Dream Team by Jack McCallum Page B

Charles … well, Charles was another matter, even to someone like Daly, who had coached more than his share of space cadets.

CHAPTER 13

THE JESTER

Sir Charles Wants to Be an Olympian … He Just Doesn’t Always Act Like One
    On the evening of March 26, 1991, as USA Basketball’s Olympic selection committee was getting serious about whom they were going to invite to play on the team, Charles Barkley of the Philadelphia 76ers was getting irritated during a game against the New Jersey Nets. Even Barkley’s detractors had to give him points for getting amped up in New Jersey, in an arena devoid of animation and energy. Barkley would later say that an older male fan was yelling things like “Fat ass!” and “Asshole!” at him; in some stories the insults were said to be racial. The latter was never proven, but suffice to say that back then racial epithets were hurled during games. They weren’t directed at me, obviously, but I heard them.
    At any rate, Barkley turned to spit at the fan, but, as he said later in a memorable disquisition on the incident, “I didn’t get enough foam,” and his spittle landed on an eight-year-old girl named Lauren Rose, who was at the game with her parents. Assoon as he realized what he had done, Barkley was properly mortified, issuing heartfelt apology after heartfelt apology, and, as was and is his style, eventually befriending the girl and her family.
    But spitting on a fan? A young girl? That was considered by many to be the public relations strike that would keep Barkley off the Olympic team, of which he desperately wanted to be a part. A few weeks earlier, at the NBA All-Star Game in Charlotte, he had run into C. M. Newton, who was on USA Basketball’s selection committee and who had been an assistant coach on Bob Knight’s gold medal team from which Barkley had been cut, partly because Knight didn’t like him, to be sure, but partly because Barkley grew bored with the enervating trials and more or less dared Knight to axe him.
    “Don’t hold 1984 against me,” Barkley said to Newton. “I really want to be on this team!” That was the All-Star Weekend to which Barkley, acknowledging the first Persian Gulf incursion, wore a cap that read “Fuck Iraq.”
    At the time, the should-Charles-be-chosen? debate was one of the hottest among the committee members. On pure ability, Barkley was a lock, “one of the top three players in the world at that time,” as Mike Krzyzewski, a committee member, described him. Barkley could score, run the floor, and shoot well enough to bust zones (if that was necessary); most important, he could rebound. He is probably not the greatest rebounder of all time, but he’s in the conversation. His rebounding stats, in the double figures per game, are taken for granted, but what was extraordinary was the number of offensive rebounds he got—four per game for his career and almost five per game during a five-season stretch early in his career. Yes, Dennis Rodman got more offensive rebounds, but the Worm was averaging in single figures in scoring, compared to 25 points per game for Barkley.
    Barkley was less easy to classify than any of the other reigning superstars at the time. Jordan’s ability was nonpareil, but at least you could explain it: he was hardwired for success, talented and tenacious, gifted with a body that was both strong and supple. Magicwas a giant at his position. David Robinson was a seven-footer with gymnast’s skills, Isiah Thomas an elusive jitterbug with lightning reflexes, Karl Malone a muscleman who had refined his shooting touch.
    But what was Barkley? He was 6′4″, yet played almost exclusively under the basket. He looked fat, but he could jump out of the gym. He rebounded like a madman, but he never boxed out; Roger Banks, an assistant coach back at Auburn, told Barkley, “Just go for the ball,” so that’s how he rebounded, from the first day to the last day of his NBA career. He looked like he couldn’t