by Vin Baker
“Hey, V, you’re over here; you’ll be guarding Ilgauskas.”
He was referring to Zydrunas Ilgauskas, the Cavs’ seven-foot-three Lithuanian center, a mountain of a man and a handful for any defender, but let’s face it—not nearly the player that Shawn Kemp was.
“Case, I’m not on Shawn?”
Dwane shook his head. “Nah, it’s no big deal, Vin. We just want to make sure we’ve got him under control and keep you out of foul trouble.”
This was not the truth. I could tell by Dwane’s demeanor and body language—he seemed uncomfortable, almost nervous—that other forces were in play. Were they worried that Shawn, motivated by revenge, was going to come out and have the game of his life? Did they think I’d overcompensate in an effort to prove that the Sonics had made the right decision? Were they concerned about a possible altercation between Shawn and me? Regardless of the intent, I interpreted the message this way:
They aren’t quite over this guy.
The idea that Shawn was some sort of boogeyman seemed ridiculous to me. We were the best team in the NBA at that time, and there was no reason to put so much emphasis on one player, even if he was a former teammate. The truth, however, is that teams often are careful about how they handle trades and acquisitions, and the inevitable confrontations that subsequently arise. Generally speaking, when you trade a player, especially a very good player, you prefer to deal with a team from a different conference, so that you don’t have to compete against him very often. This is why I ended up in Seattle and Shawn wound up in Cleveland; I went East to West, and he went West to East. But when you do face a former player, it’s not unusual for a coach to be judicious about defensive assignments. Two players who were involved in a trade sometimes get emotional and take things personally, and that can be bad for everyone involved.
There was no reason to worry. We opened up a twenty-point lead in the first quarter and rolled to our seventh straight victory. The final score was 109–84. Shawn was largely ineffective: nine points on just 2-for-11 shooting, and only six rebounds. It wasn’t for lack of effort, and I honestly don’t think he was spooked or nervous about playing his old team. We were just that much better than the Cavs. We doubled Shawn on nearly every possession, forced the Cavs to get output from other players, and it simply didn’t happen. The game was over almost as soon as it started. I finished with 25 points and seven rebounds in just twenty-eight minutes of playing time. A very solid game, and I was happy with my performance. But it’s a lot easier to play well, and to look good, when you are surrounded by guys who know how to play the game, and when you have a smart coach on the bench. We had all of this in Seattle.
By the All-Star Break we had a record of 37–10—right on pace to finish as the best team in the Western Conference and challenge for an NBA title. We won four straight games heading into the break, the last coming at home against the Indiana Pacers, who were leading the Eastern Conference with a record of 33–13. I’d already been picked to play in the All-Star Game for the fourth consecutive year, but this time felt different; this time I was part of a winning team. I was proud as hell to represent the Sonics, and I wanted to perform well on that stage. And I thought I would, especially since I played one of my very best games against the Pacers: a career-high 41 points and 11 rebounds in a 104–97 victory. One of the proudest moments of my life occurred that night, when in the postgame press conference the Pacers’ coach, Larry Bird, said, “There were times tonight when I was wishing that Shawn Kemp was back on the floor.”
Larry Bird was one of the greatest players in NBA history. In the late 1970s and throughout the 1980s, fans marveled at the exploits of Bird. He was six nine but had the court vision and passing ability of a point guard; his shooting range knew no boundaries. He was routinely labeled as “unathletic,” but that’s just because he was white and didn’t dunk very often. If you understood basketball, you knew that Larry Bird played the game in a way that it had rarely been played before. He was also a notorious trash-talker and one of the most competitive players in league history. For me, a kid growing up in New England, there was no debate. Larry was the leader of the Boston Celtics, and I was a die-hard Celtics fan. It was surreal to have praise heaped on me by my childhood hero.
Larry Legend? Talking about me? My career could have ended right there and I would have been a happy man.
The 1998 All-Star Game should have been a terrific experience. I had been playing well, and I felt like I deserved my place on the roster. Even better, since Seattle had the best record in the Western Conference, George Karl was selected as coach. But as the All-Star weekend approached, I realized that there was something dramatically wrong with my body. It’s not unusual to feel tired at the midpoint of an NBA season, especially when you’re playing a lot of minutes, as I had been. But this was different. I was completely and utterly exhausted. Rather than mere soreness or fatigue, it felt like a systemic breakdown, the origins of which could easily be traced back to the way I was living my life off the court.
The All-Star Game was in New York that year, so naturally the spotlight was a bit brighter than usual. It sure felt different to me. I remember walking into a press conference, accompanied by a member of the NBA public relations staff who had been assigned specifically to me (that had never happened before), and running into Tim Hardaway of the Miami Heat, who was not only one of the top point guards in the league, but also one of its biggest personalities. When it came to filling a room, Hardaway was right up there with Jordan and GP.
“There he is, there he is,” Tim shouted at me. “We saw that forty-one the other night, bro. But we got something for you in this game, V. We got Zo.”
“Zo,” of course, was Alonzo Mourning, Hardaway’s Miami teammate and an all-star in his own right. And this time I didn’t mind hearing my name in the same sentence as his. In fact, it felt pretty damn good. Four consecutive All-Star Games, but no one had ever treated me like this before, and it was all about the fact that I was now on a winning team. With winning came not just acceptance, but respect. I was part of the club now, in every way imaginable.
I realize how this makes me sound: insecure, anxious, immature. Truth be told, all those adjectives were entirely applicable at that point in my life, and for some time afterward. Insecurity and a lack of self-esteem often fuel the engine of addiction, and certainly this was true in my case. I liked the attention that came with being a star athlete. I also liked the way I felt when I indulged in the fringe benefits of that stardom.
In New York, I did not miss an opportunity to party. The game was Sunday afternoon, and our first official practice was Saturday morning. I was out very late Friday night, clubbing and drinking and having a good time. I wasn’t alone in this behavior, but I was alone in failing to answer the bell Saturday morning.
There was a knock on my hotel room door from one of the assistant coaches. I could hear his voice outside.
“Vin, you okay?”
I sat up in bed and instantly felt the first unmistakable signs of a hangover: the headache, the nausea. Not terrible, but enough to know that it would not be a good day. Or at least not a good morning.
“Yeah, yeah, what’s up?” I answered.
“You’re late, man. Whole team is downstairs. Bus leaving. We’re waiting on you.”
I threw on my workout gear and some cologne to mask the smell, and staggered to the elevator. When I got on the bus to drive us to practice, I had to walk past a gauntlet of future Hall of Fame players: Shaquille O’Neal, Kobe Bryant, Karl Malone, just to name a few. They all knew I’d been out the night before, so they beat me up pretty good, but not in a nasty way. We were all adults, after all, and the All-Star Game was supposed to be a fun weekend. The coaches said nothing, just let me take my seat and nurse my hangover. This was not something that ever would have happened to me when I was an all-star in Milwaukee; I was always the first guy on the bus, staring wide eyed at the other stars, thinking, Wow, I can’t believe I’m even here. Now I was
taking it for granted. Now I was the guy so arrogant (or troubled) that he couldn’t even remember to set the alarm? Or so drunk that he didn’t hear it? It hurt to even think about it.
Sufficiently chastened, and still feeling like crap, I decided to just chill in my hotel room the night before the All-Star Game. But on game day I noticed something was wrong. I felt lethargic, almost a step slower than I had been all season. It was a significant and rather sudden change after playing the best basketball of my life for the previous three and a half months. Coach Karl did his best to get me into the flow of the game, calling plays for me, trying to get teammates to feed me the ball in the post. But I didn’t have it. I made just three of twelve field goal attempts in twenty-one minutes of playing time. I finished with eight points, and although I did manage to grab a respectable eight rebounds, it was not the type of performance that was expected of me, especially coming off a 41-point effort just a few days earlier.
There was no outside criticism afterward. The All-Star Game is a funky event—different teammates, coaches, styles, playing time—and it’s not unusual for even the best of players to perform below their usual standards. It’s mainly about having fun and celebrating the game. It’s a game for the fans. Still, I knew in my heart that something was wrong. I had never suffered through a two-day hangover before, so maybe that was the cause.
Although the statistical slip was at first barely noticeable, I struggled both mentally and physically in the second half of the season. The game did not come easily to me, the way it had prior to the All-Star Break. I was tired, less focused. The Sonics continued to win, and I finished the regular season averaging 19.2 points and eight rebounds per game. A slight dip from the previous year in Milwaukee, but still very strong, and completely acceptable given the fact that we won 61 games and were rewarded with the top seed in the Western Conference playoffs.
To the casual observer, everything seemed just fine in Seattle. But things were far from fine in my head. Throughout the stretch I partied heavily—a consistent three or four nights per week. Rarely did I string nights together, mainly because the sessions were so long and debilitating that I needed time to recover. GP was almost always my partner in crime, although between us we’d usually have a posse of eight or nine guys—Gary’s friends from Oakland, and mine from Hartford. Gary used to get on the team bus, pause as he strolled past my seat, and give me a hard look. He’d wait until everyone was listening, and then make some big pronouncement about the previous evening’s activities.
“Yo, this motherfucker is crazy!”
The rest of our teammates would just stare in disbelief, like it was a joke or something.
“Really? Vin?”
It was like I had two different personalities: one that I presented to the public, and one that I revealed only after I’d been drinking. Gary made a habit of reminding me that I was a hypocrite. I used to read the Bible on the team bus or plane, and I wore a rubber bracelet inscribed with the message what would jesus do? Gary would walk into the gym after one of our late-night strip club sessions, and throw an arm around my shoulder. Then he’d reach down, snap the bracelet with two fingers, and laugh sarcastically.
“G, what are you doing?” I’d say.
“What? You gonna get mad at me?” Gary would respond. Then he’d scowl. “You’re not even living that life. The nerve of you to try to get pissed off about this right now. It’s laughable, man.”
There was no bullshitting Gary. Whatever faults he may have had, the man was totally honest and transparent. He played hard—on and off the court—and made no excuses for his behavior. He also had a unique ability to turn it on and off. Unlike me, he seemed unaffected by the partying. And if he felt a need to slow down for a while, he could just do it.
I wanted to be like GP: confident, outgoing, the life of the party. The thing is, Gary was always that way—sober or drunk. Me? I needed alcohol to become a happier person. I used to tell Gary that I thought of him as my big brother. I needed his respect, his admiration, his love. I know it sounds crazy and twisted, but when we were out getting drunk, throwing money at strippers and having sex with women we barely knew, I felt closer to Gary than to anyone else I had ever known. At the time, that relationship was the most important one in my life.
The best players have an uncanny ability to focus, and never let anything get in the way of their work. I was not at that level. That same year, I was offered my own signature shoe. I was already a Nike client, but now I was going to be part of the Jordan line, with a shoe known as . . . the Vindicator. Nike wanted me to fly to Chicago for the launch, and to film a commercial, but we were scheduled to play a game at home the next night against the Utah Jazz, with whom we were fighting at the time for supremacy in the Western Conference, while positioning for the playoffs. Wally Walker, the Sonics’ general manager, was at first opposed to my leaving, which was understandable. I’d have to fly by private jet to Chicago, put in a twelve-hour day filming and meeting with Nike execs, get a few hours of sleep, and fly back the next day. And waiting for me that night would be Karl Malone, one of the greatest power forwards in the history of the game.
But I wanted the gig and the notoriety that came with it, so I urged my agent, David Falk, to throw some muscle around. Which he did. That trip was a serious boost to the ego; it was also a reality check. Let me explain. See, when I first got to Chicago and met with all the Nike bigwigs, and hung out with a bunch of other superstar athletes, I felt pretty good about myself.
I’m ballin’ now!
Eventually, though, I walked onto the set to film the commercial, and in walked MJ himself: Michael Jordan. I expected a handshake or a bro hug—something warm and fuzzy and emblematic of my being part of this elite club. Instead, Michael walked right up to me, looked me dead in the eye, and solemnly said, “What the hell are you doing here?”
At first I thought it was a joke, like he was busting my balls for some reason. Uh-uh. He was dead serious.
“You got a big game tomorrow, right? Shouldn’t you be at practice?”
I didn’t know what to say. To me it was unfathomable, and rather embarrassing, that Michael not only seemed to know more about my schedule than I did, but that he took it more seriously. That’s one of the things that separate someone like Michael from other athletes: his work ethic. Despite all the fame and adulation and wealth, he never lost sight of the fact that winning was the most important thing, and winning requires enormous sacrifice and ambition. I came to Chicago filled with excitement over being asked to join the Jordan stable. Now, here I was, face to face with the man himself, and suddenly I was ashamed. All I could think was, I am not even close to being on your level.
The Sonics were the No. 2 seed in the Western Conference, a reward for having won more than sixty games during the regular season. In reality, though, by playoff time we were not as good a team as we had been earlier in the year. Timing is everything, and in a long NBA season it’s not unusual for a team that plays well in the early going to struggle in the playoffs. That’s what happened to us, and I will definitely take my share of the blame. I felt like I aged five years between the All-Star Break and the end of the season. With each passing week I grew more tired and less focused. My game suffered, and our team suffered.
In the first round we beat the Minnesota Timberwolves, but it was a much tougher series than expected, extending the full five games before we advanced. That was not a good sign. In the Western Conference semifinals we played the Los Angeles Lakers, a much more formidable opponent led at the time by Shaq and a very young Kobe Bryant, but also such veteran stalwarts as Rick Fox, Derek Fisher, Eddie Jones, and Robert Horry. In short, a very strong and balanced team. We split the first two games at home before traveling to LA for games 3 and 4. I was struggling badly by this time, and not merely because of the wear and tear on my body from burning the candle at both ends. In fact, throughout the playoffs I had cut back on the partying because I knew that something wasn’t right. But I still
wasn’t recovering.
We checked into the Ritz-Carlton in Marina del Rey two nights before game 3. Since we had practice scheduled for the next morning, I decided to lie low, and just order room service and watch a movie on television. I was flat on my back, remote in hand, when I heard a loud knock at the door. It was one of Gary Payton’s boys, dispatched for the specific purpose of dragging me out of bed.
“G wants to know what you’re doing tonight,” he said.
“You’re looking at it, bro. Just chillin’.”
I shut the door, went back to watching TV, and figured I’d be asleep soon. No chance. Another knock at the door. This time it was Gary.
“Come on, man, let’s go.”
“Nah, G, I’m just going to relax tonight. Seriously . . . I haven’t been feeling right.”
Gary gave me one of his dismissive looks, a disbelieving scowl that basically said, You’re full of shit.
“Listen, V. You want to know why you’re struggling? Because you’re not doing what you were doing at the beginning of the year. You’re trying to stay in the room, thinking about things too much. That’s not the way we roll.”
I’ll give GP credit: he knew how to get under my skin.
“You’re fucking with your routine,” he added. “Never do that. Stick with what’s working.”
Nothing worked very well at that time, but there was a certain twisted logic to Gary’s argument, and I quickly relented. In the end, I guess, the most important thing to me was maintaining Gary’s respect and friendship, regardless of the cost. If my big brother truly believed we should be out at a strip club the night before practice—after we just got our butts kicked at home—then that’s what we’d do.