AT&T Center, San Antonio, 2013
"Stone cold" is a distinctly American term. So you
could forgive Tiago Splitter's question. The San Antonio Spurs are in a
scouting meeting, moments before tip-off against the Oklahoma City Thunder.
Assistant coach Brett Brown is explaining a defensive alignment -- a
"red," where two Spurs defenders switch off a pick. To emphasize his
point, Brown declares it a stone-cold certainty the Spurs will face that
situation in tonight's game.
Nine of the Spurs' 15 players this year were raised and
trained outside of the United States -- an NBA record. Cultural and linguistic
confusion happens often on this team. Enter Splitter, a 6'11", 28-year-old
center from Brazil by way of Spain, who this season was the latest to
consummate the transition from overseas superstar to selfless Spur. Splitter
raises his hand, narrows his brow sharp as a rooftop and says, "What is
stone cold?"
The team laughs. Head coach Gregg Popovich laughs. Splitter
laughs too -- but he still needs an answer. So Brown explains what he meant.
Then Splitter turns to Patty Mills, a guard from Australia, and whispers,
"Stone cold isn't in Rosetta Stone."
Cologne, West Germany, 1988
As coaches go, Popovich is a pretty worldly guy. He majored
in Soviet studies at the Air Force Academy. He speaks Russian and Serbian. He
played on military basketball teams during his stint in the armed forces,
traveling Eastern Europe in the '70s. Even then, he knew that the foreign guys
were a mostly untapped wealth of talent. So in the late '80s, as an assistant
coach with the Spurs, Pop traveled to see the European championships in
Cologne. The only other NBA coach there was Don Nelson. Pop knew the stigmas
against foreign players: They wouldn't play defense, they wouldn't socialize,
they wouldn't learn English, they weren't strong dribblers, they couldn't
handle a reduced role, they were soft. "I thought that was really ignorant,"
Pop says now. "I couldn't believe that it was a pool that wasn't being
used."
Decades later, with Pop's mentality and some luck, the core
of the Spurs -- Tim Duncan, Tony Parker and Manu Ginobili, international
players all -- have helped produce the most consistent winner in the four major
sports over the past 15 years, victorious 70.3 percent of the time during that
stretch. They've reached the NBA Finals five times and, as of June 10, were
three wins away from a fifth championship. And through it all, as Pop's
international strategy has become the strategy in the NBA -- seven GMs and five
head coaches this past season grew from the Spurs' tree -- it's always been
framed in Moneyball terms: Go somewhere other teams aren't, find talent nobody
else finds. But to spend time inside the Spurs organization today is to uncover
another interpretation of the Spurs dynasty: that as America's youth basketball
pipeline has produced a type of player that Pop has no interest in coaching, he
has found an advantage not only in targeting international players but in
avoiding domestic ones.
South Jamaica, N.Y., 2013
The anti-Spurs are playing in a stuffy gym in Queens. New
Jersey's Playaz Basketball Club and the New York City Jayhawks -- two AAU
teams, the former among the nation's premiere squads and the latter a relative
upstart -- are facing off in the IS8 Tournament. It's a small showcase, during
the down months when college coaches aren't allowed to attend games, so missing
is the usual swirling circus of middlemen and power brokers and recruiters and
other fishy sycophants who are as ubiquitous at tournaments as the Swoosh. The
larger summer events are, as one college coach says, "sick. You see
coaches, street agents, pedophiles, guys who want to hang around the players
because of money or ego."
Youth basketball's beauties and alarms, depending how you
look at it, are evident from the opening tip. On an early possession, one of
the Jayhawks spins, dribbles, loses and regains balance -- holding the ball for
what seems like an eternity -- before drawing contact and hitting a layup.
"And one!" he yells. A few possessions later, one of the Playaz
dribbles up the floor, barreling through every Jayhawk like a fullback as his teammates
stand alone, and throws up a wild layup, nowhere close.
1 Spurs Lane, San Antonio, 2013
Near a mural in his office, Spurs general manager R.C.
Buford has just finished reading an article. The mural is an action shot of a
Spurs game, but it's really of an era and a mentality frozen in time. Parker's
arms are extended, following through after a pass to Ginobili, who's shooting a
layup. Duncan is under the glass, not leaping to dunk a potential Ginobili miss
but boxing out. Three future Hall of Famers, including one whom many fans --
and not just in San Antonio -- consider the premier player of his era, all
playing hero-agnostic basketball.
The article that Buford has finished, printed from ESPN.com,
sits on his desk. Its headline: "The Entitlement Culture of Elite HS
Hoops." In it, recruiting analyst Dave Telep writes about not only
witnessing AAU players complain about the food at a Ritz in California during a
tournament but also what he calls the slow and steady crumble of American
grassroots basketball: loafing, lousy fundamentals, a pervasive disinterest
from players in showcasing anything but themselves.
Buford had lived much of what he read. With two sons who
recently played college basketball and rose through the AAU scene, Buford has
had a floor seat to the yawning divide in how the game is taught in America and
overseas. In AAU, anyone who pays a $16 fee and finishes a background check and
an online clinic can coach. In the FIBA club system in Europe, although
requirements vary from country to country, coaches must earn various licenses,
which often require them to complete intensive training, covering everything
from X's and O's to nutrition. The U.S. has the NCAA serving as a conflicted
arbiter of both the players' time and money; there is no pretense of amateurism
overseas, and for better or worse, practices often last hours longer than our
regulated college ones. The Spurs, of course, are not in the business of
worrying about the demands on a student-athlete's time and saw it as a plus
that guys like Ginobili and Parker had been playing club basketball since they
were teenagers, schooled by accredited coaches, the 10,000-hour rule brought to
the hardwood. Consider Pop's brutal assessment that foreign players are
"fundamentally harder working than most American kids," and it's no
wonder the Spurs want to avoid the fate of so many NBA teams, which are, as
Buford says, "the end of the road for the developmental habits that are
built in the less-structured environment in the U.S."
The way the Spurs see it, though, the biggest divide isn't
structural but cultural. Something has happened to basketball in the country
that invented it, as well-documented as it as irrevocable, driven by money and
fame and a generation of players who've learned from watching sharks succeed by
imposing their will upon the game rather than by allowing it to come to them.
It used to be that a team needed a transcendent talent to execute a star
system; now, it needs a transcendent talent -- LeBron James or Duncan -- to
show that it's permissible to be unselfish. Consider that the U.S. has won only
two of the major world junior championships in the past 26 years -- not even in
2007, with Stephen Curry and Michael Beasley on the roster -- and the root rot
of the U.S. system is all the more clear. "That's a statement about where
we are," Buford says. "When we put our best players together, we
aren't playing well."
Most of the foreign players not only have more experience
playing basketball but more experience playing an unselfish style, with lots of
passing and motion and screens, as messy as it is pure. As Spurs director of
basketball operations Sean Marks, a New Zealander who played for San Antonio
for two seasons, puts it, "The ball doesn't stick." For better or
worse, the ball often sticks in America. A few months ago, Pop was scouting an
opponent. He won't say which one. On video, Pop saw an international player
wide open for a shot, with a confused look on his face. That's because his
point guard, an American, was dribbling in circles. "It has to be a really
different experience for him," Pop says, laughing. " 'Where am I? Is
this is a different game? Is it a different sport?' "
Of course, Pop's coaching style, as prescient as it is
curmudgeonly, isn't for everyone. He's demanding and ruthless; his playbook is
pick-and-roll heavy, more structured and complicated than European ball but a
blood relative. The traits he scouts for -- players with "character,"
who've "gotten over themselves, who understand team play, who can cheer
for a teammate," who "don't make excuses" -- hold true
regardless of nationality. The NBA draft, more than the draft in any other
sport, is based on potential. With only two rounds, GMs can't miss, and when
Pop looks at American talent he sees many players who "have been coddled
since eighth, ninth, 10th grade by various factions or groups of people. But
the foreign kids don't live with that. So they don't feel entitled," he
says, noting how many clubs work on fundamentals in two-a-day practices, each
lasting up to three hours. "Now, you can't paint it with too wide of a
brush, but in general, that's a fact."
And so it's no surprise that Pop would rather teach
unentitled foreign players to be selfless than try to teach entitled domestic
players to suppress their egos. The international kids, he says, "have
less. They appreciate things more. And they're very coachable." Of course,
it's much easier when his best player, Duncan, who was raised in the Virgin
Islands and learned the game by playing point guard in pickup games on a rugged
outdoor court, is best known for putting team first; when Parker, raised in
France, is okay trading stats for wins; when Ginobili, raised in Argentina, is
fine coming off the bench. And the Spurs have whiffed on imports (Luis Scola)
and scored with Americans (Kawhi Leonard). Still, there's a different vibe in
the Spurs facility, as if deplaning in a foreign airport. Argentine reporters
stand next to American ones. In practice, Ginobili calls for a screen by
saying, "Tienes que poner el bloqueo aca!" The diversity -- San
Antonio's roster has players from seven countries and territories -- is a
binding force. When Pop talks about his players, a coach who's best known for
frowning one-word answers turns not only expansive and animated, waving his
arms and laughing, but proud. As he sits on a bench near the team's practice
courts, watching Duncan shoot free throws on his day off, he smiles as he sees one
of his foreign-born players and foreign-born front office guys hug in the
hallway. "It's a family here," Pop says. "It's just geometric,
and it creates a mixed culture that we've all enjoyed tremendously."
Of course, Pop enjoys it most because they win. None of the
Spurs rank high in points per game, the quintessential American stat. But not
only were three Spurs among the top 12 players in Win Shares per 48 minutes for
the 2012-13 season, they also join with Marc Gasol, the Memphis Grizzlies
center from Spain, as the only non-Americans on the list. Parker, at .206,
ranked fifth. Duncan's .191 was 12th. Ginobili, with a lifetime average of
.211, would have easily qualified if he had been healthy. And ranking eighth
was Splitter, the former international superstar who has had to train both his
game and mind to relish the thankless tasks Pop demands of him.
Vitoria-Gasteiz, Spain, 2000
How many NBA players have a LinkedIn profile? Splitter does.
His profession: "Basketball Player at San Antonio Spurs
(2010-present)". From 2000 to 2010, the Brazilian native's profile reads,
he was a "jugador" at Baskonia, a Spanish club; he signed on at age
15, and there he won 24 awards, championships or gold medals in overseas
tournaments, including Spanish League MVP and finals MVP. He was, as Ginobili
says, "one of the best centers in the world." And should he ever need
proof of that (or require emotional support after being posterized by LeBron
James), four LinkedIn members have "endorsed" his "skills and
expertise."
Splitter was practically born into basketball. His father,
Cassio, played in college, and his sister, Michelle, was a dominating 6'6"
player until she died of leukemia in 2009. Splitter first played when he was 7,
and within a decade -- as a nimble center as fluent in pick-and-rolls as he is
in Portuguese, Spanish, German and English -- American coaches recruited him to
attend high school in the States. He was intrigued, until the coaches told him
that his parents would have to pay for everything. So he stayed in Europe, and
at 15 signed a 10-year contract to play with Baskonia. Buford first scouted him
a year later, and two seasons after that, considered 18-year-old Splitter
"the best player in the junior world tournament."
Splitter's experience in the club system was not different
from most, but it was still more structured and demanding than the traditional
American hoops upbringing. He would attend school all day, and in the evening
rotated between practice -- sometimes three hours of nothing but fundamentals
-- and video, studying Shaq, Kevin Garnett and, most of all, Duncan, his idol,
the reason he wore No. 21. Splitter's coach, Dusko Ivanovic, was sort of a
Spanish Popovich, minus the charm and the legacy. "He was tough,"
Splitter says. "Everything was about work and sacrifice and about the
team. No excuses. So I grew up fast."
The Spurs drafted Splitter in 2007, but due to contractual
buyout issues -- a peril of relying on international players -- Splitter didn't
join the team. Three years later, though, Splitter opted out of his contract
and arrived in San Antonio at age 25 with the most local hype of any big man
since Duncan. Splitter was amazed at how much Americans could do in drive-thrus
(go to the bank, get coffee, eat). It was far from the only thing he would have
to learn. He soon discovered that for as much as the Spurs' scheme seems
European, with its emphasis on pick-and-rolls rather than isolation plays,
they're still the Spurs, and it's still the NBA. With a new playbook, new
country, new court dimensions and a new role, Splitter "had to learn to
play again, basically," Duncan says.
If a benefit of drafting foreign players is that they arrive
with more experience than one-and-done kids, a risk is that they're also too
set in their ways. Splitter's shot -- a jerky thing capped with an odd finger
flick in his follow-through -- had to be retooled by Spurs shooting coach Chip
Engelland, renowned for his quiet magic. Limited by injuries and expectations
and adjustments, Splitter started only eight games his first two years. Just as
every AAU player isn't selfish, every foreign player isn't egoless, and
Splitter now says that midway through his first year he was angry that he
wasn't seeing more minutes. At one point, Pop told him: "Tiago, I know
you're having a hard time. But your time will come. Just keep working. Keep
coming to the gym willing to practice." Most of the Spurs' imports have
heard a version of that conversation. Parker heard it. Ginobili heard it. The
only one who hasn't is Duncan, the unspoken focal point. It's a conversation
that Pop doesn't like to have twice, the moment when the characteristics that
he scouts for either prove true or don't. And if they don't, the Spurs will
ruthlessly cut their losses and move on, as they did with Hedo Turkoglu, George
Hill and Stephen Jackson. Splitter, though, worked after practice on his shooting,
worked during the lockout with Duncan, and his free throw percentage rose from
54.3 percent as a rookie to 73 percent this season, when he led the team in
games played with 81. His job is to execute the invisible stuff: set screens,
bang under the boards, find the open man, alter shots. And with seconds left in
regulation of Game 3 in the Western Conference finals against the Grizzlies,
score tied, Splitter forced guard Mike Conley to put up a shot so high and wild
off the glass that it didn't touch the rim. That didn't show up on the stat
sheet, but it helped the Spurs to win in overtime.
"He realizes that I might call his number zero times,
and he's okay with that," Pop says. "He can do it because of the
character he has, because of the way he grew up, because his method of
operation is to be a coachable, hard-working individual who wants to help his
team win. That's how he's built. That's why we love him."
And that's why the Spurs consider Splitter so flexible as to
be invaluable. A restricted free agent this summer whom Buford expects to
"go forward with for a long time," he averaged 10.3 points this
season by exploiting scraps and leftovers, a "subterfuge type of
offense," as Pop says. Break down Hoopdata's shot locations tracker by the
two smartest types of looks -- close range and threes -- and you find that
Splitter was the fifth-most-efficient regular center in the league, at 73.1
percent of his attempts, ahead of Dwight Howard, Chris Bosh and Kevin Garnett.
It's a very Spurs stat. "I'm not going to win games shooting
outside," Splitter says.
Sometimes, though, he seems to pine to break out of his
role. After practice, Splitter and the guards often compete to see who can
drain more threes. In the first round against the Lakers, Pop subbed Matt
Bonner for Splitter, who needed a breather after his smothering defense had
erased Howard. Bonner is the rare big man capable of draining shots from beyond
the arc. After Bonner hit one, Pop walked down the bench and hunched over
Splitter. "Don't shoot threes," Pop said. Splitter looked confused.
Then Pop smiled.
South Jamaica, N.Y., 2013
Back in Queens, as the Jayhawks break out to a 23-10 lead,
the basketball alternates between beautiful and sloppy. One college coach
estimates that a handful of players on the court could end up playing for
Division I schools. Not surprising, considering that few AAU circuits produce
so many stars. Kobe was once a Playa, and Spurs forward Danny Green, who has
proved to be both the norm and the exception to Pop's scouting rule, played for
a rival New York AAU team.
As a free agent in 2010, Green was signed by the Spurs and
released a week later after showing little desire to conform to their
team-first style. But shortly after he was cut, Green left Popovich a voice
mail begging for another chance, offering to execute any role, no matter how
small. Pop re-signed Green in March of that season, and now he's not only
"grown within the system," as Green recently told ESPN.com, but often
featured: He hit six of nine shots in San Antonio's Game 1 victory over the
Grizzlies in the Western Conference finals.
Still, playing on the same courts as NBA legends can produce
the burden of unrealistic expectations. One of the biggest headaches for
college coaches is that many players have been told since a young age that they
possess NBA talent. "Every player expects to be in the league," says
one college coach. "And worse, every kid's parent expects them to be in the
NBA." Only marquee names -- Coack K, Bill Self -- have the juice and the
job stability to convince McDonald's All Americans of the glory in passing and
defense. Most coaches are forced by their lack of security, and the
one-and-done rule, to compromise their playbooks, if not their ethics, to land
top talent. And some of those players aren't raised to handle criticism, which
is as amplified on the biggest stage as it is unalterable. "My
belief," Pop says, "is that people am who they am."
Ultimately, the Playaz rally. As New Jersey draws closer,
the Jayhawks, with no shot clock, turn to a four-corners offense. (Hey, it's
passing.) Each time a Playa is at the free throw line, the Jayhawks coach
shouts "Touch the shooter!" the instant he releases -- adding classlessness
onto slop. But the Playaz's comeback falls short, 72-66. After the game, the
guys shake hands, then they're off to their next tournament. It's only one
game, only two teams, with players that, who knows, might reach the NBA
someday. Just not San Antonio.
Oracle Arena, Oakland, Calif.
Game 6, Western Conference semifinals, Spurs vs. Warriors,
2013
Splitter looks tired. He jogs down the floor after playing
defense and stops at the top of the free throw line. It's the fourth quarter.
His hands are on his knees; he will play more minutes in this game than any
other of the series. Spurs guard Cory Joseph, from the right side of the
three-point line, passes to Ginobili. Splitter sets an off-ball screen for
Joseph. Then Splitter rolls off that screen to set another, for Ginobili, who
dribbles right, stops and cuts left. Splitter pivots and sets him another pick,
his body absorbing blows at every turn, jerking back and forth as if standing
on a turbulent plane. Ginobili then passes to Boris Diaw, a French big man.
Splitter drifts toward the basket, ready to rebound. But Diaw, like a
shortstop, catches and fires to Splitter in one fluid motion.
Splitter finishes with a righthanded layup, and on the way
up the court, he raises his arm to Diaw, a toast from one foreigner to another,
and returns to his thankless banging.
