Killer Crossover, page 11
Then Nellie came back down and said he wanted to play HORSE with his assistant coaches, so they kicked us off the court and put all the basketballs away. “Y’all just get out of here,” he said. “Get some rest and get ready for tomorrow.” And in the next game in San Antonio, we were a different team. We had a different walk, a different charisma. It continued at shootaround that morning, and we carried that confidence into the game, crushing the Spurs, 111–98. I had 20 points with nine assists, Mully had 27 with six assists and seven rebounds, and Mitch had 16 and six. Lead by Šarūnas’s 16, our bench outscored theirs, 37–16. It was, through and through, a team effort.
We knew a key to beating them was taking Robinson out of his element (though he still put up 28 points and 15 rebounds). He couldn’t guard the rim under the basket because we had our sharp-shooting big men step outside, which left the lane wide open for me to drive the ball. Tom Tolbert and Rod Higgins kept him out of the paint. It’s the kind of stuff teams run today, but we were doing it thirty years ago. Plus, we knew that if we 101were able to keep them under 100 points a game (as they had averaged more than 107 on the season), we could win the series.
We went back to Oakland for Game Three and, while it was close, we pulled it out, 109–106. All five of their starters scored in double digits, including my old college foe Sean Elliott. But Run-TMC combined for 71 points, and I added 11 assists and eight rebounds. Two days later we finished off the No. 2 seed Spurs, 110–97. We kept them under 100 points for the second time in the series and were finally able to hold David Robinson under 20 points. Though I only hit three of ten three-pointers, I finished with a game highs in points (32) and assists (9).
The history of Warriors basketball goes way back to guys like Wilt Chamberlain, Al Attles, Rick Barry, and numerous others. The fans are knowledgeable, and they always bring it when they come to the arena. As a result, during the playoffs, they are loud. If you’re playing the right way, they’ll give you all the love in the world. That’s how the people of Oakland are. But if you’re not putting in your all or doing what you’re supposed to be doing, they’ll let you know. I loved the fans in Golden State and especially so during the postseason. We brought it and it got loud.
From one good team to the next, we headed to LA to face off against Magic (who had gifted me my killer crossover title) and the third-seeded Lakers in the Western Conference Semis. Mitch, he said, was the guy who could kill you all types of ways, Chris was the dead-eye shooter. I had the move that would break your ankles. Maybe he was buttering us up—Magic always had an angle. Either way, the playoffs began on their floor at the Great Western Forum in Inglewood, California, on May 5, 1991. We weren’t scared, but knew they had a lot of basketball history on their side. By now, though, Showtime had changed. No more 102Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, no more Michael Cooper. Instead, they had Vlade Divac and Sam Perkins.
In Game One, LA came out to a quick 10-point lead in the first quarter, 35–25. And while we kept the game pretty even from that point on, we could never get a run to cut their lead, and they took the opening game by that same 10 points, 126–116. I had a team-high 33 points with nine assists, but what hurt us was that Mullin didn’t play. He’d injured his knee in practice and was out for a game. Magic took advantage and notched a triple-double, with 21 points, 17 assists, and 10 rebounds. Byron Scott had 27 and James Worthy scored 25.
But just like the previous series, Game Two was a different story. We landed the first blow, going up three points in the first quarter on the road. But the Lakers landed a haymaker in the second quarter to go up by nine. It was a tough matchup.
We came out after halftime all guns a blazing, outscoring them 41–30 in the third. During the break, we collected ourselves and reminded each other to make Magic a scorer, not a passer. That was the key to beating LA. By the time the final buzzer sounded, we’d won by a single point, 125–124. Mullin was back for that game and scored 41 points—he was a wizard out there, hitting everything. I got 28 with 14 assists and a whopping eight steals. Mitch added 22, though he fouled out late. We were undersized, so we had to scramble some on defense and Mitch had to use his fouls on bigger guys. We were always in some sort of defense rotation, trying to make up for our lack of height. Magic scored 44 for his team, while Worthy added 23 and Perkins scored 24.
But after the game, Magic told reporters that if he had to keep scoring like that, his Lakers were going to lose. He still had nine assists and 12 rebounds, but was taxed. He wanted a more 103free-flowing game. To get people open and see them score. We had them where we wanted them … or so we thought.
With Game Three back on our home court, we made a big miscalculation. The Warriors wanted to make a big deal of our matchup against the glitzy Lakers. So, before the game, they flew in Run-DMC and had them introduce us to the crowd. It was a marketer’s dream, but only served to anger Magic and the crew.
After that, we saw why Magic and the Lakers were the real deal, why they’d won five NBA championships. He just killed us, mentally and physically. We’d taken Game Two and then rubbed salt in the wound with Run-DMC. As the “It’s Tricky” rappers were hyping us up, I looked over to the Laker bench and saw Magic huddling his guys up. He told me afterward what he said to them, “See! They think they can kick our ass! They’re treating this like one of my Summer Groove games. But this is REAL. This is the playoffs!” He worked us, putting up 15 points and 15 rebounds, while Worthy dropped 36 and Byron added 23 with seven steals. Me and Mitch scored 24 and Mullin had 11 assists, but we lost by three, 115–112. They killed us in Game Four, 123–107, and finished us off in LA in Game Five, 124–119, to win the series. Though I had 27 points and 20 assists and Chris and Mitch each scored 26, it just wasn’t enough. It was a tough way to go out. But, in another way, our Run-TMC team was ahead of schedule. We’d done well in the playoffs after finishing 44–38 on the season. For my part, I’d scored 22.9 points per game along with 2.6 steals, 9.7 assists, and four rebounds. I’d also shot 38.5 percent from three (looks like all those shooting reps had paid off).
But in the NBA, things can change quickly. One mistake can mean a decade of sorrow. A single trade, an injury, or some other 104miscue can spell doom for a franchise. Little did I know that was exactly what was right around the corner for the Golden State Warriors. Little did I know our hope of building a contending team in Oakland was about to come to a screeching halt. But that’s what can happen in a league where draft picks and players can be dealt from one team to another in an instant. Indeed, in the 1990s there was no such thing as the player empowerment era—and Run-TMC was about to be a casualty of that.
Memory Lane: Paul Mokeski
Timmy was one of the most competitive guys I’ve met, and I’ve met some competitive dudes. I played against Michael Jordan, Larry Bird, Magic Johnson, Moses Malone, and a lot of other greats. On the floor, Tim would rip your throat out. He’s like me. When people saw me play, they thought I was mean and tough and a jerk. They’d ask my wife, “Is he an asshole?” But off the floor, I’m like a big teddy bear. Kids love me, animals love me! In a different way, Tim is similar to that. On the floor, no one wanted to mess with him, but off the floor, on the plane, at practice, he was one of the most easygoing, funniest guys out there.
That’s a switch you have to turn on to be able to perform at the level he did. And he’s Mr. Crossover. People might forget that. Allen Iverson? Timmy was doing that, embarrassing people way before him. If ESPN was like it is today back then, there would be highlights of him every night crossing people up like Magic Johnson, whoever. I played 12 years in the NBA on some great teams with some great guys, though I don’t know if I ever had as much fun with a group than I did with 105Run-TMC, with Mitch and Mully and Šarūnas—just all those guys. We just loved playing together.
I don’t want to speak out of turn or out of school, so to speak, but the toughness when it came to Timmy Hardaway was immediately evident to me. We were teammates during the 1990–91 season, but I also was working with Dallas when he was with the Mavericks later in his career. One stretch, we played, like, five games in eight nights on the road. But we had to get to a gym in the middle of it to get some shots up, maybe go through some stuff and scrimmage a little bit—nothing crazy so no one got hurt. Just a light practice. Well, there was a rookie on the team. A big dude, 6-foot-8, a rebounder. The other thing with Tim Hardaway, he could talk trash with the best of them.
People talk about Michael Jordan and Larry Bird and, yes, they were great. But Tim was one of the best. Him and Chris Mullin. Timmy was great at trash talking. So the scrimmage that day at practice got a little more heated than it should have. The rookie thought he should start talking to Tim. It got a little intense. And push came to shove, and I remember looking over there and Timmy saying to this dude, who is way bigger than him, “Don’t you walk up on me. Don’t walk up on me.” The next thing I know, the big dude is on the floor and Timmy was saying, “I told you don’t walk up on me. I’m from Chicago. I said don’t do it!”
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6 Breaking Up the Band
When I found out about the trade, I was devastated. On the court, I was a pit bull. I didn’t back down and could get by anyone at all times. But off the court, hearing about the deal to send Mitch away, bothered me. It seemed impossible that the three of us—me, Chris, and Mitch—would only get to play together for two seasons. It seemed to us that our fast-paced style was about to take the league by storm. We were the highest-scoring team during the 1989–90 season and second in 1990–91. We had great fans and had sold out every home game my second year, too, along with just about every road game. What more could anyone want? We could have really done something special.
After we’d lost to the Lakers in the semifinals, though, Nellie said he got pressure from the owners to add size and defense, though I felt there was no reason Mitch had to be dealt for that. In the end, that became Golden State’s “Original Sin.” You don’t destroy your core for the fringes. Together, Chris, Mitch, and I were one of the highest scoring trios in NBA history, with three 107guys who all scored above 20 points per game. Second only to Denver’s Alex English, Kiki Vandeweghe, and Dan Issel in 1982–83 (more recently, Kevin Durant, Klay Thompson, and Stephen Curry surpassed us). We even had one of the best nicknames in basketball. Run-TMC.
At first, we were known as the “Big Three” but then there was an event to rename us. The San Francisco Examiner sponsored a “Name the Warriors” contest, and they received more than 1,500 entries in their ballot box over two weeks. Then we got on TV before a game to pick the best. The paper put all the entries in one of those lottery balls you spin to mix them all up. There were so many that Chris Mullin told the cameras to cut for a second and he took two big handfuls out. Some of the other names included “The Marks Brothers,” “Three Amigos,” “Joint Chiefs of Stats,” “Blood Thirsty Gym Rats from Hell,” “Heat, Meat and Sweet” and “Three-Mendous.” But we liked Run-TMC best, so we kept that one.
What made the whole thing worse was that the three of us got along so well—even off the court. Mitch, Mully, and I would hang out—often with Rod Higgins—going out to dinner after games. We’d also have BBQs at each other’s houses, go to our kids’ birthday parties. We played HORSE all the time. Chris and Mitch won most of the games, but I’d occasionally get one off them. Mully liked to take shots from behind the halfcourt line or out of bounds on the sideline. Mitch liked the off-the-glass shots from the top of the key. I had to learn how to keep up! My knockout shot, which is something my son practices, was to put my feet on the corner where the baseline meets the sideline and shoot from there. The hard part about that one is shooting the ball across your body. But I learned to make that 108one and if you can do that well, you can win a lot of games. All that is to say we had good times together, challenging each other, making the other better. Not only did we have talent and drive on the floor, but we had chemistry. You can’t buy or fake that in the NBA. It’s one of those things that happens on its own and is a rare thing. As rare as a good nickname.
Basketball players often want to be musicians and vice versa. And with our name, we blended the two. The official winner of the contest was a musician named Peter Elman, but I don’t know what he got for his efforts. But as a trio, we were so good together. At a time when the NBA was rugged and physical and teams were scoring in the 70s or 80s, we were an inferno. Don Nelson, our team’s head coach and head exec, should have known it, but somehow he and the organization lost sight of all that. In return for Mitch, we got Billy Owens, a versatile, 6-foot-9 rookie from Syracuse University who Sacramento had taken with the third overall pick in the 1991 draft.
Billy was supposed to give us a versatile presence. He brought different dimensions to the game that Nellie liked. Someone who could grab a rebound and take it up court, like a Scottie Pippen. While we already had Tyrone Hill, he was more of an inside player like Stacey King. But when Mitch left, I lost more than just a teammate. I lost a good friend. Seeing him go left a void. When he was dealt, Chris and I were in the same room together with Nellie. He alerted us to the deal and said it was “going to be good for us.” But Chris and I were speechless. Today, I can only wonder what if Mitch had stayed. I know Nellie regrets it, too. He recently said that he’d “never make that trade again.” While we had a good season during Mitch’s first year away, the team soon tumbled, and then crumbled. Nothing was the same.
109 Mitch said he got a call from Nellie twenty minutes before we were set to get on a bus on our way to the first game of the season. He said he walked into Nellie’s hotel room and said, “I know you’re trading me but as long as it’s not to the Sacramento Kings, it will be okay.” Nellie just hung his head. Mitch just walked out, knowing his fate. Nellie called me and Mully into the room to let us know. All we could muster in a response was, “What? Why?” He said we had to get bigger and better. We looked at him, like, “Okay.” But we knew it was one of the worst ideas in NBA history. Mitch’s departure was the beginning of the end. Mully later said Run-TMC was the most fun he’d ever had hooping.
The media is still talking about us to this day, and Stephen Curry wore one of our hats during his championship parade! But the night of the trade, as crazy as it sounds, we had a game to play. Officially, the deal was made on November 1, 1991, and it was Mitch, Les Jepsen, and a 1995 second-round pick for Owens. That night, we had to play the Denver Nuggets on the road, in our first game of the season. Though we were still reeling from the news, we won the game, 108–105. I led us with 25 points and four other guys, including Mully, scored in double digits. What’s even more wild is that the next night, we had another game, a back-to-back. This time it was at home against, guess who? The Sacramento Kings. How’s that for fate?
A few hours before tipoff, Mitch came into the arena and walked into our locker room. We were all happy to see him. But after we said our hellos, we realized Mitch had simply walked into the wrong room by mistake. “Oh, damn, that’s right,” he said, shaking off his confusion. He walked out with his head down. We were all still disgusted with the deal, especially him. 110That night, he walked out of the locker room and out of the arena entirely. He just left the building, like Elvis. He told the Kings that he needed a couple more days to process the deal. I think it took him a week to finally report to Sacramento. That night against the Kings, and without Mitch in their lineup, we won by 62 points.
It was a good thing Mitch wasn’t there to experience that ass kicking. He would have been so mad. But I know that once he reported, he didn’t mope, didn’t cry about the situation. He was a consummate professional. He played his ass off for Sacramento and, truth be told, put the team on the map for the first time in a real way. Michael Jordan even called him “one of the best players in the game.”
Mitch went on to be a six-time All-Star for the Kings. He gave them an identity that stuck. It was a great trade for them, but not so much for us. Nothing bad on Billy Owens, but the trade killed our chemistry. While Owens fit in well, averaging 14.3 points and eight rebounds and finishing third in Rookie of the Year voting that year behind Larry Johnson and Dikembe Mutombo, it just wasn’t the same. Billy wasn’t a great shooter and, as time went on, he and Nellie butted heads. Coach wanted to help him with his game, suggesting he shoot his free throws underhand or one-handed, but Billy didn’t want to listen. Some even questioned his work ethic.
Though he had skills, Billy didn’t want to do what it took to improve. The whole thing was just too bad. Thankfully for us, Šarūnas made a big leap that season. He went from averaging 10.9 points to 18.9 and finished second in the Sixth Man of the Year Award voting. Šarūnas was a tough-minded guy and a legend in Europe. He knew how to play and at times even 111took over games. Today, everyone says Manu Ginóbili brought the wily Eurostep to the NBA. But no, sorry, it was Šarūnas a decade before. He also had a lightning-quick behind-the-back move that helped him get to the basket with ease.
During the season, Chris and I averaged 49 points per game combined and the Warriors led the NBA in scoring again. That, despite once shooting 0–17 in a game against the Timberwolves on December 27—some nights you can’t buy a bucket. Let me just tell this story real quick: A few nights before this game, I was giving Mitch Richmond some shit. He’d just gone 0–13 in a game with Sacramento, and two nights later I set the record and went 0–17. Minnesota had these canary yellow locker rooms. They were supposed to relax you or something. Maybe make you lackadaisical for the game. I always got my pregame shots up in the morning and, before the game, I’d look at film or just relax.
