Jayson Williams Gets the Rebound

by Brad Shulkin

A true pioneer in women’s basketball, no one has had more of an impact on the women’s game than Sheryl Swoopes. Her accolades are undeniable. A dominating force throughout her entire career, Swoopes would go on to become the first woman signed to the WNBA, a three-time WNBA MVP, an Olympic gold medalist, and an NCAA and WNBA Champion.

 “When I look back on my playing career and I look at where I am today, I just remember saying, ‘Is this really happening? Is this real? Is this true?’ And as much as I was excited about it, there was a part of me that said, ‘This is going to be a challenge because now there is a lot of pressure.’”

These accomplishments for Swoopes, which helped elevate her status among the league’s best, didn’t come without incredible pressure.

“I take a lot of pride in who I am and what the WNBA represents. To be a part of the league back in 1997 and to be the first player to sign was a lot of pressure for me. But it was pressure that I welcomed because I looked at it as an opportunity to go out and really market the league and try to show people that women can really play this game.”

Since the age of seven, Swoopes’ love of basketball was overly apparent. A rising recruit out of Brownfield High School, Swoopes initially decided to attend in-state behemoth, The University of Texas. But apprehension quickly set in and Swoopes made the decision to leave the school and enroll at South Plains Community College to be closer to home. She went on to become a two-time All-American and All-Region selection at South Plains. After two successful seasons, Swoopes transferred to Texas Tech, where she went on to win an NCAA Championship in 1993. She is one of only three Lady Raiders to have her jersey retired by the team. Still to this day, Swoopes holds many school and national records, including the single game and single season scoring records. A culmination of her tremendous season at Texas Tech, Swoopes went on to be named the 1993 Naismith College Player of the Year.

After college, Swoopes turned to USA Basketball in 1994 before joining the WNBA in 1997. During the WNBA’s inaugural season, Swoopes was recruited to play for the Houston Comets. Swoopes was the first woman to be signed to a WNBA contract and right out of the gate, made her impact known. During her tenure with the team, Swoopes accumulated over 2,000 points, 500 rebounds, 300 assists and more than 200 steals. Her play made her the first three-time WNBA MVP and the first three-time WNBA Defensive Player of the Year. 

“When I first started playing basketball at the age of seven, I set goals for myself and said, ‘Yes, I want to play in the Olympics. Yes, I want to meet Michael Jordan.’ And all of those things happened. And when I started playing in the WNBA, honestly I never went into the league saying I want to be MVP this many years. I want to win four championships. All I said was I wanted to be successful and, at the time, I didn’t really know what that looked like or what that meant.”

Since Swoopes joined the WNBA back in 1997, the league’s growth has been undeniable. This past season, the WNBA saw a 36-percent increase in viewership in adults age 18-49, a 29-percent jump in men in that age group and a 50 percent increase in women. But more than the growth of the viewership has been the growth of the women who play the game. What has excited Swoopes the most is seeing the current generation of players use this growing platform to influence the greater good.

“It’s so incredible to see how far the league has come. I know there is still a lot of work to do, but to see the talent level and how much these women are embracing the challenge of continuing to compete and putting the women’s game on the map. It says a lot about who they are and what they represent. I love the fact that you have younger players today that are in the league that are stepping up, not just on the court, but they are using their voices for a lot of very positive things.”

As she sits here today and reflects on what has been a truly historic career, Swoopes is left with no regrets. She put everything she had into the game she loved and is left with nothing but pride and a sense of relief when discussing her accomplishments.

“I can honestly sit here today and say I accomplished everything I ever thought I could accomplish and then some. I never in my wildest dreams imagined that I would have so much success on the court with basketball and that basketball would allow me to go to so many different places and meet so many incredible people and really change my life. That’s exactly what the game did for me.”

by John Fawaz

“What next?”

It’s the question asked by every professional athlete. At some point, everybody hangs ‘em up. Only then do they begin to consider the next chapter of their lives.

Jamal Mashburn had that all worked out well before he retired from the NBA in 2006. You can learn a lot riding the subway.

“I got a chance to see the train transition from blue collar, working class to white collar, business suits,” Mashburn says, remembering his days riding from his Harlem home to a Catholic school in Manhattan. “I had aspirations to find out what was in the briefcases and do that.

“Riding that train, I had to figure out how to carry that briefcase.”

Mission accomplished, although in this era the briefcase has been replaced by a smartphone. Mashburn, who turned 46 in November, has amassed a business empire that includes restaurants, auto dealerships, a marketing agency, real estate development, juice franchises and tech investments, just to name a few. He is living the life he envisioned as a youngster, well before his NBA dreams.

“I looked at basketball as a way to meet a lot of people and get an education so I can carry that briefcase,” Mashburn says. “Those train rides gave me a lot of inspiration.”

Basketball and business were “parallel dreams” and every step of his journey had to further both ambitions. Never stop learning on the court, in the classroom and, most of all, in everyday life. Never stop aspiring.

“If you’re the best player on your team, you need to find a new team,” Mashburn says. “I’m a true believer in that you grow from others’ experiences as well. Always in basketball and always in business, I’ve transitioned well because I am a constant learner.”

The subway introduced Mashburn to a different environment, but back home in Harlem he was like any other kid, playing sports with his friends. This being New York, playground basketball ruled. But Mashburn was a pudgy youngster and not the most skilled player. The only way to change that was to practice. For that he needed a ball, and the neighborhood had just one. Seriously.

“I never owned a basketball. When I was growing up in the projects in Harlem, it was more like a community basketball,” Mashburn says. “He who left last had to secure the basketball. Lights out at ten, I would always be the kid out there playing by myself.

“That’s how I honed my skills, how to bargain. I don’t think I ever gave up the basketball. I was the guy who was out there first and the one who stayed latest. I had to figure out a mechanism to keep that tool.”

By his teen years, Mashburn showed promise, though his weight remained an issue. Big for his age, he regularly played against older kids. He realized that this sport was also a business (“I had value because I could play the game”) and he asked a lot of questions. He wanted to absorb as much information as possible. Nothing has changed.

His high school years were centered on basketball. Even then, with AAU and summer camps, there wasn’t much of an offseason. But his education continued, both in a traditional and nontraditional sense. Though his parents separated when he was 11, Mashburn’s father lived nearby and they saw each other almost every day, while his mother, Helen, exposed him to a different side of New York with trips to museums, restaurants and other cultural activities. As he said, she gave him what he needed, not necessarily what he wanted.

Maybe the biggest lessons came when she took him to collect rents as part of her bookkeeping job. They discussed her work (“my mother taught me debits and credits”) and his future. She wanted Jamal to be able to tell her anything, even things she didn’t want to hear. Don’t count on a career in the NBA, she cautioned. Get your college degree. Be ready to do something else. She needn’t have worried.

“My mother always said, ‘Have something to fall back on,” Mashburn says. “I pushed back. ‘I don’t want to fall back on something. I want to fall forward.’”

More importantly, he had no illusions about the dreams of sports glory. His father, Bobby, had been a boxer. His decade in the ring included a fight at Madison Square Garden and bouts against Larry Holmes and Ken Norton, two future heavyweight champions.

“I saw my father, and the other side of being a professional athlete and not having any fame or riches,” Mashburn says. “He never got a chance to live out his dream. I wanted to take a different direction.”

By his senior season of high school, Mashburn had dropped the pounds and became one of the city’s top players, a small forward who could knock down outside shots. College coaches, assuming that he would be leaving early for the NBA, mostly talked basketball during their recruiting pitches. Mashburn’s priorities were different. He wanted a college that was the right fit. Yes, he might leave early if it made economic sense, but he wanted a school that would help him achieve his ultimate goals. As he says, it was all part of “investing internally by making the right decisions and developing a business plan” for life, a process he began at age 13.

“I had to figure out what college I wanted to go to,” Mashburn says. “Did it match up with what I wanted to accomplish?

“A lot of coaches who were recruiting me didn’t take me seriously.”

One coach who did take Mashburn seriously was Rick Pitino, who coached at Providence before taking over the Knicks in 1987. The two had developed a rapport during summer hoops camps in New York. Before Mashburn’s senior year of high school, Pitino left the Knicks to take over at Kentucky, which was quite a distance — literally and figuratively — from Harlem. The Wildcats were on probation, so if Mashburn followed Pitino, he wouldn’t be able to play in the NCAA Tournament his first year. A program in the Atlantic Coast Conference or Big East seemed the most likely landing spot. But coach and player clicked, and Mashburn signed with Kentucky.

“He always allowed me to use my IQ, either on the court or off it,” says Mashburn. “He had an open-door policy that I used, more than others, to go in and express concepts and ideas. And he promised he would tell me when it was time to leave [for the NBA].”

Mashburn compiled a solid freshman season (1990-91) at Kentucky and then emerged as one of the top players in the nation in his sophomore year. He led the Wildcats to the Final Four, and nearly to the 1992 NCAA Championship Game by scoring 28 points in an NCAA Semifinal Game. But, in one of the greatest college games ever, Duke dashed Kentucky’s hopes when Christian Laettner hit a game winner at the buzzer in overtime.

After that loss, Mashburn was invited to California as part of a group of college all-stars assembled to play against the original Dream Team. When he returned from the scrimmages, Pitino called him into his office and told him it was time.

“He said, ‘This is going to be your last year here,’” Mashburn recalls.

As a junior, Mashburn was the Southeastern Conference Player of the Year, and he led the Wildcats to the NCAA Final Four before another overtime loss ended their title hopes. Mashburn, who had already announced his intention to turn pro, returned to the coach’s office at season’s end.

“Remember how you want to carry the briefcase?” Pitino asked. “You’re going to sit down and hire an agent and hire a business manager.”

So began the interview process. First, Mashburn chose an agent after speaking with several candidates. Then it was time to select a business manager, but that proved more difficult. They offered him investment ideas and portfolio management. In other words, a life of leisure after his playing days ended.

“What happens with athletes sometimes is that people don’t think you have a vision beyond playing,” Mashburn says, recalling the process. “Only one [Rick Avare] listened to my vision of carrying the briefcase.

“I told him, ‘I want to step into a live, active business after I play in the NBA. I need you to teach me everything in finance and accounting that you know.’ Eventually he morphed into my business partner.”

Mashburn entered the 1993 NBA Draft as one of the top prospects. In those days, players who stood 6-8 and could shoot threes were rare. Dallas selected him fourth overall, after Chris Webber, Shawn Bradley and Penny Hardaway.

Mashburn averaged 19.2 points per game in 1993-94 to lead all first-year players and he finished third (behind Webber and Hardaway) in the balloting for the NBA Rookie of the Year Award. The next season, Jason Kidd joined the Mavericks, combining with Mashburn and Jim Jackson to form the “Three Js.” Dallas, which had won just 24 games combined in the previous two seasons, improved to 36-46 in 1994-95. Mashburn averaged 24.1 points per game to rank fifth in the NBA. The Mavericks future looked bright.

At the same time, Mashburn and Avare began planning for life “once the ball stopped bouncing,” as Mashburn puts it. He connected with Chris Sullivan, one of the founders of Outback Steakhouse, and used some of his shoe contract money to purchase a franchise. He would go on to acquire 38 Outback Steakhouses before selling his interest in 2018.

Mashburn describes that initial investment as the catalyst for the ventures that followed. During the next 20 years, he bought and sold fast food franchises and a printing plant, started and sold a venture capital firm, and invested in real estate and tech companies. Mashburn currently owns 90 Papa John’s franchises, three locations of a fitness company and five auto dealerships (he says he has learned the most from those businesses). He joined Jonathan Sackett to open the Mashburn Sackett advertising agency, and he is beginning to develop hotels.

While his financial endeavors flourished, he experienced ups and downs on the court. A knee injury limited Mashburn to 18 games in 1995-96 while the Three Js clashed. By 1997, all three were out of Dallas, with Mashburn going to Miami in a midseason trade.

Mashburn would play three and a half seasons (1997-2000) with the Heat and four with the Hornets (2000-02 in Charlotte and 2002-04 in New Orleans). He averaged 21.6 points per game in 2002-03 to earn All-NBA Third Team honors. But his knee, worn down by repetitive injuries, limited him to 19 games in 2003-04 and finally forced his retirement in 2006.

“It eventually stops. What do you do now?” says Mashburn, who averaged 19.1 points per game in 11 NBA seasons. “What did you learn from the experience that you can use in the new life? What don’t you need that you can get rid of?”

Mashburn applied his basketball lessons to his new life. Preparation, preparation, preparation. Don’t let the ball dribble you, you dribble the ball. As you become better as a basketball player, you become better at moving the ball.

“I’m very selective on things that I do, and I am very methodical in my approach. Very parallel in how I played,” Mashburn says. “To me, that was the secret sauce. Prepare and the game takes care of itself. Got to have good people and teammates around you. I prefer myself to be a teammate, to let other people flourish.

“I like to be around people who have lived their dream and can also express it and teach it.”

Though Mashburn made a bid for the New Orleans Hornets (now Pelicans) in 2012, owning an NBA franchise is likely not in his future. The value of franchises has soared to the point that it doesn’t make business sense (“the return is all in appreciation”). But he remains connected to the NBA and the game. Players seek him out, and he is happy to help.

“I do get approached quite a bit for information,” Mashburn says. “They ask how I did what I did and how do I continue to do it. It’s a lot of fun to share my stories.”

“When I was coming into the NBA, the League and Players Association would bring in guys who made mistakes. They would preach about ‘Don’t do this.’ I always wanted to hear the story about the guys who made the successful transition.”

For the veteran players who are pondering retirement, Mashburn reminds them that they have the tools. They just need to be repurposed.

“There’s a lot of work to be done, like the work they did to get to the NBA, but it’s more of a lifestyle change,” he says.

Meanwhile, his son, Jamal Jr., is a junior in high school and one of the top guards in the nation. Like his dad, he is eyeing a parallel track — he wants to play in the NBA and be an attorney. Soon he will have to pick a college. Those recruiters better do their homework. The Mashburns have a lot of questions.

Next up, we welcome 1982 NCAA Champion & newly elected Board Member of the National Basketball Retired Players Association Sam Perkins to the All-Access Legends Podcast for an exclusive interview in Legends Magazine. In the interview, “Sleepy Sam” as he frequently goes by, touches on his days at North Carolina, playing alongside Jordan & Worthy, his greatest achievements and his greatest story to date, how he got his nickname. All that and more on the #AALegendsPodcast.

Q: What was it like to play on the 1982 National Championship team at North Carolina and play alongside some of the greats like [Michael] Jordan and [James] Worthy?

A: “I speak about this all the time because everybody asks me about that team, everybody seems to think that, that was the greatest college team of mankind. But just being there, playing for Dean Smith and the guys you mentioned, it was an experience. We didn’t know it was an experience until after we left there, but while we were there, we had a good time. We played together with the teams that came after us. I think the best part about playing at Carolina and playing at that time was teams just kept coming after us. We had a bullseye on our back and we took that as a challenge all the time. Practices were always competitive. It was just four years of growing up and Dean Smith was one of those guys to keep us in check.”

Q: What was the greatest lesson that you learned in college?

A: “I think it’s all the lessons that I learned from Coach Smith. Coach Smith was one of the most down to earth coaches that was really concerned about his players. He recruited guys from different backgrounds and different places to mesh. And one of the things I took from that was just getting to know people that I’ve never experienced before. As it went on, I talked to a lot of guys about religion, their beliefs, why they believed in this and that. I think one of the things that coach taught me was to do something different every day or try to get to know somebody that you would never think about knowing. He had us doing reading, things of that nature, and that’s how I got more knowledgeable about people. And that’s one of the things I always liked about Dean Smith because he was so versatile in his approaches that he made you think about things. And that kind of a quality is what I take with me trying to get to know people, and always assessing things, and putting yourself in other people’s shoes and things of that nature.”

Q: So you leave North Carolina aFter four years and went on to have a 17-year career in the NBA. Going back to when you made the transition from the college ranks to the NBA, what was the greatest learning curve or challenge?

A: “Well the biggest challenge was the practices because you thought every coach was like Dean Smith. You got a wakeup call as soon as that first day came to practice. I think basically from what I tried to do in 17 years is be consistent. That was a challenge for me, to be consistent throughout my games. To try to do something that would be best for the team. And as I look back, I wish I was more aggressive in the ways of playing but you know we had guys on the team who could score, who was this and so on and so on and you were just a role player. But at the same time, I was just trying to be consistent and not worry about anything else. And that’s what I tried to do from Dallas to LA, and all the way to Indiana.”

Q: Where was your favorite place to play and why?

A: “It’s a tossup. I would have to say, because I got acclimated in Seattle, that I would say Seattle, because I was in the community doing a lot more. I was in Los Angeles and I like that team too, but I wasn’t there long enough to get acclimated. As soon as I got traded, I wanted to do a lot more things there community service wise. But I think Seattle was the one because I was there the longest. We had a group of guys that were different and I enjoyed playing with. We had great chemistry.”

Q: How did you get your nickname?

A: “So I’ll try and make it short. I was with the Lakers, and Byron Scott was always a clown. There’s always a clown on the team, so let’s say Gary Payton on Seattle, it was Mark Jackson on the Indiana Pacers, or Dale Davis. On the Lakers it was Byron Scott. He was naming everybody because Magic had a name, it was of course Magic, James had Clever, Vlade wanted to be The Magician because he wanted to pass like Magic. So here comes me, and I’m always, not lethargic, but I’m always taking my time to get places from point A to point B. Whether Point A or B is around the corner or down the street I’m the same speed. So I was late for practice, I got there later than I wanted to at the Forum. And you’re supposed to be in the circle at 9:45. If you’re not in the circle at 9:45, you get fined. So they saw me running by around 9:38 to the locker rooms, I had to pass the court to get to the locker room. I got dressed and they were betting that I was going to be late and fined. So I got dressed and it was about from 9:38 to 9:43-9:44 and I didn’t run, I was walking to the circle. I said I’m going to get there regardless, but when 9:45 came I was in that circle so Byron Scott was like, “Here comes Sam, look at him, he’s all smooth,” and next thing you know that took off like, “He’s walking smooth.” And they’re all laughing at me because here I am at 9:44, any rookie, anybody else would be breaking their neck to get to that circle, and I was just walking so casual like I had nothing to worry about. That’s how the name started, and then when I got to play for Seattle, Kevin Calabro put “Big” in front of it because I was shooting 3’s, and that’s how the name came. That’s how it all started.”

by Sam Smith

Just because things are the way they are doesn’t mean they were destined to be so.

Just because NBA players have the richest guaranteed contracts in American team sports, unlike NFL players, or have so much flexibility in their economic relationships, unlike NHL players, doesn’t also mean it was inevitable. It occurred mostly because a valiant group of determined men, the modern revolutionists of basketball as I refer to them in my new book, Hard Labor, demanded economic equality and social liberty with racial camaraderie during the most turbulent times in American society.

They were the 14 NBA players led by NBA legend Oscar Robertson, along with individual pioneers like Spencer Haywood, Gail Goodrich and Rick Barry and labor titans like Larry Fleisher, who challenged the guardians of the game, the owners of NBA teams and the league itself. These gutsy NBA guys went to court and Congress despite threats to their livelihoods. They did so for their successors knowing none of them would personally benefit from the risks they took to their own careers.

And there were consequences. Robertson lost his job as a national TV commentator for NBA games. Chet Walker felt forced into retirement after averaging 19.2 points his final season. Joe Caldwell was kicked out of basketball under the guise that he had led astray, of all people, Marvin Barnes. Not all suffered or were punished, for sure. But how was it that Oscar Robertson, one of the best minds ever to play the game, never got a coaching, advising or management chance with any team? Coincidence, probably.

Consider those times in the 1960s: NBA players had roommates and washed their own uniforms, local medical people, often veterinarians, were hired to do the pregame taping. There were 20 or more preseason games, two teams traveling together on buses barnstorming through states, playing every night for weeks. And then starting the 80-game season. Airplane travel was, of course, coach, and players would pile into a taxi to get to the game from the hotel. No team bus like today. The team would reimburse the players. Tommy Heinsohn recalls asking for, say, $3.50 and Auerbach saying it cost him $3.25 from the same hotel, so that was all Heinsohn was getting in reimbursement. Philadelphia owner Eddie Gottlieb used to hire a bus to take players to East Coast games, like in New York. He’d sell tickets to fans for the unused seats.

This was also the time of the great migration of black players to the NBA cities, the stars of the game that raised the sport with Elgin Baylor, Bill Russell, Wilt Chamberlain and Oscar Robertson. In effect, the playing field was raised as the NBA became the vertical game the public grew to love.

The 1960s reverberated with the Vietnam War and Civil Rights overshadowing most everything else. Professional athletes contending for their “rights” was hardly a subject of much sympathy. So serious sports magazines published stories of whether the game was being ruined by too many blacks. Anonymous quotes proliferated similar to when Jackie Robinson started with the Brooklyn Dodgers. These brave NBA players also would not back down.

Elgin Baylor once sat out a regular season game when he could not be served at a restaurant with teammates. And this wasn’t the 1940s. This was into the 1960s. Lenny Wilkens was starting for the St. Louis Hawks. His picture was featured with the other starters in the window of a popular restaurant across from the arena. Wilkens was not allowed to eat there with white people. The league would arrange preseason for team hotels to allow blacks, but Celtics players related how the hotel marked “c” in the register to denote “colored” and asked to split roommates because whites and blacks shouldn’t share a room. Also, so the white guests could know on which floors the black guests were staying. This was “sophisticated” Los Angeles. Black players often would use a white teammate as a beard just to get a taxi, the white guy standing outside to flag down the cab and then the black guys rushing out to get in. Yeah, you think a taxi is stopping for us? NBA players? Big deal.

There was a quota system then in which white players replaced white players and blacks replaced blacks, and that teams assigned black players to be rebounders and defenders so the team would not have to pay them as much money. After all, those “role” players scored less. It was the story of the St. Louis/Atlanta Hawks and how the appeal of Pete Maravich to the white South may have short circuited a dynasty. Dunking was at one time even banned in the NBA to level the playing field for white players.

What these players did in the Oscar Robertson suit is mostly lost to the ages, recalled like Yalta, something important, but everyone is a bit fuzzy on the details. But what the Robertson suit did was, effectively, create the modern NBA, allowing for the combination of the rival leagues with the ABA. Effectively marrying the conservative NBA with the liberal ABA, boardroom ethos merging with street ball excellence, inviting the rest of geographical America into the game with small cities from throughout the country. It was surgery that introduced a special sort of doctor, like Julius Erving. But not until NBA players themselves began an evolution to legitimate free agency and the ancillary working benefits, which translated into respect and an eventual partnership that has the NBA flourishing today like no other American sports league. Owners then, of course, screamed ruination of the sport if players could choose where they wanted to play.

Those players dragged the NBA into court and Congress, where none other than Sam Ervin of Watergate fame was astounded by the way the NBA had been doing business so inequitably. Those players led by Robertson challenged the collusion between big business and government that got the NFL a specious antitrust exemption in a back room deal with Louisiana senators in exchange for an NFL franchise, the New Orleans Saints. Long before Curt Flood was making his heroic stand at the cost of his Major League Baseball career, these NBA progressives were demanding equality in the marketplace of ideas as well as finance. Didn’t they deserve the same rights as any working American?

Like the old American Football League, the ABA came along mostly as a ploy to join the NBA. The AFL owners pulled it off with that wink deal in the U.S. Senate. The NBA owners were stanched by the Robertson group that grew from the first players’ association in sports headed by Bob Cousy and then handed off to Heinsohn and then Robertson as the NBA players’ symbol of the equality being demanded in the boardroom and playing field.

They first got the attention of the owners in a unified boycott threat of the 1964 All-Star game, the first scheduled to be nationally televised. The Lakers owner threatened to throw Baylor and Jerry West out of the league. I was able to relate those stories along with the shaky travel of the era when the NBA had its “Sully” moment of the Lakers plane with Baylor on board crash landing in a snowstorm without a scratch to anyone, along with the amazing story of the greatest sports friendship of all time, Jack Twyman and Maurice Stokes, the latter a LeBron James of his era struck down in his prime. The Celtics dynasty would not have been quite so if not for Stokes’ illness.

This was a time when Wilt and Bill Russell continued their rivalry in the summers, traveling around to parks and playgrounds, literally picking sides for games. Earl Monroe almost jumped to the ABA, but when he visited the Indiana Pacers the players all were armed with pistols because they said there was so much KKK activity. Think the game is fancy now. Robertson plaintiff Archie Clark was doing crossovers, and Don Kojis the back door lob dunks in the 1960s. Russell had a famous chase down block in the Finals in the late 1950s.

Equally forgotten or unrealized is this creedal nature of sports, so dismissed with the anti-immigrant tenor of these times. Plaintiff Tom Meschery was from China and was forced to live in a Japanese internment camp during World War II. He might have been considered a chain migration and under attack now. Bob Cousy’s mother brought him to the U.S. when she was pregnant, and he spoke French much of his youth. He might have been under siege as an anchor baby. Heinsohn came from a German family and was mercilessly harassed as a “Nazi” during World War II. The father of plaintiff Bill Bradley’s wife was a Luftwaffe pilot. She became a respected author and university professor educating so many Americans. These immigrants, coming in legally or because their worlds were under siege because that’s what America stood for, became the people we learn from and cheer for.

My book, Hard Labor, wasn’t just about a tug of war for money. It is the rich and detailed story of these pioneer revolutionaries of the game and their amazingly rich era both leveling the economic field they played on and enhancing the stage where we all came to enjoy the greatest athletic performers in the world. My inspiration for the book was the plight of so many of these players from that era, who stepped forward for their peers and the game. None benefited personally from their endeavors. They just believed in fairness and a voice. My hope is the players of today, so wealthy beyond their ancestors imaginations, realize, accept and understand just how they arrived at the place where they are. Those players did step up in the last Collective Bargaining Agreement with extended medical care for all veterans, a big time first step. But there is a greater debt to repay. As the kids yell in the playground when the ball escapes to the other side, “A little help.”

by Sam Smith

Jerry Stackhouse didn’t have to coach in the NBA’s developmental G League. After all, he was Jerry Stackhouse! You know, the guy from the University of North Carolina who was once the next Michael Jordan, a two-time All-Star and scoring champion, a guy who once dropped 57 points on Jordan’s old team and whom Michael later traded for in his own effort to build his then Washington Wizards, a guy whose NBA salaries totaled more than $80 million. Heck, Stackhouse’s fellow coaches on the staff of the Toronto Raptors even told him he didn’t need that G League gig, the end of the private planes with the surf and turf dinners and the five-star hotels to discover not only hotels and restaurants he never knew existed, but cities as well.

But ask Stackhouse about some of his favorite places and he’ll mention Portland, Maine. Who knew? Not him.

“The G League,” says Stackhouse, “took me to some places and cities I really have enjoyed and otherwise never would have seen. You’ve always got to open your mind and open your eyes.”

That’s one reason why Stackhouse became one of the top NBA coaching prospects, though less for his illustrious playing career — which, of course, has played a part — but at least as much for understanding about life after basketball and that you better be prepared. Stackhouse was the guy even as a Raptors assistant coach who spent afternoons sprinting outside. Yes, in Toronto. You know, stay a step ahead, literally and figuratively.

Stackhouse’s life after basketball happens to be basketball, but it wasn’t necessarily going to be that way. Perhaps a career in media, or business, both of which Stackhouse pursued with the same passion and desire he did as a player who scored more than 16,000 points over an 18-year NBA career. But what Jerry understood perhaps best in a career that saw him as a shooting star and primary scorer and then reserve and journeyman is that because there’s life other than basketball you have to prepare, be versatile and be a team player, the qualities that produce success.

These are traits which will carry you in the NBA and well beyond.

“A lot of times you get locked into, ‘I’m a basketball player and I am going to be a basketball player forever.’ But it doesn’t work that way,” reminds Stackhouse. “The ball stops bouncing for everybody, and as soon as we can focus on interests we have and find the same passion you have for a game, the better you are. I was able to do that.”

“It can’t just be about money,” Stackhouse adds. “You were in the one percent of competitors and talents in the world and then you’re done. You’ll be surprised how quickly the phone stops ringing. Everyone welcomes your call when you are playing. When you are not … I felt I’d done well to say I could just skate around in my driveway or play golf. But, man, what a boring life after being at the highest level of competition. You need passions to push you.”

It’s why Stackhouse’s story, though from the stands looks somewhat routine as a former player pursuing NBA coaching, is more a model for players and guidebook for their future. It’s the unusual alchemy of desire and planning that both makes for a better basketball player and more complete life story.

Not all NBA players become multimillionaires, and some who do don’t do a good job remaining one. But what they all have in common is an elite talent driven by competition and ambition. It shouldn’t be the end of the story at 35; perhaps only a beginning. After all, there’s another entire life to live.

“Jerry sets a great example for so many of us,” says Adrian Griffin, a teammate of Stackhouse’s on the 2006 Mavericks team that lost to Miami in the NBA Finals. “It’s such a difficult transition when your career is over. It took me about five years before I finally landed on my feet emotionally, mentally and psychologically, to accept my playing days were over, and it was time to make that full commitment to transition to life after basketball. When you’re young, you think it will last forever. Having basketball on your resume is not good enough in the corporate world. You have to start building your resume when you are a player, like Jerry did, start thinking about life after and what skills you need to accomplish that. They stop caring that you were a basketball player. They want to know what you can do to help their team. You have this false reality as a player that you played at the highest level. It means very little if you are not willing to add those skills on top of your accomplishments. How can you bring value to an organization? And you also need something to motivate you to get out of bed. It’s a long life after basketball.”

It’s what Stackhouse somewhat counterintuitively understood even when he was at the pinnacle of his NBA playing career.

It was about eight or nine years into his career, and the 6’6” guard with the severe gaze and uncompromising expression was on his way to the top. Stackhouse with the Detroit Pistons led the NBA in total points at a fraction under 30 points-per-game. His preternatural strength of mind and character combined with exemplary skills quickly elevated him among the elite in the game. His Pistons were on the way to a division title the next season, though Stackhouse was soon on the way to join Jordan in Washington. Jordan wanted to get somewhere, and he wanted a rugged veteran like Stackhouse to help him.

Stories of Stackhouse’s toughness are legendary around the NBA. He didn’t suffer fools or phonies, sometimes violent encounters with teammates or rivals like Christian Laettner, Kirk Snyder, Allen Iverson and even Shaq dot Stackhouse’s resume. Stackhouse even drew a suspension in the 2006 Finals — really questionable and probably aimed more at owner Mark Cuban’s referee baiting — for hitting Shaq too hard. Who really ever went after Shaq? Stack never backed down.

It was about standing your ground, making your way and relentlessly looking for an edge, and Stackhouse understood that about his basketball career as well.

He’d been a prep and collegiate star, though not quite the next Jordan.

“I was flattered, but at the same time I’m not even a guard, can barely handle the ball,” said Stackhouse about the early Jordan comparisons. “I could run fast and jump high. But I played power forward in college. I had to learn the game as pro. I became an off guard in a couple of years. There were so many good guards. I had to work for that. And then there were so many different dynamics. Iverson came in the next year and they were more into his aura, so I was traded to Detroit. I couldn’t get upset. We progressed to All-Star the same time.

“Then with MJ and with the breakup (of Jordan leaving), being seen as the guy they chose over Jordan,” Stackhouse adds with still a shake of his head. “An unbelievable dynamic and then onto Dallas, stuff going on with Shaq, being a starter and accepting the sixth man role. You have to keep redefining yourself.”

Stackhouse understood innately that such flexibility was vital in continuing a productive life; you can’t always be the star of the corporation. The trains keep moving.

Though Stackhouse left North Carolina after two years, he worked summers to get his degree. He also understood, though he treasured his time at North Carolina and his relationship with coach Dean Smith, that basketball scholarships and education often were mutually exclusive activities.

“In college, you’re more player than student,” he acknowledges.

He tried some media training programs and real life experiences, the Retired Players Association’s coaching program, even Harvard Business School classes.

“We miss a lot of things being dedicated to playing,” Stackhouse notes. “I wanted to have a more formal presentation to the business side. I felt like even with as much basketball I knew, I was missing out on 15, 16 years of business protocol. We’re still living in our own world in the NBA. It’s different than most business models, how we collectively bargain, how we go about our business. I needed to understand how Fortune 500 companies are run.”

Initially for Stackhouse, like a lot of former players, he figured it would be a media job. Hey, just talk about basketball. He could do that. He did that every day. But Stackhouse also understood there was more to the world; just like there was more to playing.

So he began asking midway through his playing career to do guest appearances on TNT broadcasts.

“It was giving me reps in front of the camera,” Stackhouse explained. “I became a regular on NBA-TV with guest appearances. I wanted to stay close to the game, and I always liked to mentor the younger guys even when I was a young guy myself. I’d see guys coming in and gravitate to them. I didn’t have a lot of that mentoring when I was in Philadelphia. It was a really young team and I missed out on that. So I wanted to make sure I shared information. That carried on to the end of my career as I got older and was on better teams. The coaches allowed me to be more an extension of them and have that type of role.”

Griffin said during that 2006 Finals Stackhouse even initiated a team curfew that wasn’t mandated by the team.

Stackhouse went on accepting a journeyman life even with potential starring skills to the Bucks, Heat, Hawks and back with Avery Johnson in Brooklyn in 2012-13. He knew he wasn’t going to be asked to run the corporation. Even the top CEOs often learn the mail room as well. With Brooklyn a devised last stop, Stackhouse figured it was his training for coaching. He’d already started his own AAU team with his son and felt he’d found his calling after the radio and TV work.

“I enjoyed going on radio and TV, but it wasn’t something I wanted to do all the time,” Stackhouse said. “You have to try things to find your passion. My real passion was basketball, being on the court, teaching, coaching. It’s just who I have been.”

The NBA is like life, things don’t always go as planned. Johnson was fired. But Stackhouse still felt he was ready. “I thought I’d go right into coaching like J-Kidd (Jason Kidd) and Fish (Derek Fisher). In hindsight, I have to say no way. It’s why the G League has been so great for me.”

Because it completes the circle not only for who Stackhouse is but the road he’d always chosen. That success in life is about learning, knowledge, sacrifice and preparation. That it was important to be flexible and supportive, to be tough, demanding and confident while also supplying something to complete the whole. It was the story of his nearly two decades in the NBA that now has him prepared to be a teacher and a mentor and still fulfill his life’s passions and desires.

“Nowhere could I go and get the chances for trial and error,” says Stackhouse. “I’m fortunate and blessed to have been a part of the (Raptors) organization. I had aspirations to be a head coach. I made no bones about that. ‘OK, you want to do it, here.’ It’s a blank canvas. I’m able to prepare my schedule, do everything a head coach does as far as managing a team, dealing with the medical staff, training staff, analytic staff, front office. I’ve gotten so much better.

“From being a star player to the last guy on the bench, I’ve been there,” says Stackhouse. “So I can tell what’s going on with these guys. I’ve seen those mannerisms 1,000 times, a spoken kinesiology. And then I can build those relationships and they understand you care and then I can challenge them and speak with candor to help them get better all for the betterment of the team. Everyone has a role to play, from the player to the popcorn guy. He also has to feel if that popcorn is not popped right, we might not win. I needed to build those management skills.”

Jerry Stackhouse, now 43, has taken a circuitous route that’s proven to be a direct line to his future. Like all the great guards, it’s not just about the shot. It’s about keeping your head up, looking ahead and making the right play before it’s too late. Stackhouse recently accepted an assistant coaching position in the NBA with the Memphis Grizzlies. He joins coach Bickerstaff’s bench, which also includes Nick Van Exel, Chad Forcier and five other assistants.