Boys Among Men

by Jonathan Abrams

  Players had motivation for wanting to begin their professional careers as soon as possible. The NBA was prospering and had financially bounced back since the struggles after Michael Jordan’s retirement as a Bull. The league signed six-year broadcasting deals with ESPN, ABC, and TNT worth $4.6 billion in 2002. The mark was a significant jump from the television deals signed in 1998. That year, NBC had paid $1.6 billion for four years of televising rights and TBS/TNT forked over $840 million for the same period. The value of franchises had also skyrocketed. In 2002, Robert L. Johnson purchased an expansion team in Charlotte for $300 million. Only 15 years earlier, George Shinn paid $32.5 million to land Charlotte its original NBA franchise. Most interest in the league stemmed from the popularity of individual players and, by 2004, the majority of the league’s brightest stars had entered the league out of high school. Kevin Garnett claimed the league’s Most Valuable Player award in 2004, while Jermaine O’Neal finished third in the balloting. Kobe Bryant had won three straight championships. Tracy McGrady had captured two league scoring titles. And LeBron James won the league’s Rookie of the Year in 2004 out of high school, following in the footsteps of Amar’e Stoudemire, who had won it straight out of high school the previous year.

  Trouble still loomed. The NBA found itself at a crossroads that would determine its long-term future. It was financially profitable, but attendance and ratings were sagging. The league still had not found an heir to Michael Jordan. It constantly battled image issues amid concerns based on both reality and perception. Basketball is a rare sport. No equipment, helmets, or hats shielded the players’ faces or bodies. They were out there for the fans to see, nearly as recognizable on the court as they were off it. Yet, more and more, it seemed as though players possessed a skewed perspective on reality and could not relate to the lives of everyday people. Latrell Sprewell, a gifted basketball player perhaps better known for choking his coach in a rage than for his four All-Star appearances, rejected a three-year, $21 million contract offer from Glen Taylor and the Timberwolves in 2004. In doing so, he told the St. Paul Pioneer Press: “I have a family to feed…If Taylor wants to see my family fed, he better cough up some money. Otherwise, you’re going to see these kids in one of those Sally Struthers commercials soon.” Kobe Bryant, once perceived as following in Jordan’s footsteps, also had his own troubling issues. His championships arrived as he simultaneously bickered with Shaquille O’Neal in a public and bitter feud over who should be the team’s primary leader. In 2003, authorities in Colorado charged Bryant with sexual assault, following an alleged incident with a 19-year-old hotel employee at the Lodge & Spa at Cordillera. Bryant was 24 years old, married, and had recently become a father. Bryant admitted to adultery, although he denied the allegations against him and insisted the encounter had been consensual. The case’s hearings were played out publicly. Hearing dates occasionally resulted in Bryant having to attend court sessions, catch a plane, and play in a game, all in the same day. Prosecutors dropped the case when the alleged victim declined to provide testimony and Bryant later settled a civil suit stemming from the case out of court. Bryant apologized to the woman for the incident without admitting guilt. While his legal culpability had ended, Bryant’s endorsing ability had eroded. Companies like Coca-Cola and McDonald’s ended their affiliation with Bryant.

  The league had come to be associated with hip-hop culture, a union that had always been an uneasy one for many. Within that culture, Allen Iverson, the Philadelphia 76ers’ diminutive star, stood out. While Iverson had attended Georgetown University for a year, he was young and brash, sporting cornrows and tattoos. At one point, Iverson produced a rap single that contained homophobic and misogynistic lyrics. He represented a lightning rod for debate concerning the NBA’s present and future. He was viewed as authentic by most young people, a player who overcame meager beginnings and his small stature—a generously listed 6 feet and 165 pounds—to dominate a game ruled by giants. He was one of their own, a star who could not be manufactured and remained true to himself. Another group, consisting of corporate sponsors and wealthy fans, saw Iverson as thuggish, the anti-Jordan, and a ball hog who complained about having to practice. Author David Halberstam once wrote that the perception of the league was that it was “far too black.” It was still predominantly black and still trying to walk the tricky balance beam of catering to both urban and corporate fan bases. Only now, it went beyond mere perception; in reality, the NBA could be seen by some as filled with immature African-American millionaires.

  But no single event threatened the NBA’s viability like those on the night of November 19, 2004.

  That evening, the Detroit Pistons hosted the Indiana Pacers in a game nationally televised by ESPN. A tense rivalry had developed between the teams. The matchup offered a rematch of an emotionally charged Eastern Conference Finals a season earlier. In Game 6 of that series, Indiana’s Ron Artest delivered a forearm that resulted in a vicious flagrant foul to Detroit’s Richard Hamilton. The Pistons won that series and advanced to claim the championship by topping the favored Lakers, a team that had disintegrated following the feud between Bryant and O’Neal. Bad blood and memories toward the other team flowed throughout the rosters. Detroit wanted to defend its ground. Indiana considered itself the better team.

  It appeared to be Indiana’s night as the Pacers pulled away in the fourth quarter. But the game turned increasingly testy—an elbow here and a push there. “Man, these fouls are getting harder and harder,” Mark Montieth, who covered the Pacers for the Indianapolis Star, mentioned to a colleague from his courtside seat along press row. With 1:25 remaining and the game settled, Detroit’s Ben Wallace knocked Artest into the basket support as he attempted a layup.

  Indiana’s Stephen Jackson attempted free throws a few seconds later. He remembers someone on the team telling Artest, “You can get one now”—meaning that Artest could deliver a hard foul to someone he had been battling throughout the game. Artest, who had already run afoul of the league through his constant eccentric and erratic behavior, fouled Wallace hard on a shot attempt. Wallace retaliated, delivering a two-arm shove to Artest’s face. The push’s force caused Artest to stumble backward and Wallace pursued him. Their momentum carried them close to the scorers’ table, where both teams came together. The officiating crew of Tim Donaghy, Ron Garretson, and Tommy Nunez Jr. were timid in defusing the fracas. Mike Brown, a Pacers assistant coach, shared a relationship with Wallace. Brown pondered how he could calm the situation. “Debo, Debo,” he said, using one of Wallace’s nicknames. “It’s not worth it. Go back. Come on.” Wallace pulled back and stopped trying to reengage Artest. The players milled around, still jawing at one another. Stephen Jackson squared up with Detroit’s Lindsey Hunter. They briefly sized each other up before both thought better of going further. Meanwhile, Artest decided to lie on the scorers’ table. He had been told to try to disengage himself from situations when they became contentious and lying down was his response. It had the opposite effect. Several fans, now in close proximity to Artest, screamed obscenities at him. Wallace, who had calmed down, became agitated all over again during the lull and tossed his armband in Artest’s direction.

  Artest had just finished talking to Jim Gray, ESPN’s sideline reporter. “Ron, don’t leave,” he said. “I want you after the game.”

  “OK,” Artest responded.

  Then, a fan named John Green hurled a plastic cup filled with Diet Coke into the air. The contents splattered on Artest. With all the tension in the air, the beverage acted like a grenade.

  All hell broke loose.

  Joe Dumars, by then Detroit’s general manager, had retreated from the court to the inner belly of the arena. He walked alongside John Hammond, who had advanced to work with Dumars as his assistant general manager. Detroit’s performance had frustrated the pair, who heard a sudden collective roar. “Joe, something either really good just happened or something really bad just happened,” Hammond said, hoping that Detroit had somehow miraculously
turned the game around in its waning moments.

  Artest had raced into the stands. Instinctively, Mark Boyle, Indiana’s play-by-play broadcaster, tried intervening and stood up. Artest trampled over him and Boyle sustained five fractured vertebrae. Mike Brown could not recall following Artest into the stands, but suddenly he found himself amid the havoc, having gone after him. Artest pushed over a fan, Michael Ryan, who had not thrown the cup. Green, the fan who had, tried putting Artest in a headlock. Another fan threw a beer at Artest and sprayed Jackson, who had chased after his teammate. Jackson punched wildly. Indiana’s Fred Jones also went into the stands, where he was confronted with a missed haymaker from Ben Wallace’s brother, David.

  Artest remained in the stands for about 40 seconds before exiting and making his way back down to Indiana’s bench. Two fans in Pistons jerseys wandered aimlessly onto the court and near Artest. The parties briefly looked at each other. Artest punched Alvin Shackleford, a blow that also made Charlie Haddad stumble. As Haddad started to rise, Jermaine O’Neal gathered himself for a punch, cocking back his arm. But O’Neal stumbled, turning what would have been a devastating blow into a glancing one.

  A confrontation between the Pacers and the Pistons had devolved into one between the Pacers and Detroit fans, who hurled more and more objects onto the court. The Pacers needed an exit strategy and the only option was a retreat through a tunnel and past many of the enraged fans. Chuck Person, an ex–NBA player working in Indiana’s front office, had also left the game after the Pacers pulled away. He returned after hearing that Artest had vaulted into the stands, and he went after Artest. To Person, Artest had blacked out and was unaware of where he was. Person made eye contact with him in an attempt to calm him. Person felt as though the team were trapped in a gladiator-like scene, “where the fans were lions and we were just trying to escape with our lives,” he said.

  With Person’s firm guidance, Artest finally left the court. Stephen Jackson followed through the tunnel, tearing at his own jersey and screaming at fans as they hurled drinks at him. His adrenaline surged. Jackson felt as though the Pacers had not only topped the Pistons, but had bested the entire city as well. O’Neal walked through the tunnel, incensed that coaches had pinned his hands down and he could not protect himself from the arsenal of debris flying at him. A chair came soaring through the air, narrowly missing players. Jamaal Tinsley, Indiana’s point guard, returned after exiting the court, wielding a dustpan over his head before being pulled away.

  The melee turned into the NBA’s worst nightmare and largest challenge. It threatened to undermine the wholesome images that the league had worked decades to develop—ones of Magic Johnson’s pearly smile and Michael Jordan’s grace on and off the court. “You had some fans that thought that we were out-of-control thugs for whatever reason, not even knowing who we are, what we do for our communities,” Jermaine O’Neal said years later. “And then you had the other half that really supported what was going on and who we were as players and as people.” The replays aired on endless loops on television stations. It provided fodder for thinly veiled racist diatribes. Rush Limbaugh, the conservative political commentator, described it as “the hip-hop culture on parade. This is gang behavior on parade minus the guns. That’s the culture that the NBA has become.” Commissioner David Stern released a statement the following day that read: “The events at last night’s game were shocking, repulsive, and inexcusable—a humiliation for everyone associated with the NBA.” He suspended nine players for a total of 146 games that resulted in nearly $10 million in lost salary. Oakland County prosecutors charged five players and five fans in the incident. The players pleaded no contest. Green received a 30-day jail sentence.

  “I think it’s fair to say that the NBA was the first sport that was widely viewed as a black sport,” Stern told the Washington Post. “And whatever the numbers ultimately are for other sports, the NBA will always be treated a certain way because of that. Our players are so visible that if they have Afros or cornrows or tattoos—white or black—our consumers pick it up. So I think there are always some elements of race involved that affect judgments about the NBA.”

  Stern had been saddled with correcting the league’s image after he had first been appointed as commissioner. He was now tasked with the same challenge—only with higher stakes.

  20.

  David Stern ended his term as NBA commissioner in February 2014, three decades to the day after he had started his tenure. The game’s brightest current star, LeBron James, had not even been born when Stern became commissioner in 1984. Then, Stern maintained a bushy mustache, thick-rimmed glasses, and a slight paunch. Over the years, his hair aged to a stately snow white. The glasses became modern. The slight paunch grew slightly. He lost the mustache. Stern was 71 years old upon his exit, having presided over the NBA’s great growth in profitability and popularity. Few could argue with the robust state Stern bequeathed the NBA upon his departure. The league grossed about $5.5 billion annually and, in the fall of 2014, signed a new television pact that would net it $2.66 billion a year. Player salaries averaged more than $5 million a year. The league and its players were widely beloved abroad, in countries like China and Spain, places that had only been vaguely familiar with the NBA when Stern first ascended to power. He shepherded the NBA through a number of controversies, putting out the fires, and drawing his own criticism based on everything from the relocation of franchises to the implementation of a player dress code, one of several contentious responses to the brawl between the Pacers and the Pistons.

  Those advancements came for a reason. They were plotted, planned, and carried out. Stern was decisive and divisive. He was a negotiator who assumed his stance, dug in, and traditionally made the opposition come around and often agree with his viewpoint. That is why it was somewhat remarkable that Stern was sometimes not sure if he was on the right side of the issue of whether high school players should be allowed into the NBA. The league and the players association came to a compromise in June 2005 under Article X, Section 1, of the collective-bargaining agreement, which increased the league’s age minimum from 18 to 19 years old and mandated that American players be at least a year removed from high school before becoming draft-eligible. The rule stated that international players would only be eligible to be drafted if they had turned at least 19 years old the calendar year of that draft. For the first time, NBA teams would also be allowed to assign their players to the NBA Development League during the first two years of their playing career, although the NBA lacked a true farm system, like that in baseball or hockey.

  A door that had opened three decades earlier and a route that had introduced some of the greatest stars into the NBA, from Kevin Garnett to Kobe Bryant and LeBron James, was shuttered. “Lots of jobs have requirements that make for an older workforce,” Stern told the Boston Globe. “This is a personal project of mine. A few points: One, we already have a minimum age, 18, dating back to 1976. Two, it is time to tell the communities that we serve that the sixth-grader, as Arthur Ashe used to say, is far more likely to be a rocket scientist, biology professor, etc., than a pro athlete. Three, I want to get NBA scouts out of high school gyms. It sends the wrong message for them to be there. Where does it stop? Four, older players can deal better with the stress and grind of the unique NBA season. Five, it is a business matter. A draft pick is a big investment. It is better to see a return in less than two years. But with all that said, it is a hard issue. Everyone can be right in this one.”

  Stern and Billy Hunter, the executive director of the players union, had postured for years on whether the NBA should prohibit high school players from joining its workforce. Hunter had been appointed the union’s executive director in 1996. He had engaged in tough negotiations with Stern before. Neither budged for months in 1998, and the prolonged lockout ensued. In some cases, the pair flip-flopped stances on an age minimum. Stern had once said that it would be wrong denying high schoolers entrance into the NBA, while tennis and golf prodigies began th
eir professional careers as adolescents. Meanwhile, whenever asked, Hunter stated his strong stance against the banning of high schoolers in the draft. “I’m not going to agree to an age [minimum], period,” Hunter told the Bloomberg News Service in 2001. “Our players believe in the right of choice. Anybody who can perform should be permitted to come in. At eighteen, you can get married, go into the military, and be sentenced to death. You mean to tell me you shouldn’t be allowed to play basketball?”

  The league and its players had been negotiating a new labor agreement for months by the time of the brawl in Michigan. The fight provided an impetus for shoring up the league’s image. Its players had come to be regarded as collectively immature and, whether or not that mentality was rooted in fact, the perception became the reality. The veteran bench player on the last legs of his career, who could provide mentoring and steadiness, had been mostly replaced by a teenager who had spent little or no time in college and still had much to learn about professionalism and navigating life. Players often turned up on police blotters. In Portland, the roster became derisively known as the “Jail Blazers,” following a number of high-profile incidents involving members of the team. “We’re not really going to worry about what the hell [the fans] think about us,” Bonzi Wells, one of the team’s offenders, said to Sports Illustrated. “They really don’t matter to us. They can boo us every day, but they’re still going to ask for our autographs if they see us on the street. That’s why they’re fans, and we’re NBA players.” In the aftermath of the brawl, Stern’s dress code immediately drew the ire of some players who argued that it stripped them of their individuality. The policy required that, among other rules, injured players wear a sports jacket and no visible necklaces or medallions while on the bench. “Just because you put a guy in a tuxedo, it doesn’t mean he’s a good guy,” Allen Iverson told reporters in Philadelphia. Jermaine O’Neal was still dealing with the fallout of the brawl when the dress code was introduced. “I honestly believe that’s why the dress code came into play,” he said. “Because all of a sudden now the league is ‘out of control.’ I watched the so-called analysts, on national TV, say the NBA is too hip-hoppish. And it really blew me away that supposed analysts would even, first of all, say that. Your choice of music doesn’t dictate who you are as a person. Right after the brawl, the dress code came into play.” Players who had entered the NBA from high school, J. R. Smith and Shaun Livingston, wore long socks during a game in a quiet and mild protest. O’Neal thought that race factored into the new rules. Of all the American-born players drafted into the NBA from high school, only one—Robert Swift—was white. “As a black guy, you kind of think [race is] the reason why it’s coming up,” O’Neal said at the time. “You don’t hear about it in baseball or hockey. To say you have to be twenty, twenty-one to get in the league, it’s unconstitutional.”