Killer Crossover, page 16
With the Heat, it wasn’t all regimen and seriousness. In the locker room we could fool around, joke and bust each other’s chops. Pat knew people had to cut loose once in a while. He also knew that, when we walked out onto the floor—whether it was practice or a game—once you went through those doors, all the bullshit had to stop. Your shoes had to be laced up, your uniform on straight. It was time for structure—and that’s the way I liked it. That’s what made for wins. It was time to work. And that was how Heat Culture was born. When it was time, you had to wipe the smiles off your lips and put on the serious face. You had to be ready to battle each and every night.
Still, though, we could have fun off the court. I remember times when we were all hanging out at Zo’s house on the water 157in Miami, kicking it on his jet skis. On the court, he was intense. Zo was crazy about winning. Nothing mattered to him besides us going out to get the victory. In fact, a lot of people, from media to players, bristled at his personality. But I knew he was like that because he was mostly fed up with everyone. When you’re a star like Zo, you’re always asked for something. From the day you enter high school, people want something from you, and he was sick of it. That’s why it was fun to kick it at his place on the water with the jet skis and no media in sight.
But people knew I had skills when it came to communication. So much so that Alonzo’s parents even came up to me to ask me to help their son. Pat Riley and Heat owner Micky Arison did, too. They knew the world saw Zo as closed off. Gruff. But I knew he just hated to be around people because all they wanted was autographs or pictures or a quote for their newspaper article. So I began to work with Zo here and there, giving him little tips on how to work with the media and fans. To talk, to smile a bit—even if you didn’t want to. Over time, he responded well to it and he’s more personable now, thank goodness.
But here’s a story that illustrates just how intense Zo could be. One night in Cleveland during my second year with the Heat, Zo, Isaac Austin, and I were set to go out on the town. We got on the elevator to go down to the lobby when we saw Pat Riley. He was just getting off the elevator to go to his room for the night. Once the elevator doors closed, Zo said, “Man, I’m not going out tonight, I changed my mind.” Then I responded, “What? Why not?” Zo said, “Man, Pat saw us and now he’s going to practice us extra hard in the morning.” I shot back, “When does Pat not practice us extra hard?” (Truly, we were hardly ever tired in a game because of his two-and-a-half-hour workouts.)
158 Zo nodded, “You’re right. But, Tim, he saw us. So, I’m not going to go.” Well, me and Isaac called him every name in the book, from chump to worse. Still, Zo stayed in. So Isaac and I had a great time hanging out. The next morning, Pat ran us hard in practice and there were even extra shooting drills. It was just his voice and the whistle. At one point we were running the three-man weave when Ed Pinckney went down. He’d torn his meniscus, but no one knew that yet. Zo, still angry that Pat caught him the night before, said to Ed, “Man, get your ass up!” He wouldn’t stop cussing Ed out, even though Ed was writhing in pain.
I shouted, “He’s hurt!” But Zo said, “No, he’s not!” When Pat blew the whistle, we went to another drill and this time Pat was putting money on it. We broke off into teams of two and had to shoot jump shots from the corner and then the elbow, back to the corner and back to the elbow, over and over. First for 30 seconds, then a minute, increasing all the way up to three and a half minutes. Well, Isaac and I made the most shots out of any duo and won the drill, and Pat gave us $2,000 a piece for our success. After practice, Zo looked at me and Isaac and said, “Man, aren’t you guys tired?”
We just told him that we were tired now, after it was all done. But we got through it and were still able to enjoy the night out. And now we could go back and sleep. I told Zo, “Man, you were scared for nothing! And now you have to apologize to Ed! And I want to see you say you’re sorry to him!” I was dying laughing, and Zo could only shake his head. But some guys are like that— almost too intense. Guys like Zo, Kevin Garnett, and others just can’t get out of their own heads. It’s what makes them great players. But sometimes you need a guy like me to cut the tension a bit with a hearty joke.
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Playing for Pat Riley was a gift. We butted heads here and there like any great point guard and coach might. But like most people to come through the Heat organization, I would have run through a wall for Pat. He had the best motivational speeches. They were on point every single time. One time, Pat came into the locker room with a big bucket of ice water and put it on a table. Then he put his entire head into the bucket of freezing water and held it in there for 30 or 40 seconds. When he finally took his head out, he said, “You have to WANT to win! There are two things in life: there’s winning and there’s misery!”
Magic Johnson told me he did the same thing with the Lakers back in the day, and I heard from other Heat players that he did that to them in future years. But that was Pat. Dedicated. He’d do anything to win and anything for his team. But he also knew how to have fun. Sometimes on our plane rides, Ike Austin would bring out his boombox and we’d do soul train dances. Pat only had but one dance, but he’d bust it out and come down the line after a big win with his fists in front of his chest like he was riding a horse. Another time, he was giving a big speech in the locker room and Zo let out a giant fart that lasted about 10 seconds. You could hear Zo’s stomach gurgling and then he lifted up his leg and just let it rip. Pat stopped talking and turned around and you could see his face that he was smiling, but he never said anything. Now if one of the bench players had done that, they might still be running sprints, but because it was Zo, Riley let it slide. But the biggest lesson Pat taught us was that winning was most important. “If you want the fans to come 160out, you got to win,” he said. “There’s nothing I can do, nothing Micky Arison can do. It’s on you. If you want to fans to come, then you got to win.”
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Heading into the playoffs as the second seed, we knew we could make a big statement. During the regular season, teams approach games by running their stuff. Stick to the program, no matter who you’re playing. Do what you do, mind your principles. Don’t deviate. But when it comes to the playoffs, it’s about adjustments. Each team knows all the plays of their opponent. You know the other players’ tendencies and you try to cut them off. You try to stop their plan-A and plan-B and make them do things they don’t necessarily want to do. You put schemes on top of schemes in order to outdo and outthink who you’re matched up against. You get specific.
In the first round of the 1997 playoffs, we faced off against the Orlando Magic, our Florida rivals. For them, the series marked the first in several years without their all-world center, Shaquille O’Neal, who had departed the previous summer for the Los Angeles Lakers. And while that hurt Orlando, they still had a great team with Horace Grant, my old Chicago foe Nick Anderson, sharpshooter Dennis Scott, Brian Shaw, Kenny Smith, and, of course, Penny Hardaway. Still, they were the No. 7 seed. We thought we would take them out quickly … but we were mistaken.
We took care of business at home, beating Orlando big in the first game, 99–64. That gave us huge confidence and, if it was the Little Leagues, there might have been some sort of mercy rule. I scored 13 and dished out 11 assists, though Voshon Lenard was 161the standout, dropping 24 points on 6–9 from three. Both Zo and P. J. had double-digit rebounds. We beat them down again in Game Two, 104–87. Penny had 26 points, but I got 20 with 11 more assists. Zo and P. J. each scored 17, and we were quickly up 2–0 in a best-of-five series, having outscored them by a total of 52 points. But when we went up to Orlando for the next two games, we got a rude awakening.
In truth, we should have swept the Magic. But we were complacent. Two blowouts can do that to you. We made it hard on ourselves. In the games on his home floor, Penny went completely off. He hit shots from all over the court. We were looking at each other on the bench like, “How the hell did he do that?” He was doing his best Tim Hardaway impression, taking over the game, putting his head down, and not letting his squad lose. It was his time to prove he was the man—especially without Shaq. Though we were up 20 with just six minutes to go, the Magic won, 88–75, and Penny had damn near half his team’s points, scoring 42.
Game Four was the same thing. They won a closer one, 99–91, but Penny got 41. Though I had 16 and eight assists, Zo had 23 with 13 rebounds, and P. J. had 20 with 13 rebounds, we still lost. Even Mashburn pitched in with 19 points. We couldn’t get past the 6-foot-7 Penny, one of the best tall point guards since Magic. But that’s why you play hard during the regular season to get home-court advantage. With the series now tied, we went back to Miami for the deciding Game Five … and took care of business. We were up by 16 going into the fourth quarter, but instead of putting them away, we let them come back. Orlando made a big run in the fourth, putting up 30 points in the quarter. But I was just a little too good.
162 With 45 seconds left, I hit a step-back jumper at the right elbow to put us up six. Then Penny answered with a three to cut our lead in half. Coming back down court, I got the ball at the top of the key, a few feet behind the three-point line. You have to know when to take shots at the right time, and this was mine. In a flash, I cocked it back and drained a three, which put us back up six. Orlando called a time out, and Dan Majerle came over and gave me a big hug. I pointed to the fans in the stands going crazy. That was the game winner for us, and we’d done it. We’d won our first playoff series as a team in Miami, taking out the Magic with a final score of 91–83.
Our next series would be one for the ages, setting off a rivalry that NBA fans still talk about to this day. In the Eastern Semifinals, we matched up against the New York Knicks. While it was Pat’s former team and one he left essentially in the dead of the night after the 1994–95 season for Miami, the idea that he hated the Knicks, which was something many commentators said at the time, was not true. He didn’t hate the Knicks. He’d just done what he had to do. He’d wanted to run a team, and New York told him he wasn’t going to run their franchise. They’d said no, so he left. Miami’s owner Micky Arison gave Pat a Godfather offer he couldn’t refuse.
Pat had wanted to run the Lakers back in the 1980s, but that didn’t work out. He wanted to run the Knicks in the 1990s, and that didn’t work out. But Arison said he could run Miami, so he jumped at the chance and has been there ever since. Pat knew he could do it and has been doing a great job. He’s won three more rings in Miami and been to the Eastern Conference Finals and NBA Finals many more times. He had confidence he could get the job done and bet on himself correctly. We knew we had 163a great team that could advance. But when our series with New York began in the 1997 playoffs, he warned us that Knicks fans were going to hate us and that it was going to be a crazy battle.
The rivalry began because of Pat, because he left New York. And throughout the season we’d gone to Phoenix where Majerle was from and won, went to Charlotte where Zo was from and won, went to Dallas where Jamal was from and one, went to Golden State and won, went to New Jersey where P. J. was from and won.
For me, now that we were in the playoffs against New York, it wasn’t anything crazier than I was used to. I grew up in mad basketball moments. Chicago is the city of challengers, a region of trash talkers. So nothing bothered me in the NBA. The No. 3 seeded Knicks wanted to beat their former coach and prove they didn’t need him. Even though they’d gone to the NBA Finals with him in 1994 and lost to the Houston Rockets, they wanted to prove the players were the reason, not him. We knew we’d have our hands full. There was so much buzz around Pat’s return to New York, but I knew it didn’t have anything to do with me. It wasn’t on us players. It had to do with Pat and how he left. Still, though, we wanted to win.
The first game was on May 7, and we had home-court advantage. But we quickly squandered it. New York came out strong after beating Charlotte in the series before us, 3–0. They were rested and we’d just gone through a five-game series. We knew one of the keys to the series would be turnovers—as the Knicks had led the league—so by playing smart basketball we would have the advantage.
While we were pretty much even with them for the first half, things would change quickly. At one point we were up by eight 164in the third, but that’s when Houston turned it on. Zo was forced to the bench with four fouls, and the Knicks went on a 13–0 run. Despite my 21 points and six assists, we missed 13 free throws as a team, which really hurt. Allan Houston was the high scorer with 27 and Ewing had a big dunk on Zo to put the Knicks up for good.
Not ones to be pushed around, we shook off that loss for Game Two, edging the Knicks by four, 88–84. I knew I had to step up my offensive game, and so got 34 points.
With the series tied, we boarded a flight to New York for Game Three. When you lose a game and have to get on the plane, most of the time you end up talking the whole way back about what you could have done differently. Or you’re watching film to prepare for the next game. Sometimes you see if a different play needs to be run in a certain situation, or if you and your teammate should play off your defenders differently. Or maybe you need to defend them differently—pushing Patrick Ewing right instead of left. If you won the game, you aren’t partying on the plane, but you’re happy. You’re calling out what worked and building confidence for the next game. It’s intense either way.
We started Game Three strong and were up by eight at halftime, but again faltered in the second half. Madison Square Garden is crazy in the playoffs. You can hear fans shouting at you, calling you names, trying to get you out of your game. Sometimes I’d shoot a glance back at them, but I never talked trash. At the same time, fans in every arena, including MSG, knew not to lean into me too hard because if you get me started, I might get hot and score 18 on you real quick.
That game, though I had 17 points, eight assists, and four steals, I also had six turnovers—something that can’t happen in 165the playoffs. Even though they battled back, the game was still tied with three minutes to go in regulation. Then, after forcing a huge turnover, we had the ball at midcourt with just 13.4 seconds on the clock. With Jamal inbounding to me, I had Chris Childs in my face, trying to prevent me from hitting a game-tying trey. I lined up with a minute left, we were down by three and I had the ball in my hands. I passed it off to a teammate and was able to use a screen to get the ball back with six seconds left. I’d shook Childs, but now had the 7-foot Ewing in my face with the clock ticking away. I hoped that I’d be able to juke him to get the shot off, but his big arms swatted the ball away and he grabbed the rebound. The MSG crowd went nuts as Ewing egged them on, and I knew we’d let another opportunity slip through our fingers. Along with that block, Ewing had 25 points with 11 rebounds. We lost, 77–73, and were now down in the series with still another to go at the Garden.
To say it was a tough loss for us is an understatement, but since the series had gone back and forth, we had hope that we could win Game Four in New York to tie the series. You never knew how Pat was going to address the team after a loss. Sometimes he could be loud, other times he was calm, cool, and collected. But he always had these little notes on blue pieces of paper. Whenever we practiced, he took out his notes and read us his detailed thoughts on what he saw.
Yet, there was nothing he could say to help us now, because they took it to us again.
It wasn’t even really close. The Knicks outscored us by 14 in the second quarter and we couldn’t get much closer, losing 89–76. Now, all of a sudden, we were down 3–1 heading back to Miami. Pat wasn’t happy at all. He tried to rally us and build up 166our edge. He asked if we wanted our season to be over, if we were ready to lose. If Alonzo was going to let his fellow Georgetown alum Patrick Ewing walk all over us. We knew we were in for a war, but none of us could have known what would happen next.
“You guys are going to have to scrap!” Riley warned us ahead of Game Five. “You’re going to have to fight!” P. J. Brown, a guy who in the offseason read to children at libraries and provided meals for the homeless, was taking everything in. Smoldering. He even said after Pat walked out of the locker room, “Man, if somebody does something to me, I’m going to go off.” This was a bit new for someone who’d received the NBA’s Citizenship Award that season. Ahead of Game Five, P. J. had even been praying in the team chapel with Knicks guard Charlie Ward, the two of them devout Catholics. That would prove ironic as the game unfolded.
The Knicks were a physical team with a lineup that included Houston, Ewing, Charles Oakley, Larry Johnson, Chris Childs, John Starks, Buck Williams, and Ward. If they beat us in Game Five, they would go on to play their rivals, the Chicago Bulls, in the Conference Finals. But we had something to say about it. We weren’t going down that easy. We knew our defense would save us. Back on home court, we knew we had to step up. The game was back and forth for the majority of the first half, with us edging them at halftime, 35–34. We knew we couldn’t allow another third-quarter flop, so we found the hot hand—Voshon Lenard— and let him ball out, getting 12 points in the third. We went up seven heading into the fourth, and the Knicks just couldn’t score.
With five minutes left in the game and us up by four, we started a fast break after Oakley missed a jumper, but Jamal’s pass to me was tipped by Starks and I dove on the ground for 167the ball. Still on the floor, I was able to grab the ball and get it to Lenard for a wide-open three, which he hit and we were up 79–72. New York called a time out and we knew we were in the driver’s seat ready to lock this one down.
We were playing smart and our lead kept growing, where we were up by 10 with two minutes left. However, the Knicks seemed more interested in knocking us around then actually trying to win. Their fouls got harder and more intentional. So after a great offensive rebound and score by P. J. to put us up by 12, I was guarding Charlie Ward when Oak dropped me hard with a screen the refs called as an offensive foul. Being the good teammate he is, Zo came over to help me up while Oak was idling by me, and started pushing and talking shit to Zo. He knew what they were trying to do and just smiled it off, not playing their games. That’s when P. J. and Childs started chirping back and forth. Meanwhile, Oak and Zo were still going at it, and even after he laid me out, I tried to get between them to calm things down, though it didn’t help and Oak got tossed. I remember talking to him as he was walking off the court, and he said, “Man, what is your boy P. J. doing?” And I remember saying right back to him, “Man, what’s Childs doing?”
