Seven Seconds or Less Page 7

  D’Antoni’s main message is to be offensive-minded:

  “Okay, guys, catch and shoot. Catch and drive. Dribble-ats. Spread the floor. Attack, Spread the floor. They do have a habit of touching the ball and messing with it. [He means that after the Lakers score they sometimes catch the ball or bat it away to keep the Suns from quick-breaking.] We’ll try to bring it to the refs’ attention, but you should just grab it and get running. Okay, Noel.”

  That is the signal for Noel Gillespie to turn on the video. Last season D’Antoni came upon the ploy of ending every pregame session with a minute or so of high-octane Suns’ offense. Every possession ends in a basket. The players watch raptly. They can never get enough of their own success.

  “This is when we’re at our best,” says D’Antoni as the video runs, “when we’re changing ends on the fly. They have no answer for it. Kwame is awful. Odom’s a very average defender. Vujacic [backup point guard Sasha Vujacic] can’t guard anybody. And Bryant in the open floor takes chances that aren’t good. Let’s go get ’em.”

  The coaches retreat to the small office. Like many arenas around the NBA, the Staples Center devoted little money to the visitor’s dressing room. Suddenly, from out in the hallway, comes the voice of Nash.

  “NINETEEN ON THE CLICKETY!”

  The “clickety” is Nash’s word for the clock that clicks off the time until tip-off. Lately, he has taken to loudly shouting out the minutes, screaming it in fact, partly as a joke but also to get his teammates to follow him onto the court to warm up. Those sports movies in which a team comes charging out of the dressing room together? It doesn’t work that way in the NBA. Players drift out in drips and drabs and finally congregate outside the door where they then shout out some sort of war chant and trot onto the floor.

  “There’s four on the clickety,” says Weber to the other coaches. “We better get going.”

  The game could hardly begin worse for the Suns. In the first minute, Luke Walton knocks Tim Thomas to the floor as he drives, picking up a flagrant foul. Thomas glares at Walton for a moment, and, predictably, several players move toward the action under the basket. From outside the pack, Bryant pushes Diaw, who falls into Smush Parker. Eddie F. Rush, a veteran referee, calls a technical on Diaw.

  “Eddie, Eddie, did you see it?” D’Antoni pleads with Rush. “Boris never pushes anybody. He didn’t do it. He got pushed.”

  “I saw what I saw,” Rush tells him.

  “But did you see the push?” D’Antoni says.

  “I saw what I saw.”

  A few minutes later, Diaw is hit with the obligatory three-second defensive call, which results in an automatic technical foul shot. It’s like a little beeper from the league office goes off during the first period of every game, reminding officials to make the call, after which they will ignore the defensive three-second call the rest of the way since virtually none of the spectators—and only half of the players—understand it.

  In the third quarter, Bell gets elbowed by Kwame Brown, and, in an ensuing scrum, Diaw falls. Brown is whistled for a technical foul. But then Brown stands over Diaw, his crotch somewhere over Diaw’s midsection, and glares down at him. Perhaps Brown is still trying to prove something to his coach; earlier in the season, Jackson had called him a “sissy.” Jackson said he didn’t mean it like it sounded, but it resonated for Brown, who had been called a “faggot” by Michael Jordan, who drafted him when he was a Washington Wizards executive, then torched him when he was a Wizards player.

  Brown’s action is exactly the kind of thug behavior the NBA is trying to curtail, but no technical foul is called. Nash moves toward the action, and, in the process, pushes away Vujacic’s arm. Bryant then trots over to Nash and they jaw at each other. Later in the third period, Bryant is called for a foul on a blocked shot attempt and, irritated, walks away, lifting his jersey over his head in front of another veteran referee, Bill Spooner. Spooner tells him, “Put your jersey down.”

  Clearly, L.A. is trying to punk a team it considers punk-able. The Lakers never really run away and hide, but they seem in control, calm even. When Bell is whistled for fouling Bryant with 4:18 left, he explodes in anger and draws a technical foul. Then D’Antoni, rushing to support him, gets one, also, the second and third T’s the Suns have received. Leandro Barbosa’s layup brings Phoenix to within 92–90 with 3:28 left, but Walton and Parker score consecutive baskets and the Lakers go on to win 99–92.

  It is the nightmare scenario presented by Iavaroni. Bryant scored only seven points, but every other starter was in double figures. Kobe played the role of Prospero, directing everything, seeing all, being all, and acting quite superior about it all. D’Antoni decides on a psychological ploy, telling the media that Bell has done a great job subduing Kobe. Perhaps that will rile up the Laker and precipitate a shooting spree that will freeze out his teammates.

  But with a 2–1 series deficit and Game 4 on the road, reality has set in: The Suns are two losses from an ignominious first-round exit.

  Chapter Four

  [The Second Season]

  Los Angeles, April 29……………

  LAKERS LEAD SERIES 2–1

  “If you get a reputation as a punk-ass team—and that’s what we are right now—it’s one of the worst things that can happen.”

  It’s 7:30 a.m., and Steve Nash can’t sleep. He leaves his wife, Alejandra, and adorable twin daughters, Lola and Bella, upstairs, grabs a towel, and heads downstairs, where he runs into D’Antoni. It goes without saying that the coach hadn’t slept either. He rolled around for most of the night, pizza and diet soda in his gut from a postgame video review, the horror of a 2–1 deficit on his mind, anger building about what he perceives as inept officiating. So the two of them relax in the back lobby of the Loews Hotel in Santa Monica, the still, blue waters of the Pacific visible through the wide picture windows behind them. Nash had been on his way for an ocean dip, in fact, when he encountered D’Antoni. Nash figured the ocean wouldn’t be any colder than his daily restorative ice bath and would afford him time to think. Anyway, he’s Canadian.

  They are comfortable with each other, as comfortable as player can be with coach. Without talking about it, they understand what one has done for the other, Nash getting a coach who will let him dribble-probe, D’Antoni getting a point guard who can implement his unselfish, play-quick system. They even joke around with each other, which doesn’t happen much given the delicate psyches that prevail in pro sports. A couple of times during the season, after Nash had a big scoring first quarter then turned to his inevitable role of distributor, he would throw a jersey across the locker room in mock anger after the game. “Frickin’ D’Antoni got me out of my game!” When Nash was named Canada’s athlete of the year, D’Antoni said to him, “That’s a great honor, Steve. Did you beat out one of those curling guys who sweep the ice?”

  Player and coach talk for a half hour about a lot of things, neither of them coming to any definitive conclusions about the series outside of the reality that the Suns have to get tougher. They are getting bullied, pushed around, maybe even intimidated by the Lakers. Nash will admit to being a little tired and concedes that he is having a hard time getting around Kwame Brown when a pick-and-roll produces a switch.

  “We have to keep diving,” says Nash. When the Suns’ offense is at its best, there is constant movement off the ball. Nash dribbles and probes, probes and dribbles, and the other Suns make quick cuts—dives—to the basket. What sometimes happens, though, is that his teammates stand around and watch him, like it’s a halftime exhibition, and if Nash can’t get by his man, the offense stagnates. It’s not always the fault of the others, though. If Nash is stopped far from the basket, and two taller defenders are putting up a wall around him, he simply cannot see over them. Players can dive all they want, but it will be for naught. Still, it’s a percentage game, as Nash sees it. He considers his greatest strength to be finding open men while he’s dribbling, but it’s mandatory that he find them on the mov
e.

  At the end of the conversation, Nash asks D’Antoni, with a charming earnestness: “You don’t believe in those conspiracy theories, do you?” Conspiracy theories in the NBA are nothing new. Pro basketball has always had such a tenuous hold on the American public that there is the perception in some quarters that the league must, well, guide the fortunes of the postseason into the most attractive matchups. And the only way to guide is through the officiating. The most attractive matchups are always about personalities, and, while the hard-core NBA fan is likely to appreciate the Suns as much as any team—the up-tempo play, the unselfishness, the ball distribution, the lightning-quick air strikes of the Matrix, the creative abilities of Nash—the casual fan thirsts for Kobe Bryant, a personality. The farther the Lakers advance in the playoffs, the more Bryant; the more Bryant, the higher the TV ratings. And if the Lakers could somehow emerge as the Western Conference champion, and the Miami Heat could come out of the East, the Finals would amount to a reality show pitting Bryant against Shaquille O’Neal, onetime Laker teammates who are now adversaries. America would understand that.

  “Nah, I don’t believe that, Steve,” says D’Antoni. “We’ll get some whistles tomorrow night. We’ll go spank ’em, get this thing tied up, get home and get right.”

  Robert Sarver is waiting with the assistants in front of D’Antoni’s suite. Even after their one-hour postgame video review, the coaches had been up for much of the night. Weber fell asleep sitting up, awakening to find that his pen had drawn a jagged line through his notes. Iavaroni is almost apologetic as he confesses that he had done a poor job of analysis. “I was too emotionally invested last night,” he says. “I felt like I was dying after that game. I’ll do better this morning.” Sarver had gotten only a little more sleep but he is fired up.

  “This L.A. bullshit has got to stop,” said the owner. Right before the tip-off of last night’s game he was incensed to see actress/director Penny Marshall, a long-time NBA fan, near the Suns’ huddle, talking to some of the players. “I already told Tucker [team security director Kevin Tucker] that that bullshit stops on Sunday. This is war!” To no one in particular, he says, of the Lakers: “I hate those guys.”

  The time has come for toughness. Or, at least, tough talk. As the coaches once again review Game 3—it doesn’t look any more palatable than it did seven hours earlier—they alternate between being furious at the officiating and furious at how placidly their players have been in dealing with the Lakers’ aggressiveness. Aside from Nash getting into it briefly with Bryant, the Suns have been cast in the role of Curly, the Stooge who gets fingered in the eye and conked on the head and accepts it all.

  “I tell you what,” says Gentry, “if you get a reputation as a punk-ass team—and that’s what we are right now—it’s one of the worst things that can happen.”

  On screen, there’s a scramble for a loose ball late in the game, and the Lakers pounce on it. Gentry becomes animated.

  “After all that happened, don’t you just…”

  “I think you drive his fucking head into the ground,” says D’Antoni.

  “Thank you,” says Gentry.

  “Whose head are you talking about?” I ask.

  “Any of their heads,” says Gentry. “Obviously, Raja would do it. But they know he’s watching them.”

  Indeed, a couple weeks earlier, Bell had been awakened by a call from the NBA, warning him that he would be closely watched in the playoffs for prior acts of aggression. Such warnings are not unprecedented, and the NBA considers them to be a favor. The Suns prefer to think of Bell as being on “double secret probation,” as the brothers of Delta House were in Animal House.

  Sarver relishes this kind of talk. He was never much of a basketball player—his sports are tennis and golf—but his no-nonsense business personality and general feistiness suggest the kind of bulldog who would knock his opponent down, then step on him as he headed back in the other direction.

  “So, in other words, if a guy has a layup, instead of just patting him on the back, you should knock him down so he can’t make it?” asks Sarver, warming to the subject.

  The problem is, as the coaches explain, with the exception of Bell and Kurt Thomas (who is on the shelf with a foot injury), the Suns are not naughty by nature.

  “Eighteen years in the NBA and I can tell you this: It’s either in you or it’s not,” says Gentry.

  “So you can’t just appoint somebody to do it?” asks Sarver, sounding disappointed.

  “No,” says Gentry. “If we were going to do it, we would’ve done it last night after Kwame stood over Boris, punking him. We wouldn’t have had to say anything. Next time down it goes into Kwame and he laid it in for a three-point play, that right there, somebody would’ve taken him down. Raja would’ve done it, but he knows they’re watching. Coaches don’t have to tell you to do those things, you just do them.”

  “In all fairness to us,” says Sarver, “we knew we had a certain lack of toughness last year and we addressed it. We got Raja. We got Kurt, who should be in there. Amare’ should be in there.”

  Sarver’s presence is not taken as unusual or discomfiting by the coaches. It might’ve been last year when he was just learning the ropes and seemed to have a knack for saying and doing the wrong thing, such as flapping his arms like a chicken at the San Antonio bench when Spurs coach Gregg Popovich decided to rest an injured Tim Duncan. But now it seems like he’s honestly trying to learn the game.

  But his curve is stiff. Jerry Colangelo, the man against whom Sarver will be eternally compared, was unique as an owner in that he was a player, a coach, a general manager, and a scout. Colangelo also chaired the NBA’s competition and rules committee for many years. “The game itself,” Colangelo says, “is everything to me.” The game is not everything to Robert Sarver and never will be. The important thing is that he not suddenly start recommending lineup changes or suggesting defenses to apply on Kobe.

  “You know what?” says Gentry. “If we have Amare’ in this series, he rolls down the lane, gets the ball, dunks on Kwame Brown’s head, and next thing you know Kwame Brown is sitting over there on that bench.”

  There is also the problem of how to fire someone up. Should a coach get in Marion’s face and scream at him that he must knock down Odom? Would that be effective? There is a reaction to every action. Sarver is transfixed by this, stupefied by the coaches’ attention to psychological detail. He lets them know that by his high-pitched laugh.

  “Hey, Robert, in this business you have to be careful,” says Iavaroni. “A guy will go into an absolute funk if he feels you’re beating him up.”

  “It’s the exact opposite of how the regular business world works,” says Sarver. “You try to be sensitive to the people who make the least money because they’re not getting paid necessarily to do it right. But the guy who’s making three, four hundred grand, he’s the guy you come down with the hammer on.”

  “Does he have a five-year guaranteed contract?” asks Iavaroni with a smile.

  Sarver laughs. “Hey, I’m not saying it’s wrong. I’m just saying it’s bizarre. Okay, hang in there, guys.”

  There is a feeling of quiet desperation in the room. Down 2–1 on the road. Make a drastic change on offense or defense? Iavaroni returns to the theme with which he began the series: Get Kobe shooting, which will get the others watching.

  “I know this is a little drastic,” says Iavaroni, “but hear me out. How about if we just one-swipe Kobe and let him shoot.” “One-swipe” is exactly what it sounds like—a second defender would come over toward Bryant, take a swipe at the ball to (perhaps) discourage penetration, but then return to his man. It would not be a double-team or a trap.

  Mike shakes his head. “I’m not there, Marc.”

  “I’m just searching a little bit,” says Iavaroni.

  “Well, I don’t know whether we should be searching,” says D’Antoni. “We should tighten up things, sure, but I think we should get better at what we’re doing.
”

  You can tell Iavaroni doesn’t agree, but he concedes. “I just want to win the next game,” says Iavaroni, “and we’re all smart enough to realize that the next game pretty much decides the series.”

  “No, I’m not there, either,” says D’Antoni. “I know what you’re saying, but I’m not there. We lose tomorrow? Okay, we win at home. We gotta win the sixth game here. That’s it. That’s what it comes down to. I understand being down three-to-one is hard. But let’s keep doing what we’re doing. Give ourselves a chance to win. Give ourselves a chance to get it done. Keep doing what we’re doing. I’m not sure we’re that far away. We were there last night, as hard as it was to lose. We had our shots to beat them. We had our opportunities.”

  The room is quiet for a moment. Then D’Antoni speaks again. “I don’t think there is a big, grand solution. I just think we have to do a better job of doing what we’re doing. We’re there. We’re there.”

  I’m not sure D’Antoni really believes it, or keeps saying it just to convince himself. But he is convinced that superior teams win not by panicking or changing schemes but by holding the line and doing what they do best. He decides that the afternoon practice will be simple and will reflect none of the angst being poured out in this morning meeting. “We’ll talk about bringing up the ball quickly and being more decisive on offense,” says D’Antoni. “Defensively, our schemes are exactly where they need to be. We’ll talk about tightening them up and not over-helping.”