that."
This is understandable, even admirable in a way. After all, how many of us would want total strangers knowing intimate details of our lives? Yet when Duncan's gone, will we suddenly realize how much we miss him? Will we realize how singular his career has been? Will we begin to appreciate him not just for all that he was but also for all that he was not?
Then again, maybe it's not too late to start. He's asked about it. Doesn't he care about how he's viewed, how he's remembered?
Duncan thinks for a second, pulls on the sleeve of his silver Spurs sweatshirt. "Why?" he says. "I have no control of that. All I can do is play and try to play well. Winning should be the only thing that matters. I can't manipulate how people see me."
But that's not true at all, he's told.
He considers this, then frowns. "I mean, I guess I could. I could be more accessible and be the darling for everybody. I could open up my life and get more endorsements and be out there and be a fan favorite. But why would that help?"
He pauses for a moment. "Why should it?"
5.05.2012
THE SPUR WAY
Coach of the year isn't a good way to describe Gregg Popovich. It's too limiting. It implies he's about one season and one team.
What Popovich has done goes far beyond guiding the Spurs to the best record in the league this season. He has created a template for NBA success. His influence extends so far that his presence is likely to be felt in the NBA Finals even if the Spurs don't make it.
If the Oklahoma City Thunder, Los Angeles Lakers or Los Angeles Clippers get in they all have key figures with significant ties to Popovich. For the Thunder it's general manager Sam Presti, who got his start in the NBA working in the Spurs' front office. For the Lakers and Clippers it's coaches Mike Brown, who was an assistant, and Vinny Del Negro, who played for Popovich.
Nonplayoff teams that reflect the Popovich effect include the Phoenix Suns (general manager Lance Blanks), the New Jersey Nets (coach Avery Johnson) and the New Orleans Hornets (general manager Dell Demps and coach Monty Williams).
"You go work for him, it's like going to school," said Brown, who was an assistant coach under Popovich. "You learn a lot, not only on the coaching side, but on the front-office side."
Phil Jackson and Pat Riley have more rings, but Popovich has more progenies around the league. It's because Popovich's way is portable. Brown has "tremendous respect" for Jackson and Riley and considers them worthy Hall of Fame enshrinees. He just doesn't think their success is as feasible to duplicate as Popovich's.
"When you talk about Phil and Pat, they went to big-market cities where everybody wants to go, there's tremendous amount of money and support of going and getting any guy you want, " Brown said. "And the teams were already, for the most part, halfway decent.
"You look at Pop taking an underdog situation and turning it into a championship situation, similar to what Sam Presti has done in Oklahoma City and similar to what Danny Ferry [another Popovich offspring] was starting to do in Cleveland, and you relish that or want that. Because not all situations are the Lakers, Chicago, Miami, New York."
It makes sense for team-builders to emulate Popovich just as it makes more sense for the typical player to pattern his game after Kevin Love rather than Blake Griffin.
When you hear the alumni talking about Popovich's success, you notice two things: They always call him "Pop" and they never talk about on-court strategy. Even though Popovich is a respected game coach, nothing from his playbook has entered the basketball lexicon the way you hear terms such as "Princeton offense" or "UCLA cut." Besides, it wouldn't make sense to copy a playbook when Popovich himself hasn't adhered to it the past couple years, revamping the Spurs' style and going up-tempo to reflect a changing roster and league.
Whenever anyone talks about why the Spurs win so much it always comes down to a company-wide ethos.
"I think everyone that has had a chance to work for Pop and RC [Buford] would tell you that a lot of things that have the greatest impact are not necessarily basketball-related alone," Presti wrote in an email. "There's healthy disinterest in the path of least resistance and an authentic and humble appreciation for having the opportunity to be involved with the game at the highest level.
"Above all else, it's clear that the organization itself is the most important thing; as Pop would say, everyone has to get over themselves and put the organization and team first. The endurance of their organization is uncommon, I feel fortunate for the opportunity to have been a small part of it."
Del Negro said: "They had a culture that was about doing it the right way and having the right people and character, and understanding your role and job. Pop kept everybody accountable. 'This is how we need you to play and this is what we need you to do.'"
Having that culture means putting a premium on players who fit that culture. No need to waste time looking at renegades who won't fit in. The Spurs consistently bring in impact rookies -- most notably Tony Parker and Manu Ginobili -- even though they haven't picked higher than 20th since they got Duncan.
"When there's a clarity of what works here and doesn't work, hopefully it gives us the clarity to know when we're looking for people," Spurs general manager R.C. Buford said. "Maybe it helps us reduce our pool."
It's not just a culture. The term the Spurs keep using is program, as in a college program.
Example: "Pop has brought the vision to our program," Buford said. "Everyone who has come through our program understands the things that are important: character and selfless people who want to be part of a team. Want to be part of something bigger than themselves."
It has been Popovich's show since 1994, when he was named the Spurs' executive vice president of basketball operations. In December of 1996, with the Spurs off to a 3-15 start, Popovich fired Bob Hill and took over as coach -- timing the move with the return of David Robinson from a back injury that kept him out of the first 18 games.
Two critical things happened that season that enabled Popovich to reach the status he has today.
The first was veterans such as Robinson, Avery Johnson and Sean Elliott took Popovich seriously. That wasn't a given for a man who had never played in the NBA and whose only head-coaching experience was at Division III Pomona-Pitzer College in Claremont, Calif.
"We had really good guys that were in the prime of their career that had been through a lot of stuff," said Del Negro, who played on that team. "It was just the right mixture of people."
The next career-altering moment came in the spring of 1997, when the Spurs won the lottery and drafted Tim Duncan. Not only was Duncan was a true franchise player, he was one of the lowest-maintenance superstars to ever enter the NBA.
Popovich could harp on him without the relationship deteriorating to Dwight Howard-Stan Van Gundy levels. That gives Popovich the leeway to yell at players who are more likely to do yell-worthy things. There's no double standard. Popovich can, as Monty Williams says, coach all 12 guys. Some coaches coach only 2-12 and let their superstar behave like Joffrey, the petulant teenage king in "Game of Thrones."
Duncan, in turn, is "a part of a lot of our decisions, too," Buford said. "Manu and Tony, too."
They'll consult with Duncan on potential free agents. He'll sit in on their draft discussions. And a long-standing tale in the NBA is the Spurs chose the location of their practice facility based on its proximity to Duncan's house.
"It's not far from the truth," Buford said.
The full story is that many players and coaches resided in the area.
"It made sense to build it near where our players live," Buford said.
As for building a team, Popovich's front-office background lets him think with a long-term perspective. He oversees most free-agent decisions, while leaving the drafting to Buford and the scouting staff. Most coaches need to think short-term, because their job status can change in the time it takes to refresh the NBA standings page on your web browser. Thinking long-term enabled Popovich to work long-term, to become the most tenured active coach in American major pro sports, to be so entrenched he easily survived a first-round exit from last year's playoffs that would have sent many lesser coaches packing.
"Our program starts with our ownership, with Peter Holt and his group," Popovich said at the news conference to announce his coaching award. "They set a tone for all of us, and I'm the beneficiary of all of their talents."
That's Pop, being all modest again. The attitude is so pervasive in the franchise that Buford even called back to make sure this article wouldn't make the Spurs sound as if they were taking credit for a system that made them superior to everyone else. They want to assert that everything is player-based.
"The guys that played here are the reasons that our program has been allowed to be built," Buford said.
It's not a false modesty. Popovich isn't obsessed with credit. He thinks so little of individual accolades that he didn't even wear a tie to coach the game when he was presented his trophy at half court.
But make no mistake, it's about Popovich.
"His people-managing skills, they're off the charts," Brown said. "You watch how he handles different situations with people, whether it's people in the front office or players 1-15 or people that work for him and you try to copy that, to a certain degree, if you can."
3.19.2012
COACHING TIDBITS
*UC DAVIS - Wing flare screen in trans
*End of game scramble - Pitch
*Press - Bandit (take away inbounder?)
*UW - Press break "Gold"
*UO - Outlet pass n trans
*End of game scramble - Pitch
*Press - Bandit (take away inbounder?)
*UW - Press break "Gold"
*UO - Outlet pass n trans
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)