The last enforcer, p.15
The Last Enforcer, page 15
Charlie was trying to box out a much taller player in P. J. Brown, and Brown felt that Charlie was going after his knees. As soon as the game ended, Pat Riley made his case in the media like he had so many times before when he was coaching the Knicks and we were facing the Chicago Bulls in the playoffs. This time he was talking about his former team and his former assistant coach.
“I wasn’t coaching Charlie Ward when he took P. J. Brown’s legs out from under him,” Riley said.
The fallout was a worst-case scenario for us. Brown was suspended two games while Ward, Ewing, Starks, Johnson, and Houston all received one-game suspensions for leaving the bench. Since there was an NBA rule that required teams to dress at least nine men, they split the suspensions: Ward, Ewing, and Houston were suspended for Game 6, and Johnson and Starks would be forced to sit out Game 7. Because Charlie was involved in the original fight, he was automatically suspended for Game 6. The suspensions for the four remaining players were determined, by league rules, alphabetically. These quirky rules really hurt us, because I’m convinced that having Patrick, John, and myself together for one game would have been enough to defeat Miami.
The rule about leaving the bench area is fucked up because Patrick wasn’t even close to the scrum. He stepped one foot onto the court. And if you look in recent years, the rule has changed a little. The league doesn’t always suspend a player for being one foot on the court. That ruling turned the series in Miami’s favor. The league had it out for the Knicks.
Everyone knew the Knicks and the Bulls were the two best teams in the East that season. I don’t care that Miami won four more regular-season games. We kicked their ass in the first four games of our playoff series. Game 5 ruined us. Our crowd was electric for Game 6, and even though I finished with 18 points and 12 rebounds, we lost 95–90. We got Patrick back for Game 7 on May 18, and he scored 37 points, but Miami took a 25–14 first-quarter lead and we never recovered. We lost 101–90 and never got the chance to challenge Jordan and Chicago. They eliminated Miami in five games and went on to win their fifth title.
Maybe it’s difficult for some to appreciate the mental toll it takes to lose a series you believe in your heart you should have won. I felt that way in 1993, 1994, and I definitely felt that way against Miami in 1997.
Every time your season ends, you want to believe that next season will be better, but there are no guarantees. We were returning the same core group for the 1997–98 season, but on December 20, Patrick fractured his right wrist when he used his hand to break his fall in a game against the Bucks in Milwaukee. He jumped to catch a lob pass but was fouled in midair by Andrew Lang, lost his balance, and landed awkwardly. The doctors said it was the type of injury you normally see happen to a driver in a car crash.
Ewing was finished for the regular season, and I became the team’s new starting center. Even though I wasn’t being paid nearly as much as the regular starting center, I held my own. I played in seventy-nine games that season, missing two due to suspension and sitting out the final night of the regular season to rest for the playoffs. We went 43-39, and as the seventh seed we faced the team we wanted to see, the Miami Heat.
The series went like you would expect. We lost Game 1 but got the split in Miami when Houston, Johnson, and Starks combined for 71 points in our 96–86 victory. We held Mourning to 7 points in Game 3, but with Voshon Lenard scoring 28 and Tim Hardaway 27, the Heat escaped with a 91–85 victory.
We needed to win Game 4 at home to force a winner-take-all Game 5 in Miami, and we were in control, leading by 5 with twenty seconds left, when another fight broke out that changed the series. This time it was Larry Johnson and Mourning, two former teammates in Charlotte who had left on bad terms. Now, in front of our bench, they were squaring off and throwing punches. I immediately grabbed hold of Mourning to serve as—what else?—a peacemaker. Seriously, that’s what the league wants the players who are already in the game to do. If you’re on the bench, stay on the bench. If you’re in the game, break up the fight. I was just following the rules.
As I was trying to pull Zo away, Jeff Van Gundy fell and was holding on to Mourning’s leg. It was crazy. And it was funny. Riley escorted Mourning off the court, and it looked like Riley was making the same face he had made in 1995 when Reggie Miller scored 8 points in 8.9 seconds. He looked sick to his stomach because he knew Alonzo would be suspended for Game 5. L.J. also couldn’t play, but the loss of Mourning was comparatively much bigger.
On May 3, we went down to Miami Arena and crushed the Heat, winning 98–91 in a game that never felt that close. I had 18 points, 13 rebounds, and even got up for a dunk late in the second half. I didn’t get many of those. It was a big moment for us, to upset a higher-seeded team without our All-Star center.
We advanced to face the Indiana Pacers, who had home-court advantage, and we still didn’t have Larry for Game 1, because he was serving a two-game suspension. We lost that game. Ewing, who hadn’t played since December, returned for Game 2 on May 7. When you haven’t played for nearly five months, it’s impossible to show up in the playoffs and think you can make an impact. Ewing shot 3-for-11 in twenty-seven minutes, and the Pacers defeated us 85–77. Honestly, Patrick hurt us more than he helped us; he shot 20 for 56 in the series, which we ended up losing in five games.
For the fourth straight season we were eliminated in the second round. We were still a good team, but losing in the second round wasn’t going to cut it. When the results don’t change, the players change.
Six weeks after we were eliminated by the Indiana Pacers, I received the call from Ernie Grunfeld saying that I was being traded to the Toronto Raptors. After ten years with the New York Knicks, my services would no longer be needed.
13 BARKLEY AND HIS BIG MOUTH
There are three players that basketball fans seem to naturally associate me with. The first two are obvious: Michael Jordan and Patrick Ewing. I was teammates with both Hall of Fame players, and I spent the best years of my career with them. Michael Jordan has been my friend since 1985. I made it to the NBA Finals with Patrick and made the All-Star team with him in 1994.
The other player I always seemed to be connected to is Charles Barkley. And I’m not too crazy about that.
I’ll admit we do share some common ground, starting with our first names and the fact that we both have ties to Alabama. Barkley is from Leeds, Alabama, which is approximately 160 miles northeast of York, where my grandparents lived. I’m better looking, but we both wore number 34. He’s ten months older than me, and we played the same position, power forward. Who knows, maybe we clash because we’re so much alike.
I’ll also keep it real with you—Charles Barkley is a great player. The man could shoot and dribble and he was explosive. In fact, for his size you could make the case that he’s the number one power forward of all time. See, I can say nice things about him.
When it comes to power forwards, Kevin McHale had a lot of skill, Tim Duncan is an all-time great, and Karl Malone was great, too. But Karl flopped a lot. Dennis Rodman got rebounds, but he couldn’t score, and I don’t put him up there with Barkley, McHale, Duncan, and Malone. Rodman was also afraid of me: when he was with the Detroit Pistons and I was on the Bulls, he was one of those guys who waited for me to leave before he started hitting Michael.
When I first got into the league, Barkley and I had mutual respect for each other. Barkley handed out a lot of compliments early on. He said that I went after rebounds like they were “raw meat.” He called me the strongest player he’d ever faced. (That statement was made before Shaquille O’Neal came into the league.)
Even after a little dustup we had when he played for the Sixers and I was with the Knicks, things weren’t so bad. Barkley said he wouldn’t mind playing with me and Ewing in New York. He called us good friends and said that “we’re going to remain good friends long after our careers are over.”
It’s a nice thought, but that’s not exactly how things turned out.
How did things go wrong with me and Charles Barkley?
Let’s start with his big mouth. It always gets him in trouble. This is more recent, but it’s a good example: In 2017 he went after LeBron, calling him a whiner. When LeBron heard it, his response was “What makes what he says credible? Because he’s on TV?” I chimed in with a tweet that Barkley needed to “stop drinking at work.” A few years ago, Barkley criticized Michael in his role as owner of the Charlotte Hornets. That was a big mistake, because today Barkley isn’t close with Michael anymore and that bothers him. Well, that’s too bad. I’m sure he misses smoking cigars and playing thirty-six holes of golf with Michael, but those days are over. That same mouth of Barkley’s, the one that pissed off LeBron and hurt his friendship with Michael, played a role in my problems with him as well. We all know that Barkley’s job is to talk, and TNT pays him a lot of money to do just that. But there comes a time when the man needs to shut up.
The first time me and Barkley got into it was on March 24, 1987, in Chicago when I was on the Bulls. There was some pushing and shoving. Coach Doug Collins stepped in and got me over to the bench. It wasn’t really much. And no one was at fault. The NBA is physical, and sometimes players reach their boiling point. That’s perfectly understandable.
In 1988–89, my first year with the Knicks, we swept Barkley and the Philadelphia 76ers in the first round of the playoffs. The series was physical, and after the three-game sweep Barkley said that I should be charged with “assault and battery.” Why, because we beat his ass? It was a typical series. A lot of shit happens. Get over it.
Things changed a little when Barkley got traded to the Phoenix Suns after the 1991–92 season. It meant I only faced him twice a year; once at home, once on the road. He gave me a cheap shot—a slap to the face in 1994—during a game in Phoenix, but it wasn’t anything hard. Neither of us got suspended by the league.
Our biggest on-court fight took place during a preseason game on October 25, 1996, when Barkley was with the Houston Rockets. It started when Barkley’s teammate Clyde Drexler drove down the lane and came up short on a floater as my teammate Patrick Ewing contested the shot. I was guarding Barkley, who got inside position and grabbed the rebound. He wasted no time trying to score on a putback, but Patrick recovered and blocked it. Barkley grabbed the rebound over his right shoulder, but I was also in position to grab the ball. He was a little off balance, and as I yanked to wrestle the ball free, his momentum caused both of us to fall backward. He landed pretty hard on his back and immediately got up and approached me.
On a play like that—two guys falling hard to the floor—you always have to be prepared for the fallout. Barkley tried to shove me, and I responded by throwing a punch, which luckily for him didn’t connect. We were quickly separated. Patrick and Mario Elie, the Rockets’ forward, grabbed me while our two New York Knicks that had been added to the roster just a few months earlier, Larry Johnson and Allan Houston, restrained Barkley.
“There is no question what happened, punches were thrown,” the late John Andariese said on the Knicks telecast for MSG Network.
“I would think the call would be that they both would have to be ejected,” said Marv Albert, the Hall of Fame broadcaster.
Marv was right about that. By 1996 the NBA had outlawed fighting, and the veteran referee, Joey Crawford, threw us both out. This was long before replay review. It was an automatic ejection, and Joey, a no-nonsense guy from Philadelphia, didn’t take shit from anyone.
On the MSG Network telecast, Andariese took my side. When Marv Albert said that Barkley wouldn’t appreciate what happened because he had back issues, John responded by saying that the way Barkley jumped to his feet to go at me showed that his back was feeling just fine.
“I can understand Charles Barkley’s point of view,” Marv said. “The play was over. He took him down. That’s a little over the edge.”
A little over the edge. That’s one way of putting it. When you make your living in the NBA fighting for rebounds and diving on the floor for loose balls, sometimes you have to be a little over the edge. Not everyone is the superstar. I once told the New York writers covering the team that I was like a butler in a mansion. I did the dirty work. I cleaned up and made sure everything was all right. That was my job description. That’s what I got paid to do.
Barkley was a typical wiseass after the game, telling reporters: “They tell me people on steroids have mood swings.” The reporters tried to bait me into a war of words. All I said was that Barkley has been talking since he came into the NBA and he hadn’t stopped since.
I ended up with a two-game suspension and Barkley got one. NBA commissioner David Stern wasn’t happy with our behavior. He said, “The more things change the more they stay the same.” That’s a cliché, but with us it was pretty accurate.
That night in Houston was our last on-court scuffle. We only faced each other three more times before Barkley retired after the 1999–2000 season. He was yelling shit from the sidelines in a few games. He mentioned some bullshit about steroids, then he said to some reporters in Houston: “I told [Oakley] ‘I’m going to keep torturing you until you apologize.’ ”
I wasn’t going to apologize for anything. I wasn’t the one talking. He was the one running his mouth. He was trying to insult me and get cute with reporters. He made it personal. That’s what led to our infamous altercation inside a Manhattan high-rise office building in 1999. I had recently been traded away by the Knicks, but New York was still my city. That was my home turf.
* * *
When I was traded to the Toronto Raptors for Marcus Camby on June, 24, 1998, it was only the start of what would be an eventful time, not only for me, but for all NBA players. Six days later, the league imposed a work stoppage. It was the beginning of the 1988–89 lockout.
NBA commissioner David Stern wasn’t playing around. He shut down teams: no trades and free agent signings until the owners and the players worked out a deal on how to divide roughly $2 billion in annual revenue. The NBA and the owners were ready to kill the season completely, and a lot of the younger players were afraid of losing their money. The NBA figured they could break the Players Association, and we started to show cracks early on. Our leverage was also significantly decreased, because even though he didn’t officially announce it until January 1999, everyone pretty much knew that Michael Jordan was going to retire for the second time in six years, after Phil Jackson resigned as head coach of the Bulls the day before I was traded to the Raptors.
In October 1998, with the lockout ongoing and the start of the season well delayed, we held a Players Association meeting in Las Vegas. Patrick Ewing was the head of the association. He spent most of the off-season at the negotiating table, which was admirable but ended up taking a toll on him physically, since he didn’t have time to stay in shape. It’s not crazy to think that the Achilles injury he suffered in 1999 once we finally got back to playing was the indirect result of that. In so many ways Patrick was hurt the most by the work stoppage.
Our meeting in Vegas was at Ceasars Palace, and in retrospect, the whole thing wasn’t a smart choice. It’s difficult to get fans to feel badly for players when we’re hanging out on the strip. Two weeks later, Kenny Anderson, who was playing for the Boston Celtics, told the New York Times that things were so tough “I might have to sell my Mercedes.” We were not winning the public relations battle.
That same month, October, the Players Association decided to bring in the heavy artillery into a meeting with the owners. Michael Jordan wasn’t yet retired, technically, and he was one of about one hundred players in the room. In a now-famous story, Jordan got into it with Abe Pollin, the late owner of the Washington Wizards, who was seventy-five at the time. Pollin talked about struggling financially to keep his team. Michael finally said, “If you can’t make it work economically, you should sell your team.”
It got real heated. Pollin got angry, and I swear it looked like he was about to call MJ every name in the book. Even Jerry Colangelo, who owned the Phoenix Suns, looked at him and said, “What are you doing?”
It was a stressful time for everybody, and I got dragged into it when the Players Association decided to play a charity game in Atlantic City in December 1998. They were trying to get as many big names as possible to raise money, mostly guys from the Dream Team. Of course, they wanted Michael to come, but he didn’t play. Barkley did show up. As usual, he started running his mouth. The New York reporters all made the trip, and they were eating up everything Barkley said. Knowing that me and Barkley didn’t get along, the media asked him for his thoughts on the Knicks trading me to Toronto for Camby.
“That’s an upgrade,” Barkley said.
Barkley then approached Patrick and said in front of the reporters: “[Oakley] was a hard worker, right? That tells you all you need to know about his game when all people can say is that he works hard.”
Those quotes were in every New York newspaper: the Daily News, the Post, the Times, Newsday. Those comments got back to me quickly, and I didn’t appreciate it. If he thought he was tough, he should have been tough enough to say it to my face instead of insulting me to the media.
So I waited for the day in January when we were going to vote on the collective bargaining agreement at the GM Building in Manhattan. Things nearly got out of hand the night before. Jayson Williams, who was playing for the New Jersey Nets, was worried that players might be getting screwed in the deal by David Falk, the agent who represented Patrick and Michael. Jayson was concerned because a lot of players with positions in the union, including Alonzo Mourning and Juwan Howard, were all represented by Falk. He wanted to make sure we were getting a good deal for everyone as opposed to a deal that was just good for Falk. I was with Jayson, 100 percent.
