6' 7" Dennis Rodman steals a rebound from 7'+ Kareem Abdul Jabbar:
Dennis Rodman: "I have a good heart, but I'm very emotional."
Freak Dog (Probably around 1987):
3x champion B.J. Armstrong of Chicago Bulls:
Regular readers know that I really only follow two sports--professional boxing and NBA basketball. Back when I was young (by which I mean really young), my family used to go to all the Pistons games at Detroit’s Cobo Hall; and the only time I ever cried over a sporting event was when Sugar Ray Leonard knocked Tommy Hearns thru the ropes in the 13th round of their historic fight. I wasn’t really that young at the time; but I loved Tommy Hearns, and to this day he’s one of my three favorite athletes of all time.
Like most American kids, my initial heroes were local sports stars and international Olympians; but as I got older, and it became clear that I wouldn’t even be a mediocre athlete, my attention shifted towards music. As an early teenager searching for identity; I became more and more of a jazz-geek and less the sports fan. Soon I was smoking weed everyday, wearing my hair long, practicing guitar several hours a day, and speaking ‘bout the jocks (in private company of course) with condescending derision.
It wasn’t until my early 20’s (when it became abundantly clear that I wasn’t any better a musician than I was an athlete) that I re-discovered basketball. By that time I was delivering barbecued ribs in Detroit and had just met my friend Freak Dog.
I was drawn to Freak Dog right away since he was different. His own guy. Despite being a few years younger than I was, he was far thicker and taller than me. Probably six feet, which alone would have commanded my utmost respect (I’ve always wanted to be 6’ tall or taller).
But there were more substantial things as well; for example Freak Dog pretty-much lived alone and supported himself; whereas I still lived with my folks. And despite being a Republican (that’s a 1980’s Republican people--not a 2011 Republican!) he didn’t scoff at my liberal views like I’d initially done at his more conservative ones. Instead he listened to my arguments, nodded his head at times as we passed a joint between us. “Alright Lodo,...you’re wrong; but I guess I see where you’re coming from.” Freak Dog not only influenced my views on certain core issues; but demonstrated the calm confidence of a person unafraid to consider opposing viewpoints. It was a quality I co-opted from him and its made me bigger than I was.
Freak Dog had played baseball and basketball at a private Catholic high-school in Detroit. On at least one occasion he was matched-up against B.J. Armstrong, who eventually went on to play with the Chicago Bulls. Sure The Dog allowed 26 points, but it was B.J. Armstrong! The guy was a teammate of Michael Jordan and won 3 NBA rings* (*might want to fact-check that). The Dog can always say he competed against greatness.
But like I said, The Dog was his own guy. Despite being an active athlete and quasi-Republican, he was fond of Newport 100’s; smoked almost as much weed as I did; really liked hip-hop music (which wasn’t entirely embraced in those early years); and was a huge Prince fan. So we had some common interests.
And of course there was basketball.
At the time we worked together, the Bad Boy Detroit Pistons were just coming into their own. These were halcyon days in the life of Lodo. Buckets of our St. Louis-style ribs were close to $30.00, and once you added drinks and side orders the bills were often $50.00 or more. We’re not talking about Domino’s Pizza delivery--we made real tips. And once the Pistons got some help for Isiah Thomas and began winning, oh man! Every TV set in Detroit was tuned in:
"Hey--its the rib guy! Get in here I’m starving. You want a beer? Sit down, its overtime. Watch the end of the game."
"Uh,...okay. I guess for a minute."
"Ha!--that’s the spirit. Hey Jimmy, pass this guy a bong hit. You smoke weed don’t ya kid. Never met a delivery guy who didn’t smoke weed."
Uh,...okay.
Ha!--I like this guy even more. Knows how to party. Oh!!!!--what a shot by Dumars! You want a snort buddy? (passing me a tray of lines). ...Go ahead, it don’t cost me nothing.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, go for i--hey! Foul ref! Foul!"
As The Dog began to wield more influence on my somewhat lost soul, he tried to get me into basketball; by which I mean, play basketball as opposed to just watching it. Keep in mind, I’d been a weed and cigarette smoker since I was 12, and hadn’t run further than the kitchen to the bathroom in close to 2-3 years. I was out of shape, undersized, with no tangible basketball I.Q to speak of. Couple that with a uniquely ugly shot and you know we lost a lot of 2-on-2 games on my account.
"Okay Lodo, remember. When I pass you the ball you hold it, then pass it back. The old give-and-go. Got it?"
"Got it."
At which point The Dog would pass me the ball, my defender would run-up on me, and I’d inevitably chuck a 20 foot shot at the slightly uneven playground rim.
"Lodo, what’re you doing?" The Dog would ask patiently after he’d scored off my rebound.
"My guy came up on me so fast!"
"Okay, okay. Calm down. Just try it again. Remember, I’m gonna pass it to you, you pass it back, and then run toward the rim in case my shot misses. Got it?--don’t panic! The old give and go."
"Got it."
At which point the scenario repeated itself all over again.
Have to say The Dog was really patient in those early games. On the court I always felt lost and uncertain. A liability, never really sure what to do with myself. The only time I had any success was in the larger games: 3-on-3 or even full teams. Not that I was good under those circumstances either, but..I could do different things. The Dog would have me concentrate on defense or rebounding; and as it turned out, I had pretty good ups. Really good actually. I liked to jump, block shots, go for the boards, play bigger than I was. Stuff that didn’t really require any knowledge or mind for the game. Just react, respond, and of course, smoke-up again.
My game still didn’t garner any respect; nor did I feel like I had a real role model on which to to pattern myself, but in 1986 all that changed. That was when the Pistons picked an unknown kid from Southeastern Oklahoma State University named Dennis Rodman, and I found my mentor.
If my mom weren’t in town I’d have written this yesterday. As things stand now, anyone interested in basketball has probably already seen Rodman’s Hall of Fame Acceptance speech; and those who haven’t probably aren’t going to bother. But I had to stay home this Saturday night and write something since Rodman’s not just my favorite NBA player of all time; he’s (to a certain extent) a spiritual brother. He represents more than basketball, but a time in my life. A great time, when I not only learned to play big but to be bigger. And I take that with me wherever I go.
* NOTE: All NBA-related pics stolen off Google Images.
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