by Mirin Fader
The Bucks wore goofy but endearing purple-and-green jerseys. Karl got a standing ovation every time he emerged onto the court for home playoff games. “It was basketball heaven,” Karl says. “A party on the streets every night. It was really powerful and enjoyable for a small market to get back into the big time.”
Karl, known as Furious George for his temper and toughness, was the perfect coach. He had an underdog mentality. He had gotten thrown out of games for technicals. Over a lifetime, he’s had one hundred stitches. He was the one player on Dean Smith’s North Carolina team from 1969 to 1973 who Smith thought dived on the floor too many times. And when he got to the ABA, playing for the San Antonio Spurs, Sports Illustrated noted, “You went to see George Karl play, and a hockey game broke out.”
The Bucks carried themselves with a swagger Milwaukee hadn’t in a while. “No matter who he is playing against or what the odds are, he thinks he can win,” says his son, Coby Karl, coach of the G League’s South Bay Lakers, “and I think his teams embodied that.” The Bucks were one missed jump shot away from reaching the NBA Finals that year, losing to Philadelphia and Allen Iverson in the Eastern Conference Finals.
Hope gone. Again. It was painful. Some fans were almost angry at themselves, knowing that, being from Milwaukee, they weren’t supposed to set their expectations too high. They weren’t supposed to let themselves dream. They had been conditioned to prepare for the fall. Expect disappointment.
“It was just gutting,” says Raj Shukla, a longtime fan who grew up near Milwaukee. “Gutting, gutting, gutting, gutting.” But Shukla refused to give up on his team. Dealing with loss is part of his identity as a resident of this city. “Milwaukee is this place with its ever-present inferiority complex. It’s this sense of resignation that underlies everything. Even as you’re pouring your heart into this team,” he says, “you’re half waiting to get your heart broken. I don’t know if it’s just a Rust Belt town dealing with a lot of hard times, but it’s just always there.”
The Bucks descended into obscurity again, trading Allen for an older Gary Payton and Desmond Mason, who struggled to live up to expectations. That was how management seemed to operate: they were content in getting a recognizable face who was at the tail end of his career in the NBA, and they thought that would be enough to maybe put a few more fans in the seats and make the playoffs.
But it didn’t work. And Milwaukee went back to being a place few wanted to visit, let alone play for. “When I was on other teams,” says Luke Ridnour, the former Bucks point guard, “Milwaukee was the road trip you didn’t care about—just get in and get out of there.”
The threat of the franchise leaving increased. Kohl had turned down numerous offers to sell the team since purchasing it, but that threatened to change in 2003. It was reported that Michael Jordan and his investment group would be purchasing the Bucks the night of the 2003 draft, but Kohl decided to pull out of selling the team in the end because he wasn’t convinced that the new ownership group would keep the team in Milwaukee.
Kohl truly loved the Bucks. He was awful at managing the team but determined to at least keep it there. “I’ve never had an owner that would come to as many practices as Senator Kohl would,” Karl says. Kohl just didn’t invest in the long term. His goal was to merely be good. But coaches don’t play to just be good. Players don’t play to just be good. They play to be great. They play to win championships.
And when the SuperSonics left Seattle before the 2008–2009 season, it seemed like the writing was on the wall for Milwaukee. “It was weird to a lot of Bucks fans because the Sonics had a more prominent fan base and team than the Bucks,” says Dan Shafer, a Milwaukee journalist who covered the arena debate. “I think it was just like, well, if Seattle could lose its team, Milwaukee could definitely lose its team.”
The diehards continued to stay loyal to the team, especially in northwest Milwaukee. You could see people there walking around in Brandon Jennings jerseys. Milwaukee is a prideful city. A city that continued to celebrate the 1982 Brewers—and that team lost the World Series.
By 2012–2013, the season before Giannis was drafted, the Bucks finished 38–44 and were slaughtered by the eventual champion Heat in the first round. Paul Henning knew things were bad when someone offered him tickets behind the tenth row because that person didn’t feel like going. Not even a Heat squad with LeBron James and Dwyane Wade could lure fans to the Bradley Center.
Kogutkiewicz had never called his senators before, but with the Bucks looking like they might leave, he picked up the phone for the first time. “We gotta keep the team here in Milwaukee,” he pleaded, leaving messages for his representatives.
But as miserable as the Bucks were the next year, fans finally had something to look forward to: Giannis.
When they saw him play, they felt understood. When they learned his story, they felt seen. Like many of them, Giannis had come from nothing. Like many of them, Giannis worked all his life for a mere slice of the pie. And like many of them, Giannis hoped for better.
Giannis was Milwaukee. A bright light in a dark, dreary winter.
* * *
Hours before Giannis’s first start, against the Knicks, he walked up to Oppenheimer. “When I get in,” Giannis said, “I’m going to bust Carmelo Anthony’s ass.”
It was late December. At nineteen years, twelve days, Giannis was the youngest player to start an NBA game since 2006. And it showed: he picked up two fouls in less than six minutes, returning to the bench without any points.
When Giannis subbed back in, he hounded Anthony on defense. In overtime, with under a minute left, Giannis smothered Anthony so hard that the veteran fumbled the ball out of bounds. In the second overtime, Giannis stole the ball from Anthony, forcing another critical turnover.
New York beat Milwaukee in the end, but Giannis finished with ten points and seven rebounds before fouling out. Anthony still dropped twenty-nine points, but Giannis held his own. It was his best game yet.
“The reason was Carmelo,” Giannis said after the game. “I respect him. He’s one of the best players, but he can’t come out and start bullying my teammates and me.”
Anthony had talked smack to Giannis at the start of the game. “Of course he is going to get in my head,” Giannis said, “because last year I was watching him from the TV.” But Giannis dared to start talking smack back. “You can’t guard me!” Giannis said. “I got you! I got you!”
Anthony looked surprised, like, Who is this young guy talking to me? At the same time, he respected it. It made him play harder: “He really wanted it,” Anthony says. “It was good for both of us.”
A referee came up to Drew and said he was giving both Giannis and Anthony a warning. “I don’t care who you are,” Giannis said, referring to Anthony. “For me it’s just a jersey. Sometimes you’ve got to respond because you can’t be like a chicken.”
Some reporters chuckled at the word chicken, but Giannis didn’t laugh. He didn’t care how famous a player was; he was going to go at him, even if he failed. “All the superstars got the best out of him,” Butler says. But “he always got done up because those guys were just better. Let’s face it.”
On defense, Giannis was a step behind. He’d reach and shove because he just couldn’t catch up physically. He’d look over at Drew as the coach motioned for a sub: “Coach, no,” Giannis would plead, “I still want to stay in. I still want to guard him.”
“Giannis, I can’t afford you getting a third foul.”
“No, Coach, I’ll be fine. I’ll be fine, Coach.”
Sometimes when Drew didn’t let him guard the big names, the rookie would look upset. “I guess he felt we were trying to kind of hide him a little bit, which he took offense to,” Drew says. “He didn’t care if they scored thirty on him; he was not going to run from that matchup.”
The rookie wanted to stay in so he could help his team win, but Milwaukee basketball that season became more than depressing; it seemed dysfunctional. Weeks would pass
without a win. This might be the end of the Bucks in Milwaukee, Henning thought.
It was clear that a considerable swath of the fan base was disillusioned. Angry. One longtime Bucks fan succinctly characterized the mood in a 2014 Grantland feature: “Just wait out the clock. Then they get moved to Seattle and who gives a shit.”
Henning felt he had to do something, so he helped mobilize with Save Our Bucks. “There had to be a complete revamping. An ownership change,” Henning says. The group crowdfunded enough money to place a billboard at I-43 and McKinley that said, “Winning Takes Balls.”
“The location was picked so all the execs and players who lived in the nice northern suburbs of Milwaukee would see it every day on their way to work,” says Kurt Leitinger, a longtime fan who was also part of Save Our Bucks. “It took off because it was a grassroots movement and purely crowd funded. Fans will rally hard for the team they love. We felt like we couldn’t stand by idly anymore.”
They met with ownership too. “They didn’t like us at all. They wanted to get rid of us as fast as possible,” Henning says. “They wanted us to shut up, and we weren’t going to do that.”
Pressure mounted on Kohl. Even Hammond focused on the arena issue, albeit in a different context. A few hours before the Bucks were to play the Magic in Orlando, Hammond sat next to Giannis, who was eating his pregame meal.
“Giannis,” Hammond said, “that arena right there, it’s beautiful. Superman built that.”
Giannis cocked his head. Superman?
Hammond explained that that was Dwight Howard’s nickname. “Without him, they may not have that arena.”
Giannis smiled.
“Giannis, maybe you can build one of those someday here.”
Hammond meant what he said. He felt a deep-down certainty when it came to Giannis’s potential. Hammond had taken a lot of grief over the years, doing Kohl’s bidding at the draft, adhering to his negotiating limits, not being empowered to make big splashes. To change things.
But in drafting Giannis, Hammond departed from tradition for the first time. It’s not that he knew something about Giannis that others didn’t. It’s that Hammond had the guts to take a swing. The guts to draft for the future.
And even though the Bucks were 8–33 by the midway point of Giannis’s rookie season, Hammond’s swing seemed to be paying off. Around February, Kohl called a meeting with coaches and management. “Well,” he said to the group, “who’s our best player?”
Drew didn’t hesitate. “Giannis.”
Kohl craned his neck around in disbelief. “Giannis?”
Drew nodded. Bender, also in the room, nodded.
“Giannis?” Kohl repeated. “Giannis is our best player?”
Giannis was averaging just seven points a game. Sure, there were impressive moments, a competitive, no-backing-down mentality. But best player?
The coaches stood their ground. Nobody was as aggressive as Giannis. His defense was improving too. “Kohl didn’t really accept it,” Bender says, “but Giannis was our best player.”
The rookie gave Milwaukee hope. A feeling the city hadn’t felt in a long time.
CHAPTER 8
REUNITED
Veronica, in her white puffer jacket and gray sweatpants, and Charles, in his black puffer and blue sweatpants, opened the door of the limousine and looked around. It was jarring; they were in America. Finally.
Hammond had arranged for the limousine to pick them up at Chicago O’Hare International Airport, along with cake and flowers, on that day, February 3, 2014—a day etched into Giannis’s mind. It was one of the happiest days of his life. His parents stood in front of the limousine, proudly, taking a picture; Veronica was so happy she wouldn’t let go of the door handle as the photo was snapped.
Giannis’s spirit seemed to have lifted overnight. “His whole attitude changed,” says Nate Wolters, the fellow rookie.
JoAnne Anton, Kohl’s assistant, labored for months to help the family secure visas. She spent hours researching, talking to state and federal officials. Kohl’s political ties as a senator were crucial too. A person familiar with the situation says John Kerry, then secretary of state, may have been involved. It was an arduous process, with seemingly never-ending paperwork.
Giannis was able to obtain a P-1 visa as a foreign athlete employed in the US; the US embassy in Greece issued a P visa for support personnel to Charles, given that he would be providing emotional support and help in developing Giannis in basketball. Veronica, Kostas, and Alex qualified on the same support visa.
The next day, a Monday, the family headed to the Bradley Center to watch Giannis and the Bucks face the Knicks. Alex and Kostas were in awe watching players come onto the court. “Oh my god!” Alex said to Kostas, spotting Carmelo Anthony. “That’s Melo! That’s Melo!” Alex noticed how many thousands of people were in the stands. “I was scared,” he says. “I had never seen so many people in one place. It was crazy.” He was shocked at how skinny and small his big brother Giannis looked. “He definitely had to put on some muscle,” Alex says, laughing.
Alex remembers Giannis being nervous before the game, playing in front of his family in America for the first time. He wanted to impress them. The family clapped quietly when Giannis subbed in for the first time. But as time passed, they became more animated, jumping out of their seats when Giannis would score or make a big play. Giannis was dominant in the fourth quarter, scoring eight of his fifteen points, battling Anthony, his favorite foe. Both were trash-talking. “Giannis was fighting,” Kostas remembers. “Even though he had a lot of work ahead of him, he was just trying to fight and show he belonged in the NBA.”
With ten minutes left, Giannis hammered home a putback dunk to give the Bucks a ten-point advantage. Charles high-fived some fans around him, including Bango, the Bucks mascot, who happened to be nearby. Charles was so proud of his son he was practically shaking. They all were. Alex was screaming so loud he tilted his head back and just looked up toward the sky. Thankful, grateful. In complete shock. Charles kept putting his hands over his head, as if he couldn’t believe what was happening. Veronica was smiling, laughing, taking it all in.
Brandon Knight drained a three-pointer in the final 1.4 seconds to seal the Bucks’ 101–98 win. The Bucks were just 9–39, but Giannis’s spirit couldn’t have been higher.
“My parents were here, my brothers were here, we won, the crowd goes crazy. So I’m happy,” Giannis told reporters afterward. “I don’t have to worry about nothing anymore.”
Veronica, Charles, Kostas, and Alex stood at midcourt, jumping up and down and hugging each other.
They had made it.
* * *
Adjusting to America wasn’t easy. Especially for Alex, twelve, who attended Saint Monica School, an affluent private school in Whitefish Bay, and Kostas, sixteen, who attended nearby Dominican High School. Neither spoke English well, and they struggled at first to make friends. Giannis tried his best to make them feel comfortable, but he wasn’t in the hallways every day at school; he couldn’t help them feel less shy, less intimidated.
“You’re either going to work extra hard to understand what people are saying, or you’re going to be left out,” Alex says, looking back at that time. He and Kostas had to adjust quickly to new surroundings. Everything was much bigger. A McDonald’s every couple of miles (Alex remembers two in all of Athens). Wide roads with GMCs and Escalades. Life began to accelerate. Really fast.
The brothers had to get used to the cold weather. In Greece, it rains a lot, gets hot in the summer, but it almost never snows. Acceptance of the frigid Midwest came in stages. “You like it at first. Then you hate it. Then you get used to it. Then you deal with it,” Alex says. He finally understood why Giannis had worn earmuffs and gloves during family Skype sessions earlier in the season.
“What are you doing, bro?” Alex would ask his brother on Skype. “You look like a clown, bro.”
“It’s so cold, man.”
The condos where Gei
ger and Giannis lived had a small media room with a seventy-inch TV. Geiger and other staffers would invite Giannis’s family to join them for pizza from Trattoria di Carlo, a local Italian restaurant, to watch Giannis’s games when the Bucks played on the road. Bucks management wanted Giannis’s family to feel welcomed, supported.
During the first pizza-and-game gathering, when the Bucks were playing at Denver, Charles and Veronica barely said a word. They just sat there, polite, smiling. They were cheering for Giannis, but quietly. It was awkward. It would take time for them to open up. They were in a strange city, in a strange country, not speaking much English themselves.
“It’s tough for them to have friends,” Giannis later told Time magazine, “because for 25 years, they’ve lived without having friends. It’s tough to trust somebody.”
When Veronica first came to America, she would ask Giannis to give her the names and numbers of whoever he was hanging out with so she could google them. As the season wore on, she was still protective, but she and Charles became more animated in the condo pizza gatherings. Charles would complain about the refs; couldn’t they see players hounding his son in the post? If Giannis would get a deflection, not even a full steal, Charles would scream, “Let’s go! Yeah!”
His pride was palpable. He and Giannis were particularly close. Charles would often wear Giannis’s black sweatpants. And when Giannis was on road trips, Charles wanted to make sure everything was pristine, so he’d straighten up Giannis’s things. The apartment was almost always spotless. Teammates could sense how much Charles loved his son.
“Charles was so proud, seeing the direction his son was going,” says Zaza Pachulia, the center.
The Antetokounmpos would sit in the same place at the Bradley Center every game: section A, two rows down from Kohl’s seat, on the same side as the players’ bench. Other families sat across from the players’ bench, but Giannis requested his family sit closer. He needed to see them, feel them.