KG is the truthIt was going to be like any other Thursday night spent immersed in the L. Given my diminished senior-year workload (twelve total hours of classes on just Tuesdays and Thursdays), I had given myself the greatest gift, NBA League Pass. So, like many nights that year, I sat on the couch, absolved of academia-related anxiety or obligation, and ready for an evening occupied by important research. There were a lot of answers to be found that season: Did the Warriors really have the biggest homer announcers, even worse than Gorman and Heinsohn? Could TMac credibly claim to be the best guard in the Association by winning the scoring title and improving his defense while carrying an undermanned and undersized Orlando team to the playoffs (again)? Would the Lakers survive the constant (though serially escalating) Shaq-Kobe drama and win a fourth consecutive championship? How many times could the Knicks make me vomit, and which Knick had the most cumbersome contract? Was there any chance that Doug Christie's wife would start carrying brass knuckles in her purse--and use them on women whom she perceived to be lecherously looking at her husband (read: anyone with a vagina who had ever met Doug)--after insinuating herself into the Lakers-Kangs (yes, that's "Kangs") pre-season brawl? Could anyone--well, you get the point. The NBA was, as it is every season, endlessly fascinating.
And so there I was on that Thursday evening, elated that my only concern was picking which basketball games to watch. At the time, I did not realize the implications of what seemed like simple whimsy, but one of those choices wound up being among the most important I have made in recent years: I tuned into Utah playing the Timberwolves.
...
Kevin Garnett is immensely likable. Be it his perseverance despite societal factors working against him; his devotion to his friends, like Ronnie Fields and Malik Sealy (R.I.P.); his unflinching determination to lift an otherwise moribund franchise into relevancy despite having played with too many undeserving teammates; his charitable endeavors; his thoughtful demeanor; his hip-hop ethos; or simply his exuberance and passion for basketball, Garnett almost bludgeons one into adoration. His game, his aura, his words, his deeds--KG defines cool.
Furthermore, Garnett is the paradigm for the modern-day NBA: A highly skilled player who is intelligent, dedicated, and a looming presence both on the court as an all-star and off the court as a marketing force. How did David Stern get so lucky? Garnett succeeds on the court by eschewing me-first basketball and simultaneously triumphs away from the arenas, avoiding the legal problems (like most Americans) that are often encountered by his colleagues. Resultantly, he is accepted in almost all precincts of America, equally palatable for the hip-hop-oriented consumer who likely participates (to some extent) in the And 1-streetball culture and the suburban consumer who may bemoan the decline of the game and the league because of the interest and influence of the former. (A charge that, as I have written, is unfair and racist.)
Perhaps the greatest proof of Garnett's sublime character is anecdotal, though: I have never encountered anyone who has actively disliked Da Kid. Yes, some people may not really follow his exploits or list him among their favorite ballers, but never have I heard someone discuss Garnett with contempt or dismiss him as just another punk (Darius Miles) or fugazi (Tim Thomas) (or rapist--Ruben, Kobe, I see you both).
Needless to say, I am an unabashed KG fan. Dude can play, dude is classy, and dude just has that "it," that magnetic presence (I guess it's charisma in its truest sense) that captures your attention and wins your enduring adoration. While he will never supplant Scottie Pippen as my favorite player (and why Scottie is atop my list is another post for another day), Garnett has always been among that top-tier group. I respect his work ethic, I love his versatile game, I wanted the first high schooler in years to make "the jump" to find success, and--as one who simply appreciates athletic achievement--I have always been entranced by his athletic body. I mean, has anyone ever looked more like a basketball player capable of playing the game the right way?
Sadly, I have not always been afforded a lot of opportunities to watch KG do his thing. During his rookie season, Minnesota was a bad team that finished thirty-three games out of first place and didn't make the playoffs. While the wins and playoff appearances accrued as the years went by (and, of course, so did the first-round exits), Minnesota still wasn't on national television that much: Minneapolis is not the biggest market; the TWolves don't have inter-regional appeal akin to that of a team with stars and history like the Lakers; Garnett's game was growing into his body and he was still establishing himself as a preeminent player; the Wolves never had a roster that seemed capable of legitimately challenging for a title; the new crop of NBA superstars had not, collectively, gained traction as the L's brand names; and the NBA was still dominated by now-faded storylines like Michael Jordan's greatness, the Knicks-Heat rivalry, Karl Malone and John Stockton's quest for a title, etc. All in all, most people outside of Minnesota weren't seeing the TWolves too much unless the local NBA squad was hosting Minnesota or visiting the Target Center.
After the lockout-shortened season in 1999 that culminated with a Spurs championship, though, the landscape was suddenly changed. Michael had left. Duncan had arrived. Kobe had grown up. A.I. had blown up. The NBA was different, and Da Kid had used his formative years in the Association to create a game that was singularly transcendent--Kevin Garnett could do (almost) everything, he played a smart game (kept the ball high, kept the ball moving, etc.), and people were noticing. Soon, the TWolves were on television more and the journalists and sportscasters spoke of KG in fawning terms, slurping his style, slurping his passion, and slurping his struggle. If anyone were discussing KG, his preternatural basketball ability and incredible passion were givens. Instead, the focus was on when he'd get some teammates who could appreciate his gifts, follow his lead, and win with him.
It was during this time--the birth of the post-Jordan, coalition-of-stars-led NBA-- that I really took note of KG. Like I have written, I had seen him play (and the vicious dunks he would throw down were staples of SportsCenter before it jumped the shark and became unwatchable) and could recognize his gifts, but I had never really concentrated on him because he was a work in progress from a city that, in the basketball world, was a remote location. Really, the only times I had gotten to consistently watch Kevin play were during his brief playoff appearances, the ones when his season would end fairly quickly by exiting in the first round. Did I like what I saw? Of course. Did I think Garnett could be on some next-level isht? Yes. Did I think Garnett was one of the top-five players in the L? Probably. But all that said, I also didn't really grasp what the big deal was. To me, KG was another talented player who didn't have the championship mentality--the ability to assert his will, the almost-scary ability to hate his opponent in the moment and act like an assassin--or the go-to arsenal to win a title. And if you can't display those abilities, you might be good but you ain't ever gonna be all that with me.
...
The game started like any other--with a jump ball. Minnesota was wearing its popular third-color uniforms, the black joints with the green tree-pattern trim. Garnett--a lithe, sinewy man--was rocking the shit out of the uniform, his broad shoulders but slight build making his jersey and shorts look like they were insignificant hospital scrubs or pajamas. You got the sense, just observing this athlete, that he could probably do anything that he wanted; his body would willingly accommodate any ideas that his mind could conjure. His body would acquiesce to his imagination. Sure enough, the suspicion was correct: Garnett was jumping center for the TWolves, and he went after the rock as though he had been held against a rubber band that was stretched in the opposite direction and let go when the ball left the referee's hands. Damn, the man really gets up.
Their first time down the floor, the Timberwolves got the ball to Garnett at the free-throw line (a place where he commonly receives the ball), and KG swung the ball to a teammate beyond the three-point line before spinning off of his man's hand check and making his way, relatively unencumbered, to the front of the rim. The shot went up from the right side (where KG's teammate had caught it) and caromed off the back of the rim. Those long arms--the ones attached to a seven-foot body; the ones that make Garnett seem like a pterodactyl when he bangs inside or crowds a passing lane--rose above everyone else's and allowed Garnett to retrieve the ball and lay it in. The sheer ease with which he asserted himself was astonishing; Utah was not the best team in the league, but Garnett had made NBA players look like they were still in tenth grade. Damn, the man’s body is so active.
The Jazz brought the ball down to the other end of the floor and worked it around the perimeter before, failing to find anything inside, setting for a Mat Harpring jumper. Throughout the possession, KG was doing his one-man zone, side-to-side-slide thing at the top of the key. If the ball went left, the nimble giant went left, arms spread to deflect passes and obscure good looks at the rim or at an open teammate. If the ball went right, Mr. Graceful went right, forcing Jazz players on the perimeter to stay a few feet beyond the three-point arc just to ensure that they didn't surrender the ball when throwing their skip passes. However, when the shot went up, KG was gone. No longer at the top of the key, Garnett had darted down toward the basket, and when the Harpring jumper got the iron-unkind treatment, who do you think shed a box out by rising over his man--not by going over the back, but rather, over the top--and pounding the ball into a grip, using his right hand to slam the ball into his left as though he were trying to clap louder than anyone ever had before? Damn, people that big shouldn’t move that well!
Kevin kept it up all night; he was doing everything. On the next possession, he initiated the offense at the top of the key before setting a screen on the weak side and then coming through the lane to establish position and drop-step his way to a lay-up. Back at the other end, if he wasn’t deflecting a pass, he was rotating on defense to alter or block a shot. Jumper? Check. Dribble, draw, and dish? Check. Flip pass over the shoulder to another player on the interior for a dunk? Check. Hedge move to disrupt a pick-and-roll? Check. You feel me? And, perhaps most astonishingly, anything that didn’t find its way through the hoop was his. I mean, he owned the glass to an extent that players were paying him rent just to toss up a miss or call “board” when trying to bank one in. Think Hakeem son-ing Ewing, Jadakiss son-ing 50, James Joyce son-ing English. Damn, this isn’t just rebounding; this is a spectacle.
Perhaps even more impressive than the pronounced distance between KG’s ability and that of anyone else on the court, though, was the effect KG had, on the game and on me. The lock down Da Kid had put on all rebounds was killing Utah’s will on the glass. After a few instances of KG either destroying his man by get around a box-out or out leaping the competition for a rebound that had been tipped around, almost everyone stopped trying, and KG just took the game over. It was mesmerizing, and I couldn’t help but only watch him. Even if Garnett didn’t have the ball or wasn’t guarding a man who took a shot, he was so captivating that the game became a one-man ballet.
The expression “couldn’t take my eyes off of him” is hackneyed, but it is apt here.
For two hours, nothing else caught my attention because Kevin Garnett was making basketball, a passion that has colored my life for as long as I can recall, beautiful and new again. I couldn’t help but feel literal amazement and awe as I witnessed someone hoop with style, passion, and ability that literally changed the game. You know that wonderful feeling you experience when you realize for the first time just how much you love something? Well, imagine how great it would be if you could have that feeling again. Or, put another way, there are moments in life when you feel as though someone or something has touched your soul. A teacher, a friend, an album, a movie, a book--someone or something just speaks to you, almost as though he or she or it understands your thoughts and subconscious in totality. It’s human nature to seek this form of external understanding and validation. We, people, are social animals. It’s why we crave community, crave the duality of simultaneously owning something bigger than us and feeling owned by it.
Well, that was the zone I was in on that otherwise insignificant Thursday night, as I watched a seemingly innocuous regular season basketball game. It was like the Great Awakening, and I will be forever grateful for it.
…
This was a terrible season for the Minnesota Timberwolves, and it has come to a sad end now that they have been eliminated from playoff contention. I will not miss Latrell Sprewell and Sam Cassell (although with the former, you never know what kind of crazy shit can pop off). Nor will I miss whiny-ass Wally Szczerbiak. And, not only will I not miss Michael Olowokandi, but I will revel in his sustained failure and ineptitude. But beyond the fire and venom, I will mostly feel regret and dejection when considering the 2004-2005 TWolves, because their absence from the playoffs means that the Association, absent its most blithesome presence, will be a little less exciting this Spring.
KG deserves much better than this. To claim the ignominious distinction of falling from first (and the Western Conference Finals) to worst (and heading back to the lottery) does not befit a player of his integrity, talent, and spirit. Sadly, I have to be open to suggestions that perhaps Minnesota’s fall is, in some ways, a referendum on KG’s leadership. Maybe he just isn’t a championship guy; maybe he is just the greatest second-fiddle of all-time. The arguments, at least to some extent, make sense: As his team’s (and perhaps the L’s) best player, and its undisputed leader, he was the one who should have gotten his teammates playing better defense and better basketball; he was the one who needed to find the antidote for the poison that had contaminated the locker room; he was the one who should have kept his teammates in line when they were squabbling over contracts or tuning out the now-deposed Flip Saunders; etc.
I understand all of those arguments, and like I just wrote, they may have some validity. They may even have a lot of validity. But I don’t care about accountability right now. And I don’t want to calibrate KG’s performance by using the scope of NBA history. Maybe he’s gonna be a Barkley or a Ewing or a Miller; maybe he’s gonna be an Erving or a Robertson or a Baylor. Who knows? Right now, who cares?
All I am concerned with is this: Only Kevin Garnett could have made an otherwise pedestrian and unremarkable Thursday evening a revelatory moment, and it’s to everyone’s detriment that the NBA will spend the playoffs without its greatest ambassador.
