Every good drama requires a villain and while these NBA Finals are only slightly more dramatic than stock pot steeping, the New York Knicks’ Larry Johnson has stepped firmly into the Dennis Rodman role, minus the wit and the nose jewelry.
Johnson has had some experience in the part, having embarrassed his nation as a member of the All-Punk Team sent to represent the USA in the 1994 World Games between Olympics.
Younger then, Johnson would punctuate his dunks against Third World ciphers with assorted rude gestures, none of which needed translating. An international communicator, this Johnson, and there are those who poo-poo a partial education at Nevada-Las Vegas.
During these Finals, Johnson has displayed more oral dexterity than Rodman ever did, although favoring some verbs over others. Although Rodman once was fined $50,000 for maligning an entire religious sect, Johnson was fined $25,000 merely for swearing at a member of the NBA’s PR staff and assorted members of the press.
Refreshingly, blasphemy is still a more grievous sin than bad public relations in the eyes of the NBA. Still, to avoid any further penalties, Johnson has coded his profanity down to mere initials, favoring the sixth letter of the alphabet.
“Pardon my French,” Johnson said.
Johnson was reminiscing before the Knicks put themselves on the edge of elimination by losing Game 4 96-89 Wednesday night about those happy days playing ball at Nevada-Las Vegas for a man nicknamed The Shark.
“What Tark (coach Jerry Tarkanian) would say is, `Do you want to be liked or win basketball games?’ ” Johnson said. ” `(Forget about) the world.’ And that’s what we’d do and how we felt every time we walked into the gym.
“We didn’t care if anybody liked us. To this day, I love all those guys. Those guys are my brothers. Those guys had my back.”
Ah, yes. School days. Flitting around campus in oversized cars. Hanging out in the hot tubs of gamblers. The sweet scent of scandal, the perfume of probation. The NCAA demanding the head of Tarkanian. I felt myself beginning to mist up.
“It started my senior year in high school,” said Johnson, full of nostalgia. “Not bragging, but I was the No. 1 high school player in the country. You can look it up. I used to be literally crying at times because of something somebody said about me.
“My mom’s just like me. I had to get my character from somebody. I never knew my pop, never seen him in my life. My mom told me, `What’s wrong with you, boy? Not everybody is going to like you. Don’t you care if they do. You be yourself.’
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“That’s what I do. I don’t care if nobody likes me or not. I play ball. My focus is to win.”
As the twig is bent, so grows the billy club.
Johnson should be enjoying attention for his courage, which is certainly there. Without two good legs on which to play 40 minutes a game, Johnson nevertheless has soldiered on, occasionally to the benefit of the Knicks. But Johnson has a greater function, and that is to represent all the worst assumptions about New York.
Without Johnson, the Knicks would be in danger of violating the essence of their own geography, of becoming the first New York team to find sympathy in the greater heart of America.
It’s damaging enough to the reputation of New York City that Spurs coach Gregg Popovich could return from a walk around the streets of Manhattan, not only completely intact but reporting what a delightful experience it was to out among the citizenry.
“The people were really nice,” Popovich said. “I wore a Spurs shirt so I was recognizable. They said stuff like `You have no chance,’ good stuff. They were fun. I had a good time. I didn’t run into anybody too crazy.”
What’s this? A warm and fuzzy New York, a city so nice they had to name it twice? Where’s a thug when you really need one? Larry Johnson to the rescue.
“We don’t like you,” Johnson said. “That has been my motto my entire life. I don’t like a person. A person don’t like me. That’s fine. That’s mutual respect.”
That’s certainly New York, in any case. Johnson might have learned attitude in Dallas, but this is where it is fertilized and treasured.
When this ends, and San Antonio is the champion of basketball, New York will have the consolation of Johnson’s poor sportsmanship and angry insolence to be proud of.