Hang Time #1, 2003
How good was Phoenix phenom Amare Stoudemire against the Wolves Monday night? Better than any rookie I’ve ever seen. Certainly better than the performance turned in by top pick Yao Ming at Target Center two weeks ago.
I could throw in a bunch of prudent qualifiers here. The Wolves’ game plan was to run a big man at Stephon Marbury, which gave Stoudemire room to operate in the low post. Amare never had a game in his brief career that comes close to his dismantlement of Minnesota, whereas Yao’s outing versus the Wolves was a relative blemish on a month’s worth of eye-opening achievements. Yao is clearly the best combination of low-trunk stability, coordination and finesse of any NBA over the height of 7-2—and, as the cliché goes, you can’t teach height.
I don’t care. Give me Amare. You can’t teach the things this 20-year old kid brought to the court on Monday either, like the physical intuition that lets him bang with finesse. Using contact to your advantage is what separates the superstars from the talented role players in the NBA trenches. On Monday, it didn’t matter whether Stoudemire was jousting with comparably-sized fire hydrants like Gary Trent (who goes 6-8, 250 to Amare’s 6-8, 233) or plus-seven-footers like Rasho Nesterovic: they flew away from him like reverse magnets while he planted himself on the low block. In a league where the refs are notoriously biased against rookies, the Wolves’ trio primarily responsible for containing Stoudemire—Trent, Rasho, and Joe Smith—racked up 16 fouls in 53 total minutes (Rasho and Smith fouled out) while the kid was whistled just four times during his 45 minutes on the court. That’s because Stoudemire supplements his beef and grit with grace, incredible quickness and a savvy appreciation for the subtleties of the game that don’t jibe with his tangled history (he only started playing at the age of 14, attended six high schools, sat out his junior year, had a father who died when his was twelve, and a mother and older brother who have been in and out of prison).
On Monday night, Amare blocked a shot by Kevin Garnett, tipped in an errant Phoenix jumper, and delivered a resounding slam dunk—and that’s in the game’s first 54 seconds. By the end of the first quarter, he’d rung up a dozen points and six rebounds, and added eleven points and three more rebounds in the second quarter. By halftime, he’d converted 11 of 15 shots while the rest of the Suns went 6 for 25, and his nine boards were more than half of Phoenix’s total rebounds.
When it was over, Stoudemire had 38 points, 14 rebounds, and a couple of blocks. But the beautiful thing was that his game looked better on the court than it did on the stat sheet. Numbers don’t capture the crossover dribble he put on Nesterovic in the lane to create an open jump shot, or the charge he drew on a driving Kendall Gill to help the Suns make a comeback run in the fourth quarter, or the way he crashed the boards between two Wolves’ for a putback in the second quarter without drawing a foul.
In fact, the two moments where Stoudemire impressed me the most had no impact on the outcome of the game. One happened in the fourth quarter, when Amare had the ball about six feet to the side of the left lane. A split-second later, he had gone baseline and clanged a reverse dunk attempt off the back rim. I’d pay good money every night to see players miss shots with that much power and quickness.
The other indicator that Stoudemire will be something special occurred minutes before halftime, when Garnett started woofing heatedly in the rook’s face. (To motivate himself and his teammates? Because he was embarrassed by the kid coming into his house and dominating? Because he felt that his legacy as the premiere high-school-to-the-pros rookie was in jeopardy? Yes, yes, and yes.) Throughout KG’s tantrum, Amare’s demeanor never changed. He wasn’t angered, intimidated, or even amused. He just calmly waited for play to resume so he could continue to kick ass—someone else could take their names.
Put simply, you can sign me up for the Amare Is God fan club. But don’t expect me to buy into the notion that Stoudemire is, or ever will be, better than Kevin Garnett. The subject is germane in light of Stephon Marbury’s silly provocations after Monday night’s game, when he portrayed the rookie performances of Stoudemire and KG as a no-contest competition akin to Michael Jordan and journeyman Mario Elie. It may yet be that Amare will turn in a better rookie campaign than Garnett’s 1995-96 season. But there’s a host of factors to consider. As happened Monday night, Stoudemire’s opponents have Marbury, Shawn Marion, and, when he feels like playing, Penny Hardaway to worry about. KG’s rookie support system included Christian Laettner, Tom Gugliotta, and J.R. Rider—a trio that included at least two selfish gunners, no point guards to feed him, and a couple of players with similar (thus stylistically less complementary) strengths and weaknesses. As good as he is, Stoudemire is neither the passer nor the defender that KG was in his rookie season.
But the biggest difference is that Stoudemire is 20, two years older than KG was when he entered the league. By the time Garnett was 20, he was a two-time all-star, averaging more than 18 points and nine rebounds to go with his four assists and stellar D. I’ll make a brief for KG as this year’s MVP in a column for the paper edition of City Pages next week. For now, suffice to say that Garnett’s mature, yet still pointed reaction to Marbury’s remarks (essentially that Marbury is jealous and obsessed with him) feels spot-on, and shows why KG has the mental makeup to remain a certified superstar for many years to come.
Last, and least, let me say that I’m not surprised by Loren Woods’ childish outburst after Monday’s game, in which he erupted with a racial profanity (sorry, didn’t hear it so I can’t provide specifics) against one of the assistant coaches and got himself suspended indefinitely. I wrote a Hang Time column last year that called Woods out as a self-absorbed malcontent. This year, despite lots of tutelage from Garnett, and a long, ultimately unsuccessful stint to prove himself in the starting lineup, it’s obvious that he still has some growing up to do. Oh well. More talented players than Woods have bitched and moaned and sulked their way out of the league.
5:24:31 PM 
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