Boys Among Men

by Jonathan Abrams

  Colangelo had been around the NBA for decades, watching it grow from its humble infancy into a sport where players commanded millions in salary. He worried about floodgates being opened, about high school failures outweighing the successes, and about the NBA being saturated by emotionally stunted kids. The longer someone stayed in school, Colangelo believed, the more he would be exposed to as a basketball player and a person and the better prepared he would be to become a professional. Colangelo raised his concerns during the 1998–1999 lockout. But the league had more pressing concerns in corralling skyrocketing player salaries. Colangelo had predicted such a showdown between the league and the players union years ago. In 1989, the death of union chief Larry Fleisher, the father of agent Eric Fleisher, brought about a change in the dynamic between the players and the owners. Larry Fleisher was tough, in Colangelo’s estimation. He knew when to push, but he also knew when to pull back, a tactful tool for a negotiator, Colangelo thought, and pivotal in ending any arbitration amicably. The new heads of the union wanted more and more as the owners claimed to be financially suffering. The owners dug in, united, and ended the lockout with, Colangelo believed, a more economically stable structure moving forward.

  Many around the league shared Colangelo’s concerns over the league harboring recent high school players. Russ Granik served as the league’s deputy commissioner under David Stern. He thought the process would take care of itself. He believed it would take only one drastic failure to curtail others from trying to make the same jump. But, at the time, the rules were the rules. High school players were not barred from entering the draft. “The view, even after Kevin [Garnett] was in the league, was that he probably would be the exception,” Granik remembered. “I think we were wrong about predicting how many players were likely to try and follow his example.” Most NBA personnel did not share Jerry Krause’s view of high schoolers as a new pool of talent. They were reserved and reluctant to scout in high school gyms. It was nearly impossible to predict how a teenager’s body would develop and how his outlook would shift once exposed to previously unimaginable riches. “I saw Michael Jordan play in high school,” said Keith Drum, a scout for the Sacramento Kings. “Had he come out of high school as a player, our whole opinion of Michael Jordan would be different. He might’ve developed into a very nice player, but he wouldn’t have come into the league and become a star right away.” Kevin McHale and Flip Saunders were applauded for gambling on Kevin Garnett, but even they were reluctant to draft high schoolers in successive years and passed on Kobe Bryant. Jerry West, the executive who went out on a limb to secure Bryant, expected him to eventually mature into a star. Bryant had the work ethic and the tools. He also knew Bryant was an outlier. “Potential is sometimes like if you don’t take care of a nice car,” West said. “If you don’t take good care of it and nurture it, pretty soon it’s going to be a pretty bad car. These young kids really need a lot of attention in trying to steer them into areas that will help them achieve their goals, and many don’t make it.” Meanwhile, David Stern and Granik viewed the issue with the league’s overall well-being in mind. The draft was aimed at restocking the weaker teams. It was obvious soon after the 1995 draft that Garnett was the premier player of his draft class. He would have been the number one pick had he played in college just one season and allowed teams to better measure his ceiling. But Washington’s Abe Pollin had urged John Nash not to further scout Garnett simply because he was a high schooler. “Four teams that had a pick better than Minnesota’s didn’t feel they had enough faith,” Granik said. “Everybody knew by then who he was and that he was coming out. What we’d like to think was that the teams that had the best picks have a better shot of making a good judgment and that was hard to do in this case.”

  Colangelo did not arrive at his stance without due consideration. He ran a baseball franchise in a league where hundreds of players are taken in just one draft. But they progressed through the minor leagues—more like a graduate program than the big leagues. The fame, attention, riches, and adulation would arrive later if they advanced and proved themselves through a myriad of bus rides to cities like Visalia and Macon and hard hotel beds. Colangelo himself was once a hotshot pitcher who was scouted by several teams out of Bloom Township High School in Chicago Heights. But he was not offered a signing bonus large enough for his liking, so he enrolled to play basketball at the University of Kansas in 1957. Colangelo planned to pair with the great Wilt Chamberlain and win a national championship. Instead, he saw Chamberlain, an athlete before his time who helped modernize the game, serve as one of the first basketball players to enter professional basketball and forgo his remaining college eligibility.

  Chamberlain confided to Colangelo that he was leaving college prematurely to play professionally after his junior season. The college games were no longer enjoyable. Opposing fans had hurled racial insults at him throughout his college career. He played before the shot-clock era, and more and more opposing teams employed delaying tactics to hold on to their possession, while sending three players to guard him whenever Kansas did have the ball. Chamberlain could not join the NBA until his college class had graduated. Chamberlain did not try to circumvent that mandate. He would join the Harlem Globetrotters and play with the barnstorming troupe for a year before entering the NBA. He sold the story of his decision to Look magazine for $10,000, a sum more than most NBA players earned in a season. “I need money to help my family,” he wrote. “There are nine of us, six boys and three girls, and we’ve always had a struggle to get along. My father, fifty-seven, still has to work as a handyman for sixty dollars a week. My mother, fifty-six, has to go out as a domestic. I want to fix it so they can stop working and enjoy life more.” His Globetrotters contract was for $65,000, an unheard-of salary for a basketball player at the time.

  Soon, Colangelo joined the professional ranks as well, but not as a player. He was instrumental in starting the Chicago Bulls in 1966, joining the NBA at an opportune time. Basketball was displaying its first signs of joining baseball and football as a major sports league. Attendance topped 2.5 million and ABC’s contract awarded the league $4 million over five years. The NBA expanded further, adding teams in San Diego and Seattle in 1967 and in Milwaukee and Phoenix the following year. Both Milwaukee and Phoenix asked Colangelo to join their nascent franchises as general manager. Colangelo thought Milwaukee was too close to home, more of a northern suburb of Chicago than a fresh beginning. He decided to go to Phoenix, becoming the youngest general manager in professional sports at the age of 28.

  •••

  Colangelo’s stance on high schoolers entering the NBA was clear. Still, he evolved with the new era. Colangelo, like Jerry West, prized the athleticism and drive of a young Kobe Bryant. The Suns had hosted Bryant, who performed magnificently for them in a workout. Colangelo and his coach, Danny Ainge, worked diligently to move up from their 15th pick in the draft in order to take Bryant. But they found no takers, stayed in place, and took Steve Nash instead.

  Six years later, Colangelo had another decision to make regarding a high school player.

  Amar’e Stoudemire was ranked at the top of his high school class in 2002. His body was similar to Darryl Dawkins’s, in that he resembled more man than teenager at 6 feet 10 inches and 240 pounds. It was not difficult to project how his body would develop as he matured. At 19 years of age, he was already sculpted. Stoudemire was commonly referred to as a freak, an athlete with absurd genetic blessings who could run, jump, and rattle the rim. But he had a difficult path in even getting to the NBA’s doorstep. Stoudemire grew up outside of Orlando and his parents divorced when he was young. His father, Hazell Stoudemire, died when Amar’e was 12. His mother, Carrie, was in and out of jail for crimes ranging from theft to forgery to drugs. His older brother, Hazell Jr., served a prison stint on drug and sexual abuse convictions. Amar’e Stoudemire was often left to fend for himself at a tender age. There always seemed to be a coach willing to take in the talented player, who grew like a we
ed. But because of eligibility issues and family drama, Stoudemire ended up attending six different high schools, one in a basement, and playing only two seasons—all while helping to raise his younger half-brother, Marwan. Stoudemire was about the only athlete who could raise questions after averaging 29 points, 15 rebounds, and 6 blocks in his final prep season at Florida’s Cypress Creek High School. Yes, he put up monster numbers. But his team had lost 13 of its 29 games.

  “It was a problem for me because of how I thought about this issue,” Colangelo recalled. “I kept saying, ‘We’re not drafting a kid out of high school.’ And then my team of people said, ‘You’ve got to look at this tape.’ Then I saw Amar’e in the McDonald’s [All-American] Game, and he looked like a man against boys.”

  The Suns decided to bring in Stoudemire for a workout, supervised by Bryan Colangelo, Jerry’s son. Bryan had attended Cornell University before his father brought him into the business, eventually naming him the team’s general manager. Nearly half of Stoudemire’s shots in the workout were air balls. “He wasn’t drawing iron,” Bryan Colangelo recalled. “We were trying to figure out if it’s nerves, technique—what could it be? What it came down to was he had never really been coached or taught or put through the rigors of a true, fundamental exercise on his shot and technique.” But his athleticism was evident. Stoudemire impressed Bryan Colangelo and the scouting department, but they were split on whether to gamble on the high schooler. “Amar’e was definitely one of the guys that, talentwise alone, he was ready for the NBA,” Bryan Colangelo recalled. “The question was, Was he ready for the NBA mentally? Did he have enough of a clear path to success that it was worth the risk?” Jerry Colangelo walked in near the end of the workout and watched Stoudemire for a few minutes. “He’s our pick,” Jerry Colangelo said. The Suns gave Stoudemire a psychological test and its results hinted at a deeply motivated person. Colangelo thought of his own meager beginnings, strengthening his conviction to secure Stoudemire. Stoudemire still had to fall to the Suns with the ninth pick. The Clippers, selecting eighth, loomed in the way. A Clippers executive phoned Bryan Colangelo shortly before the draft. The Clippers had been unable to secure a workout with Stoudemire or, for that matter, to get in touch with him at all. The Clippers executive accused the Suns of stashing Stoudemire away, hoping that he would fall to them in a prearranged deal.

  “No, we haven’t,” Bryan Colangelo responded. The Clippers said they would take Stoudemire, workout or not. “Well, take him,” Colangelo responded. “You’re drafting ahead of us. Take whoever you wish.” But the Clippers took Maryland’s Chris Wilcox with the eighth pick, allowing Phoenix to draft Stoudemire.

  Stoudemire progressed to become the first high school draftee to win the NBA’s Rookie of the Year award and combined with Steve Nash through the years to become one of the league’s more devastating inside-outside combinations. A dozen years later, Jerry Colangelo recalled his dilemma in choosing between Stoudemire and sticking with his druthers. “I had to make an exception to the rule for Amar’e Stoudemire,” Colangelo said.

  11.

  That a drastically different NBA loomed in the summer of 1998, through a probable lockout and the likely retirement of Michael Jordan, did little to dissuade the high school–to–pro hopefuls. Al Harrington had made reaching the NBA from New Jersey’s St. Patrick High School Academy a priority during his senior year. The thought would have been laughable just four years earlier. Growing up, he preferred football. Mona Lawton, Harrington’s mother, always beat him in basketball whenever they played one-on-one. He was short, clumsy, and chubby, until one summer it seemed as if he had been stretched out like a rubber band, turning tall and elastic. His game developed quickly and he became capable, but not exceptional, in most aspects of basketball. He could jump, but was not considered a jumper. He could shoot, but was not considered a shooter. He could defend, but was not considered a defender. Rather than excelling at any singular aspect of the game, he was well regarded as solid in all categories, an athlete and a diligent worker who would only improve with time.

  For a while, Mona Lawton thought that her son’s ears had been filled with wild fantasies when she heard about him jumping straight to the NBA. She was happy with him receiving a college scholarship. Lawton wanted Harrington to attend the University of North Carolina and even phoned their coaches to make sure they had room for him. To her dismay, they had already received a commitment from a player at Harrington’s position. “Mom, for me to go to college would be for what?” Harrington asked one day.

  “For an education,” Lawton answered. “To get a good job when you’re done.”

  “For me to go to the NBA right now would be for me to get that job,” Harrington said, adding that he could still take classes during the summer. Lawton found the logic hard to argue with. He would elect for the NBA. The decision eased Harrington’s burden. He had college after college recruiting him. He developed close relationships with some of the coaches. It made it easier to say no to all of them, rather than yes to just one. The choice also eased the pressure Harrington faced from friends he had played with in AAU and high school ball, who had wanted to team with him in college. His old high school running mate, Shaheen Holloway, played at Seton Hall. Once, the school had lost a game in Hawaii and Holloway phoned Harrington back in New Jersey. Harrington, because of the time difference, had already been asleep for a few hours. “Just commit, commit,” Holloway kept saying, trying to get a half-asleep Harrington to pledge his loyalty to Seton Hall then and there.

  The feedback Harrington received from the NBA had him pegged to be selected anywhere between 8th and 15th. The range made him cautious enough to stay home from the draft, held that year in Vancouver, where only the top handful of selections would greet David Stern. Instead, several dozen family members, friends, teammates, and coaches gathered with Harrington at Niecy’s Southern Cuisine Restaurant in South Orange, New Jersey. They ate, settling into the night on the big screen. Stern opened the draft by announcing that the Clippers had chosen Michael Olowokandi, a big man from the University of the Pacific, who had only started playing the game a few years earlier. Stern called name after name, welcoming them into the NBA’s fraternity. Harrington was sure that he would be called when the Hornets selected 21st. They instead opted for Ricky Davis, a guard from Iowa. The hope and optimism that he had started out the night with dissipated. “Al, you’re going to be big,” Tiffany, Harrington’s sister, said while offering a hug. “Just keep your head up.”

  In Wichita, Kansas, Korleone Young prayed as the draft continued. Oh God, he thought. Let me get drafted in the first round. He knew that the difference between being drafted in the first round and the second round was substantial. First rounders were awarded guaranteed contracts of at least three years. Second rounders had to make the roster to get any real money and risked being cut loose on a whim at any time. Young had declared for the draft out of Virginia’s Hargrave Military Academy, the boarding school he attended. He had spent his high school years bulldozing through and above opponents. His shoulders were especially broad for a high schooler, as if he always wore football shoulder pads. A neighbor threw a party in his honor at a bar the night of the draft. It seemed as if half of Wichita had showed up. They had expected about 100 people. The crowd soon swelled to at least twice that. They watched on a television screen. The first round continued to progress without Young’s name being called. His future, one way or another, would be decided that evening. The music blared. There was food to be eaten and drinks to be downed. Fuck it, Young thought. Whether I get drafted or not, we are kicking it tonight.

  At some point in the evening, Young’s father, largely a stranger to him until then, even though they both lived in Wichita, showed up. One of Young’s friends asked him to leave, Young recalled. If he was there now, he would expect something later. A wave of shock washed over Young. The sensation soon evaporated. Young had envisioned this day for years. He wanted to celebrate with no distractions. Young agree
d to send his father off and settled into the party.

  Of the three high school players with pro potential (Ellis Richardson also misguidedly declared for the draft that spring), only Rashard Lewis showed up in Vancouver with the rest of the top prospects. Lewis was raised in Houston. He had not originally planned to attend, but his hometown Rockets possessed three first-round selections. He had been assured that the organization would use one of the picks on him. Instead, Houston selected Michael Dickerson (14), Bryce Drew (16), and Mirsad Türkcan (18) with their first-round selections. Lewis felt as though he had sat in the draft’s greenroom for days. Celebrations burst out like fireworks all around him as others heard their names called, their dreams realized. It was as though he was witnessing the slow death of his own dream. He felt weak and dizzy. I already hired my agents, so I can’t go back to school, he thought. As the first round wore on, Lewis dreaded being guaranteed nothing if the round ended without his name being called. No contract, no nothing, he thought. He squirmed. He would have to struggle just to make a team or end up playing somewhere overseas. That scenario, in particular, frightened him, as it would most teenagers.

  Lewis first planned to play at the University of Houston, where he would team up with his childhood friends. But the university had recently fired Alvin Brooks, scuttling plans for Lewis to attend the school with Brooks’s son, Alvin III, and others. Lewis was elegantly tall and slender. He stood about 6 feet 10 inches tall and could play inside or outside. NBA scouts had come to his games at Alief Elsik High School, but only after Brooks’s firing did Lewis start seriously considering declaring for the NBA. “Not only that, I could stay home,” Lewis remembered. “I could get drafted by the Houston Rockets, so I’d still be there under my mom’s wing, so that made me more interested in making that jump, because, hell, I’ll be right here in my backyard.” Juanita Brown sat next to her son at the draft. She had grown up a sports fan, watching as many games as she could with her brother. She worried about her son making this choice. She did what she could to educate him about those who had failed before him and stressed the importance of being humble and becoming a diligent worker. She ultimately left the choice to him. He was on the precipice of manhood and she believed he might potentially harbor resentment if she wrested such an important decision away from him. Now, she worried if she herself had made the right decision. She shared in his agony as he waited at the draft. She had first hoped that he would be drafted away from Houston, to live on his own and be fast-tracked on his way to manhood. She now desperately wanted some team, any team, to draft him and end their collective agony. She looked at her son’s face and knew they shared the same frustration and pain from not knowing. Lewis had always been quiet. He talked when he was ready to talk. Otherwise, there was no use in initiating the conversation. “It’s going to happen, Rashard,” she said, trying to keep his spirits up. “You’re going to get drafted.” At one point, Lewis rose and left the greenroom. He silently sobbed in the bathroom. She prayed.