by Simmons Bill
The quintessential Barry story: when he threw away Game 7 of the ’76 Western Finals because his teammates never defended him in the Ricky Sobers fight.67 Barry probably watched the highlights at halftime and confirmed his own suspicions that his teammates sold him out; the second half started and Barry simply stopped shooting. During the last few minutes, coach Al Attles probably threatened him because Barry suddenly became Barry again; even with a late surge, the defending champs ended up falling at home to an inferior team. You won’t find a more indefensible playoff defeat in a deciding game. When I was working for Jimmy Kimmel’s show, we used Barry for a comedy bit and I couldn’t resist asking him what happened in that series. He quickly replied, “We should have won Game 7. We were rallying and I had a pick-and-roll with Clifford Ray, but he couldn’t catch the damned pass.” Then he shook his head in disgust and let out one of those “I wish Cliff were here right now so I could shoot him a nasty look” groans. Twenty-seven years later, Rick Barry—Hall of Famer, NBA champ, one of the eight best forwards of all time—couldn’t let that play go. It was weird. Sure enough, I watched the tape a few weeks later: the Warriors were roaring back, Ray set a pick and rolled to the basket, and Barry delivered the ball right off Ray’s hands and out of bounds. The cameras caught Barry frozen in disbelief. It’s the defining Barry moment in the defining “Rick Barry was a prick” game.
Poor Barry was his own worst enemy. He fled from a perfect situation in 1967—the top scorer on a Finals team that had a young Hall of Fame center (Nate Thurmond) and a quality second scoring option (Jeff Mullins)—and jumped to the ABA’s Oakland Oaks. Why? Because his father-in-law (Bruce Hale) had been named their coach, even though the move meant sitting out an entire season and playing in an inferior league that could have gone belly up at any time. Has there ever been a dumber career move by an NBA superstar that didn’t involve the words “Birmingham Barons”?
You can’t even say Barry did it for the money; G-State matched Oakland’s offer and he still left. How could he forget to put in his contract, “If the team moves or Bruce Hale gets fired, I can opt out immediately”? He sat out a year and injured his knee the following season. Then he watched in horror as the Oaks moved to Washington (Barry couldn’t extricate himself from his ABA contract) and Virginia (Barry finally forced a trade by insulting Virginians in a 1970 SI feature, saying that he didn’t want his son “to come home from school saying, ‘Hi y’all, Daad’”) before dragging the Nets to the ’72 ABA Finals and returning to Golden State the next season. So the best forward of that generation wasted five full years of his prime in a second-rate league because he wanted to play for his father-in-law? Two years later, Barry nearly dumped the Warriors again to become CBS’ lead color guy, changing his mind at the last minute. 68 After the ’77 season, he pissed on Warriors fans a third time by signing with the Rockets as a free agent (killing his relationship with Golden State owner Franklin Mieuli forever). Just like Roger Clemens at the end, Barry retired belonging to nobody: no farewell tour, no retirement ceremony, nothing.
How could we possibly rank him this high? Barry was the second-best passing forward ever, a beautiful creator who made everyone better as long as they didn’t cross him. He could score with anyone when he was younger, averaging 35.6 points in his second NBA season (trailing only Wilt, Baylor and Jordan as the highest average ever) and 34.7 points in the ’67 Playoffs. 69 He was one of those born-before-his-time shooters who thrived with a three-point line, draining 40 of 97 threes (41.2 percent) in 31 ABA playoff games. He wasn’t a great defensive player but crafty enough that he led the league in steals once (2.8 per game). He’s one of the best free throw shooters of all time, probably the greatest end-of-the-game cooler ever. 70 He slapped together one of the single best seasons in basketball history in 1975, doing every single thing that needed to be done and pulling off one of the bigger Finals upsets ever. And he actually would have been fun to play basketball with … as long as you didn’t disappoint him or make a dumb mistake. Had they had formed a Dream Team for the ’76 Olympics, Barry would have become the team’s alpha dog and everything would have revolved around his passing and creating. That counts for something in the big scheme of things. 71
We’ll remember him as an inordinately talented player and inordinately screwed-up person, and over everything else, that’s why it didn’t seem right to make him a Level 4 guy. Other than the ’75
Finals, his defining moment happened two years after WatermelonGate, when a freelancer named Tony Kornheiser profiled Barry for one of the most memorable features in SI’s history, “A Voice Crying in the Wilderness.” Kornheiser tried to figure out how such a great player could be forgotten so quickly, cleverly arguing that Barry’s biggest problem was “face discrimination” and comparing him to the annoying, know-it-all actor that Dustin Hoffman played in Tootsie who rubbed everyone the wrong way. The piece starts like this:
Rick Barry has a problem. He would like people to regard him with love and affection, as they do Jerry West and John Havlicek. They do not.
“The way I looked alienated a lot of people,” Barry says. “I’ve seen films of myself and seen the faces I made. I looked terrible.” He closes his eyes to the memory and shakes his head. “I acted like a jerk. Did a lot of stupid things. Opened my big mouth and said a lot of things that upset and hurt people. I was an easy person to hate. And I can understand that. I tell kids,
“There’s nothing wrong with playing the way Rick Barry played, but don’t act the way Rick Barry acted.” I tell my own kids, “Do as I say, not as I did.”
What bothers him isn’t that he’s not beloved.
“It bothers me,” Barry says, “that I’m not even liked.”
And he wasn’t. But I can’t drop him below no. 26. He brought too much to the table. If Barry’s career was relived as a twelve-person dinner party with Barry hosting, then the following things would definitely happen: Dinner would start late because one of Barry’s chefs quit that afternoon; everyone would comment on the table looking absolutely fantastic; two guests would storm out during the appetizers after Barry makes an inappropriate joke about one of their kids; another couple would leave before dessert because Barry keeps arguing politics with the husband and won’t shut up; there would be multiple awkward interactions with Barry second-guessing one of the waiters (highlighted by one accidentally inappropriate racial joke); and the rest of the guests would ultimately decide to ignore his bullshit and savor the wonderful wine, first-rate filet mignon and an unbelievable round of soufflés and ports. Sure, they would bitch about him the entire way home … but a great meal is a great meal.
25. JOHN STOCKTON
Resume: 19 years, 10 quality, 10 All-Stars … Top 5 (’94, ’95), Top 10 (’88, ’89, ’90, ’92, ’93,
’96), Top 15 (’91, ’97, ’99) … Playoffs record: most assists (24) … 5-year peak: 16–3–14 …
leader: assists (9x), steals (2x) … ’88 playoffs: 19–4–15 (11 G) … 2nd-best player on 2
runner-ups (’97, ’98 Jazz) … Playoffs: 13–10.4, 80% FT (182 G) … missed 22 games total, played 82 games in 17 of 19 seasons … career: assists (1st), games (3rd)
For Jazz fans, watching Stockton was like being trapped in the missionary position for two decades. Yeah, you were having regular sex (or in this case, winning games), but you weren’t exactly bragging to your friends or anything. He was very, very, very, very good but never great, personified by all those second-team and third-team All-NBA appearances and the fact that he never cracked the top six of the MVP voting. He bored everyone to death with those predictable high screens with Malone, the blank expression on his face72 and a sweeping lack of flair. He made the Dream Team only because Isiah had burned so many bridges that Stockton was a much safer choice. 73 I always thought he was more fun not to like. He didn’t have a nickname and modeled his haircut after the LEGO Man. He deserves partial responsibility for Utah’s appallingly methodical style of play in the nineties. He pulled enough dirt
y stunts over the years to make Bruce Bowen blush, routinely tripping opponents as they curled off screens, setting moving picks by sticking his knee out at the last second, “mistakenly” punching in the nuts anyone who blind-picked him … and yet nobody ever called him out on this shit because he looked like he could have replaced Brenda and Brandon’s dad on 90210. 74
You can’t pick a point when Stockton’s career peaked because it never happened. From 1988 to 1995, he averaged between 14.7 and 17.2 points and 12.3 and 14.5 assists during the “assists are suddenly easier to get” era. His shooting numbers were outstanding (51.5 percent career FG, 38.4
percent career threes, 82.6 percent FT); he shot 53 percent or better seven times and reached 57.4
percent in 1988. Curiously, those numbers dipped in the playoffs (47.3 percent in 182 postseason games); from ’92 to ’96, Stockton shot just 44 percent and missed 107 of 153 threes (30 percent). After submitting a monster performance in the ’88 Playoffs (20–4–15, including a 24-assist game against L.A.), Stockton wasn’t exactly Big Shot John for the rest of his postseason prime. The ’89
Jazz got swept by seventh-seed G-State (starting Winston Garland at point guard, no less). Kevin Johnson and the ’90 Suns stole a deciding Game 5 in Utah. The Blazers eliminated them in the ’91
and ’92 Playoffs, with Stockton going 6-for-25 in the last two ’92 losses and getting outplayed by Terry Porter (a 26–8 for the series). The ’93 Jazz blew a 2–1 lead and lost to Seattle in the first round, with Stockton shooting 4-for-14 in a potential Game 4 clincher at home. The ’94 Jazz lost in the Western Finals to Houston; Stockton missed 38 of 65 shots and averaged just 9.4 assists in the series. The ’95 Jazz blew a deciding Game 5 at home to Houston, with Stockton contributing just 5
assists and 12 points on 4-for-14 shooting. And when the ’96 Jazz lost Game 7 of the Western Finals to Seattle, the point guard matchup brought back memories of Olajuwon-Robinson the previous year: 20.8 points, 6.4 assists and 56 percent shooting for GP; 10.1 points, 7.6 assists and 39 percent shooting for Stockton.
By the time Payton had finished whipping him like a dominatrix, Stockton was thirty-four and heading toward the twilight of his career. Then fate intervened. Magic and Isiah were gone. KJ and Price were fading away. Penny was a blown-out knee waiting to happen. Tim Hardaway tore an ACL and became much easier to defend. Kidd and Marbury weren’t ready. Kenny Anderson and Damon Stoudamire would never be ready. Rod Strickland and Nick Van Exel were crazy. Mark Jackson and Mookie Blaylock weren’t in his class. Really, who was left? 75 And the pace of NBA games had slowed so much that fast breaks were obsolete and every team milked possessions for 18–20 seconds at a time, a godsend of a development for a point guard in his mid-thirties. By dumb luck and sheer attrition, Stockton remained the league’s second-best point guard. When the ’97
Jazz won 64 games and made the Finals, Stockton enjoyed his best playoff numbers in five years (16–4–0, 52 percent FG) against Darrick Martin (first round), Van Exel (second round), Matt Maloney (Western Finals), and Steve Kerr (Finals). When they returned to the Finals in ’98, Stockton made a bunch of memorable crunch-time plays against Maloney (first round), Avery Johnson (second round), Van Exel (Western Finals), and Kerr (Finals). 76 So much for the glory days of battling Magic, GP and KJ.
I would argue that Stockton enjoyed the luckiest career of any top-forty guy. He lasted long enough that we forget his Playoffs resume from ’89 to ’96 and remember only his big moments in
’97 and ’98 … you know, when he was lighting up Maloney.77 We marvel at his gaudy assist numbers, forgetting that they came during an era when the criteria for assists inexplicably softened. And we gloss over his good fortune of playing with one of the best coaches ever (Jerry Sloan) and best power forwards ever (Malone, who complemented him perfectly in every respect). Look, I was there. He wasn’t better than Isiah, Magic, Payton or even Hardaway and KJ at their peaks. He couldn’t guard anyone for the last half of his career. He didn’t have an extra playoff gear like so many other greats. Had he arrived at a different time, landed on the wrong team or blown out a knee, Stockton just as easily could have been Mark Price. So why the high ranking? Because he wore me down. Even after turning forty, he kept playing at a fairly high level and putting on a
“how to run a basketball team” clinic. There was a crunch-time moment in the 2002 Playoffs with Utah trailing by six and desperately needing a hoop to silence a raucous Sacramento crowd. As Stockton was tearing down the court, I was sitting there thinking, “Pull-up three, he’s going for the pull-up three,” only because I’d seen it so many times. Mike Bibby didn’t know him as well. Thinking Stockton intended to take it coast-to-coast, Bibby started backpedaling at the three-point line … and as soon as Bibby’s momentum started to lean backward, Stockton pulled up and launched one of his trademark “my momentum is taking me forward, but somehow I stopped my body long enough to launch this baby” threes right in Bibby’s mug.
Swish.
Three-point game.
Mike Bibby’s head shaking in disgust.
And I remember thinking, “That’s why I’m gonna miss John Stockton.” Even after seventeen years and counting, you knew him inside and out, knew every one of his moves, knew what he was doing before he even did it and he was still pulling that crap off. Unbelievable. Watching Stockton in his waning years reminded me of a family member or longtime friend who gets you with the same two moves every time, like my uncle Bob, who lived off the same pull-up jumper going to his right for about forty-five years. There’s something to be said for that. Isiah was better at his peak, but would you rather have an A-plus point guard for ten quality years or an A-minus for seventeen years pulling off the same exact shit in 2003 that he pulled in 1987? Interesting debate. I’d still take Isiah, but I had to think about it. As late as 1996? I wouldn’t have thought about it. Stockton wasn’t flashy like Magic or as naturally gifted as Nash. He stood out only because of his short shorts78 and a vague resemblance to David Duchovny. Only Utah fans and basketball nerds truly appreciated him; Stockton’s final few months barely registered a thump against Jordan’s third and final farewell in 2003. Too bad. He should have gotten more credit for being the most fundamentally sound point guard ever, for playing the position selflessly and thoughtfully for an extraordinary length of time. Most points play at a high level for nine to twelve years; Stockton did it for eighteen and didn’t miss a single game in seventeen of them. Only Nash was better at running high screens. Only Magic was better at going coast-to-coast in big moments. And nobody owned the “we’re up by one, we’re on the road, the crowd’s going bonkers, there’s a minute left, the other team just got a fast break dunk, they have all the momentum, and that’s why I’m bringing it down and dropping a 25-footer on them” sequence quite like Stockton did. He was one of a kind. Boring as hell … but one of a kind.
(One last thought: here’s where you have to love the Level 3/Level 4 debate. Stockton was the defining Level 3 guy for me, but you could easily make the case that his longevity and assist numbers sneak him up a level. See, the Pyramid works! It works, dammit!)
1. I spent roughly 10,000 hours playing Doc vs. Larry in 1984. If I’d had NBA Live 2009 at the time, Doc vs. Larry wouldn’t have come out of the box. You could say the same about Mikan in 1951. If Dwight Howard had been playing back then, Mikan wouldn’t have come out of the box. 2. They didn’t even keep rebounding stats until ’51. What the hell was going on back then? It’s amazing they even kept track of points.
3. I spent about 20 minutes trying to figure out what current celebrity Mikan looked like. The answer? A giant, bespectacled Jason Biggs. I’m glad I’m here.
4. McHale told Jack McCallum in 1990, “The footwork is important, but my success begins with the premise that I can shoot the ball. That’s where so many big guys get off track right away. Everything is predicated on my defensive guy thinking, ‘If McHale shoots the ball, he’s going to make it.’ … The one thing I know rig
ht away is when I’m going to take a jump shot. When the entry pass is in the air, and I feel my guy with just one hand on me, playing off me, there’s no way I am not going to shoot. And there’s no way he’s going to block it.”